The Last Hunter - Descent (Book 1 of the Antarktos Saga) (15 page)

“Raw, please,” I say, grinning.

And no, thinking of my father didn’t make me sad. Not at all. As promised, I have not shed a tear.

As I pick my teeth with a bone shard, I see a splash of color peeking out from beneath some bones. It’s my shirt. Not my undershirt. I discarded that along with my pants when they became too thick and sticky with blood. This is the patriotic flannel I got rid of because it became fouled by the decomposed remains of an eggy. That hardly bothers me now, but I still feel no cold, so the shirt holds little interest.

As a shirt.

It could be used for something else entirely, I realize.

I can feel the meal making me drowsy. I know eating a lot of turkey doesn’t really make people tired. It’s the full stomach. And my stomach is certainly full. The effect of eating the egg-meat is like popping a sleeping pill. No matter how hard I fight, I’ll be asleep within ten minutes.

I have just enough time to grab the shirt and return to what has become my home—a ten foot radius of floor I keep free of bones and blood. I have lined the floor with the skins of several egg-monsters, and in the middle I have several stacked up. It’s nearly as comfortable as my bed back home.

I make it back to my bed with the shirt just in time. Seconds later I’m asleep. The process of waking, killing, eating and sleeping repeats several more times before my latest escape plan comes to fruition. I get a few minutes here and there to shred the fabric, select prime bones—they need to be strong and sharp. Finally I create my bindings and cinch them to my hands.

Having just awakened, I hold my hands up and look at the newly fashioned climbing claws inspired by Justin’s Ninja magazines. Eat your heart out, Michael Dudikoff. I have tied a filed down jaw fragment to both hands. Each contains three short, serrated triangular teeth that I’ve made sure can support my weight. They will do the job my fingernails have failed to do. But I’ve gone a step further. Atop each first joint knuckle is a longer, thinner tooth. When I make a fist, they stick out a full inch. A punch would inflict four puncture wounds. A swipe would be just deep enough to eviscerate and kill an egg-monster.

There will be no more looking for or losing weapons. I am the weapon now. And with my hands free, I can climb out of here with everything I need, which is nothing. My clothes are gone except for my brown flannel boxers and I tore those up the legs because they occasionally hindered my mobility. I’m sure I look like a teenaged Tarzan, but who’s going to see me down here? I got rid of my boots. They were heavy, slowed me down and made climbing all but impossible. My toes grip the stone much better and the soles of my feet have become leather thick. I can also move in silence.

I stare up at the fifteen foot wall and, for a moment, doubt what I’m about to try. Not because I think I’ll fail, but because for the first time, I think I’ll succeed. I’ve become comfortable here. The routine is comforting. I’m surviving. Above this wall...I have no idea what awaits me. I could just stay. But my curiosity is a force to be reckoned with and no matter how cold I have become inside, it will always be the force that guides my actions.

I place my hand against the wall, sliding it up until I find a lip with my fingertips. I raise my hand higher until I feel the teeth of my climbing claw slip into place. I repeat the process with my other hand, digging in a little bit higher. One of my feet goes next, finding a crack to wedge in. Then, with all three limbs I heave myself up.

I find a foothold first, then begin the search for the next handhold. When I’ve found it, I start on the other hand.

That’s when I hear the slurp.

An egg-monster is descending.

My stomach growls.

My hand pauses.

If my climb fails and I fall back down, the beast will be free and waiting. I consider leaping down and killing the thing before leaving, but I know that if I smell its blood, I will eat. And if I eat, I will sleep. And the will to escape might very well have left me by then. It has to be now. Or I’ll spend the rest of my life here.

The thing hits the stone floor with a wet splat. I can hear it tearing through the womb.

For a moment I can taste it and the long-silent hamster comes to life. I’m a slave to this hunger and that fact fills me with anger. I have sacrificed a lot to survive, to reach this point. I will not be a slave to this thing, this cycle.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. As I reach up to find the next hand-hold, I can hear the monster breathing now. Its awkward legs are stepping in circles. It’s hungry too, and no doubt smells my rank scent.

The teeth of my climbing claws bite into the stone and I rise higher. The movement betrays my position. The thing is coming for me and I’m not yet high enough to avoid its jaws.

I block out the oval-shaped human-eating Pac-Man pounding toward me and focus on the wall. I move with confidence, pushing and pulling, searching and finding. I feel a breeze on my foot as I pull it up. The creature has struck the wall just beneath me.

I pause, listening. The thing is not moving. The impact has either killed it or knocked it unconscious. I’m not sure which, but the smell of blood fills my nose a moment later. I feel my instincts pulling me away from the wall. Finish the kill! Eat the flesh! Sleep! The cycle beckons.

Then I feel the surface beneath my raised hand. The texture is no different than the wall, but it is deep. I reach as far as I can and know my hand has reached the top. I forget the egg-monster and ignore the hamster. Ten seconds later I’m standing on top of the fifteen foot wall that has been my prison.

I am free.

But the glory of escape is short-lived. A solid wall stretches out before me. I follow it around, finding a two foot deep ledge surrounding the pit. For a moment I think I am a prisoner once more. Then I see a spot of black on the far side. A tunnel. I run for it and soon find myself squatting in front of a small hole in the wall about three feet wide and perhaps two tall. But the size is not consistent. This was not a hewn out crawlspace. There are rises in the tiny space, and rocks.

