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

“What’ll it be,” Dr. Clark says, “Penguin Club or Salisbury Seal?”


I glance down at the menu. Sure enough, normal meats have been replaced with the Antarctican equivalent. Penguin is no doubt chicken. Seal is beef. The fish, well, that’s probably fish. “Penguin,” I say without missing a beat.

“Attaboy,” Dr. Clark says with something sounding so close to pride that I second guess my assessment of the menu.

The waiter, who also happens to be the bartender, appears at my side. He looks down at me while he speaks to the group. “What can I git for ya?” His voice is deep and rough. His accent southern, maybe Louisianan.

Dr. Clark and my father place the orders. The man seems to be keeping one eye on the pad of paper he’s writing on and the other on me. He stabs his pen onto the pad as he finishes, takes one step away and then stops. He turns back to the table.

“You look familiar,” he says.

“We were here thirteen years ago,” my father says. “Several years in a row. Ate here more than a few times.”

“Wasn’t talkin’ a you,” the man says, then looks at Merrill, who is about to speak. “Or you.”

He’s talking about me. As I grow nervous my mind plays through several rapid-fire scenarios, most of them ending with this man and several customers beating me to a pulp. My body tenses. Beneath the table, I feel my fingers tightening like they did that day in the living room. Like I have claws.

What’s wrong with me?

“You been here before?” the man asks.

“No,” I answer quickly, wishing the man would leave so we can eat and leave the smoke filled tavern.

He grunts, still looking at me.

My father, who seems nonplussed by the situation, nudges me. He hasn’t said a word, but I quickly understand what he’s telling me. I have been here before. But I don’t feel like talking about that for some reason.

Mira, on the other hand, does. “He was born here.”

The man’s eyes widen, and when they do I can see that one of his eyes is glass. He hadn’t been looking at me while he wrote. This calms me some, despite the grossness of his lazy, fake eye. He stares down at me for a moment. “Over at Clark Station?”

“Yes,” Dr. Clark says with a big smile, clearly happy that the man remembers me after all this time. “I’m Dr. Clark.”

But the man pays him no attention. “You going to be here long?”

The question is directed at me. I’m not sure if he’s talking about the tavern, Willy Town or the continent. With a shaky voice, I answer, “We’re staying the night in town and heading out in the morning.” I don’t say where we’re going because I’m not sure.

The man grunts, heads back toward the bar and says over his shoulder, “Welcome home, Ull.”

Everyone at the table is stunned to silence. Then Mom is smiling and laughing. “I had no idea they’d remember you!”

“First and only child born on the continent,” Dad says. “Probably hard to forget.”

All four adults are talking now, but I don’t hear what they’re saying. I’m still rooted to my seat, gripping the edges with my fingers. The rest of the tavern has fallen silent, all eyes on me.

Mira has noticed as well. She surveys the room and turns back to me. She looks nervous. In her fear, I find strength. I meet the eyes of those looking at me and nod my head in acknowledgement. This seems to break the spell and everyone returns to their business—eating, drinking, carousing.

Mira has seen the change in my body language and shoots me a look. I’m not sure where the will to face down a tavern full of the world’s thickest, hairiest men, came from. I can’t stare down a golden retriever. But I did. I give her a smile and she returns it.

I pull out an imaginary notepad and start writing on it with an imaginary pen, “Note to self, girls like it when boys stare down freaky old drunk people.”

Mira laughs out loud. A moment later, I feel her foot touching mine. This would normally cause me to flinch away or excuse myself to the bathroom, but I don’t move it. I allow the connection to be made. It’s subtle and our skin is separated by multiple layers of socks and boots. But we both feel the pressure and for a thirteen year old boy and a twelve year old girl, this is a significant step. I think. I’ve actually never done this before.

I smile back at her. In a matter of minutes I’ve managed to speak to the freakiest man I’ve ever met, stare down a room of drunks who all seem to know who I am and initiate physical contact with a girl that I now suspect will kiss me before I leave this continent. I’m changing, I think. And while I’m not sure where my newfound confidence is coming from, I like it.





8