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

I take hold of Whipsnap and pull. It springs open in my hand. The sudden appearance of a weapon should have been enough to sap the bird’s bravery, but it just stops for a moment, rotates its head back and forth and blinks its lone eye at me. Then it steps forward again and lets out a squawk that is nearly a growl. The feathers on its head shake and rattle. The seven other birds fan out and join the hunt.

I nearly laugh. The outside world equivalent might be a pack of snarling Chihuahuas. Then again, a pack of Chihuahuas could probably get in a few good bites. And these birds’ beaks are sharp enough to take off a finger or take a scoop out of an arm, never mind their claws, or the fact that I’ve never actually seen them fight. I’m not sure what to expect.

The predatory pack lowers their heads like stalking cats.

I shout, “Heeya! Heeya!” and shake Whipsnap at them.

Eight sets of orange feathers flare out and shake. It’s a rather spectacular display, the purpose of which still eludes me, that is, until they attack. The vibrant feathers held my gaze for just a moment, but it was long enough for me not to see the muscles in their legs coil. All eight birds rush me as one unit. One-eye leads the charge, followed by four on the ground. The other three leap into the air, flapping their feeble wings hard enough to carry them the distance to me.

The sudden and coordinated attack surprises me. I flinch and stumble back, nearly tripping over the ground. Clumsy!

In the moment before the birds reach me, I decide that for some reason I can’t fathom, these creatures either aren’t recognizing me as a hunter, or they have somehow forgotten why they feared hunters in the first place. Perhaps they’re inspired by the jungle setting. Or the very different magnetic field at the equator. The reason why they’re no longer afraid of a hunter isn’t important. What is important is that I give them a reason to fear one now.

As one-eye reaches me, he stabs out with his beak, but thanks to the one eye, his depth perception is all screwed up and he pecks the air a foot in front of me. I sidestep and bring Whipsnap’s blade down like a guillotine. One-eye’s head falls to the ground, stopping the other turkuins in their tracks. The three in the air spasm and fall ungracefully to the ground.

One-eye’s headless body keeps right on running until it smacks into a tree and flops over. The legs continue moving, spinning the body in rapid circles and spraying blood like a spin art toy. As the body slows to a twitchy stop, I calmly turn my head back to the flock. Their flared feathers fold slowly down. The birds lean their heads away from me, and take a few careful backward steps.

“Heeya!” I shout and the birds explode into a panicked retreat, squawking as they smash through the underbrush and disappear into the jungle.

“Well, one-eye,” I say, looking down at the severed head. “You kind of brought that on yourself. But don’t worry; I won’t let you go to waste.” I pick up the now motionless turkuin body and carry it to the entryway of Clark Station 1. The bird isn’t that heavy, maybe forty pounds, but when I place it on the ground next to the rusted out hole, I feel exhausted.

I lean against the metal wall and catch my breath. I’m soaked with sweat, too. A cold drip strikes my shoulder. It’s followed by another. And another. That’s when I notice a loud hiss from above. The hiss grows louder by the moment. I turn toward the source of the sound and see the canopy shaking. The hiss grows louder still, but is then drowned out by a massive boom.

The storm has arrived.

And suddenly, it’s on top of me.

The rainwater strikes the canopy first, filtering down to the forest floor as waterfalls pour from large leaves. The already dim forest floor grows darker. It’s as though night has fallen in the middle of the day.

I put my head under a nearby trickle of water falling from above and catch some of it in my mouth. After drinking several mouthfuls, I retrieve one-eye’s corpse and enter the dry interior of Clark Station 1. I’ll need to skin and gut one-eye before I can cook and dry his flesh, all of which I can do fairly rapidly, but that can wait. Right now, I need to search for clues.

Clark Station 1 is in shambles. The first few rooms are missing walls. The contents of the rooms are wet and rotting, or rusted. Brightly colored splotches of mold cover nearly everything. Tobias’s room is non-existent, any trace of him is destroyed. There are bits of cloth here and there—the remnants of what the turkuins didn’t use to create their nests. Em’s room is the same. The room I lived in during my stay with my adopted family has a large hole in the ceiling through which gouts of rain now pour, and have done so several times in the past. A layer of foul smelling sludge coats the floor.

I’m about to give up when I notice a closed door. Luca’s room. If the door has remained closed all this time, the rot might be far less. I rush to the door, take hold of the handle and yank. Not only does the door open, but it also breaks free. My momentum pulls me back and I fall, taking the door with me. As I lay on the floor, bracing the door above my head, I realize I’ve made a few clumsy errors recently.