A year before coming to Antarctica I went to Polar Caves in New Hampshire, with Justin and my parents. After the guide told me which hand-holds to take and how to twist my body, I easily maneuvered through the Lemon Squeeze. I imagine getting through this space will be similar. There is only one way through. Getting it wrong will send me back, or worse, leave me stuck.

I turn back to the pit, feeling its pull for me increasing. Then I smell something coming from the tunnel. Food. Cooked food. And I suddenly remember what I’ve been missing. I enter the tunnel without looking back, and as it turns out, without looking forward. Ten minutes into my own personal Lemon Squeeze and I’m stuck.

18

I will not cry. Wedged tight inside Antarctica’s esophagus, I can feel my claustrophobia building. But I will not cry. I am stronger than that now. The last time I felt the world closing in around me was in the back seat of my parents’ car on the way to Logan airport. Escaping that predicament was as easy as shifting the luggage. The spot I’m in now presents a far greater challenge.

Without thinking, I pushed myself into a gap that was too small. I ignored the pressure on my chest and pushed onward, desperate for freedom. What I got was stuck. Both arms are wedged forward, pinned in front of me. They are useless for pulling, or pushing. So I won’t be going back the way I came. I can now recall clearly what I ignored before. A second branch off to the right, larger than the straight shot I chose.

Like the Orange Crush
, I think. Too big or simply not brave enough, my father and mother always took the Orange Crush over the Lemon Squeeze at Polar Caves. It’s a slightly more roundabout path, but all that’s required to pass through is a simple crouch. This Lemon Squeeze had an Orange Crush alternative, and I failed to take it.

It’s a lesson
, I think. Slow down. A mistake down here, whether pitted against an egg-monster or squeezing through a crevice, can be deadly. That’s when I realize that this must be part of the test too. Whoever took me is seeing if I’ll survive. It’s a test I’m meant to survive, but that doesn’t mean I can’t fail. Of course, things could be worse. Somehow I can still see, despite the absence of crystals in the walls here. The air is fresher. And I can hear something ahead. A swish of something—water, wind, something else—I don’t know.

But what really keeps me from panicking is the fact that I have a plan. I don’t like it, but it should work. The largest part of my body is my ribcage. Despite bulking up on egg-monster meat, my stomach is still slim and according to my mom, Vincent men have skinny butts. So if I can get my ribs through the small space, the rest of me can follow.

But that’s going to hurt.

A lot.

My ribs are partially compressed already, wedged in stone. As a result, my breaths are shallow and quick. Getting enough oxygen to stay conscious is an effort. If I hadn’t focused on the task I might have passed out already. Time is critical.

Unable to see behind me, I move my feet from side to side, bending them as close to my body as I can. Once I find purchase, they will provide the force I need to squeeze through. I find a good sized rise on the floor for my right foot and a crack in the wall big enough to slip my toes inside.

I breathe faster, hoping to increase the amount of oxygen in my system. It will soon be starved, but the effort simply taxes my body, so I stop. And rather than suck in a deep breath, I push it out. I force the air from my lungs, shrinking them down and reducing the pressure on my ribs. I know its time to move when I feel my back come away from the tight ceiling.

I push.

I slip forward.

The skin of my bare chest clings to the rough stone, slowing my progress. Each rib compresses as I move through the tiny space, bending near to breaking before popping through. If not for the stone grit gripping my skin, I would already be through.

I push harder.

A different kind of pain flashes into my mind. It’s not dull like the constant pressure. It’s sharp. And wet. The stone has opened a wound. The sudden pain causes me to suck in a breath.

It’s a mistake.

My chest expands quickly. The ribs currently in the stone’s grip bend, and then snap. This deeper welling of pain brings a scream from my mouth. Not of anguish, but of anger. I shove hard with my feet while the scream carries the air from my lungs. My body slips forward, the movement lubricated by my blood.

With a final pop of rib over stone, I launch from the stone orifice and land on my side. Despite the pain in my chest from both internal and external wounds, I laugh, which of course increases the pain. But this doesn’t bother me, because I’m moving again.

I choose my path more deliberately, backtrack when things get too tight and try multiple handhold arrangements before committing myself. I make remarkable time, slipping through the bowels of the South Pole like some kind of worm.

After rounding a tight corner, I stop when a breeze tickles my face. It’s wet and fresh. I ignore my learned caution and rush through the final stretch of tunnel. Then I’m free.

I’m in a cavern, perhaps forty feet across and twice as tall as it is wide. A waterfall pours down from the upper right, pooling in the middle and then disappearing down a hole on the left. A kind of tunnel vision overcomes me and I run for the swirling pool. Had I heeded the lessons learned in the cave—caution, patience, observation—I would have noted the cooling embers of a fire. I would have seen the packs of supplies. The tools. The meat hung to dry. More than that, I would have seen
him
.

Of course, he makes himself impossible to ignore. He allows me to reach the water, to cup it in my hands and raise it to my lips. Then he strikes. His arm goes around my throat and squeezes. The water flies from my hands as I reach up and take hold of his arm. My climbing claws stab into his flesh, creating six neat puncture wounds. But he shows no reaction. He simply squeezes tighter.

He drags me away from the water and tosses me away like I’m a bag of something vile.