The Last Hunter: Collected Edition (Antarktos Saga #1-5)

This is not the homecoming I had hoped for.

I take the man’s weapons and look them over. I don’t recognize the handgun, but the rifle is an AK-47. I consider keeping the weapons, but they don’t feel right. They’re designed for killing people, not Nephilim, and could only be useful in the hands of a skilled marksman, which I am not. Not with modern weapons anyway. Tobias trained me on his bow a few times, and I was pretty good, but that was when I had the wind to assist my aim. I toss the weapons into the jungle in different directions. Removing the man’s weapons might be a death sentence, but I won’t be the one killing him. And I won’t have to wonder if he’s killed anyone else. I carefully cut the grenade free from the tree and wind up to toss it, but pause, wondering if I should keep it. While a gun won’t be effective against a Nephilim, a grenade could certainly do some damage. At least temporarily. But I’ve never used a grenade, and I have no idea how long it would take to explode. It’s being used with a tripwire, so maybe this variety detonates once the pin is pulled? With no way to find out, I decide to err on the side of safety and toss the grenade away.

I search the man’s body and find a knife, which is duller than mine, so I toss it. I’m surprised that he’s not carrying any other grenades. Then it occurs to me that he probably was carrying more grenades. There might be tripwires set up all through the jungle.

Going to have to be more careful, I think, and I look around me for anything that looks like a concealed wire. Finding nothing, I search the man’s pockets. He’s got a canteen of water and some dehydrated food supplies. Enough for just a few days, which makes me think he’s not alone out here, or he’s stashed the rest of his gear someplace else. In his breast pocket, I find a folded piece of paper.

I unfold the paper. It expands to the size of a poster. In fact, it looks a lot like the poster of Antarctica that hung on my bedroom wall before Justin and I coated it in volcanic red dye. I can’t read the words. They’re all in Arabic, but the South Pole has been flagged.

Is this man traveling to the South Pole? He doesn’t seem like any explorer I’ve ever heard of. He’s more military than anything. After folding up the map, I place it in a belt pouch, return Whipsnap to my waist and without a second glance back at the unconscious man, resume my trek toward Clark Station 1, only much more slowly, and much more carefully.

I arrive fifteen minutes later and despite finding the place of my birth still standing, I also find it inhabited. And the squatters are decidedly not happy to see me.





17



Eight heads crane around in my direction. Fifteen black eyes stare at me, waiting for me to move. The one with a missing eye steps to the front of the pack, his head poking forward with each step. Brave for a turkuin, I think. The name ‘turkuin’ is my own. I’ve eaten three of them over the past years, and they’re pretty tasty, but they’re also rare in the underground. They’re skittish and scatter at the slightest hint of odor or shift in the breeze. That the one-eyed male, the largest of the bunch, is staring me down is strange.

Turkuins are, as my oh-so-creative name insinuates, something like a cross between a turkey and a penguin—on steroids. Their bodies are covered in tightly bunched, small feathers—white in the front and black in the back. They also have long, bright orange feathers over their eyes that wrap around the sides of their heads like some kind of sci-fi movie mascara. They’re usually about three feet tall, but they have powerful legs that make them fast, and sharp claws that make them dangerous. Their hooked beaks are also quite sharp. But turkuins are not at all aggressive.

Until now.

The male bobs his head and takes another step toward me. He’s acting like a male ostrich protecting his harem. The orange feathers over his eyes and on the side of his head flare out. He’s trying to intimidate me.

Me. A hunter.

Turkuins are normally fearful, but if they get a whiff of—or see—a hunter, they squawk in panic, bolting in whatever direction they’re facing. It’s the easiest way to catch them. Just jump out and watch as one inevitably careens into a wall and knocks itself silly.

So why is this turkuin not panicking? More than that, why does old one-eye here look like he’s about to attack me?

“I’d like to leave you alone,” I say to one-eye, “but I need to have a look inside.” The birds have built a nesting area inside Clark Station 1, gaining entrance through a large rusted out hole where the front door used to be.