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

It’s morning and I’m lying on my back, staring at the bare plywood ceiling five feet above my head. I’m in the top bunk of a fairly uncomfortable double-decker bed. Dr. Clark and my dad slept on cots. My mom and Aimee share a bunk bed across the room. Mira is sleeping below me. I’ve been lying here all night, thinking about the people in the tavern, about the bartender calling me Ull, about what the day will bring. For the second night in a row, I spent the last eight hours with my eyes open. How many hours have I been awake? I wonder.

“Forty-eight,” I say to myself.

I’ve had trouble sleeping before, but nothing like this. And it’s not even my horrible thoughts that are keeping me awake. I’m simply not tired.

I slide out of my sleeping bag and dangle my feet over the edge. My mom is wrapped up in her sleeping bag, still wearing her parka. Aimee too. Dad is buried beneath his blankets. I have no idea what he’s wearing. Dr. Clark is sound asleep. Looks to be dressed in a thick sweater. I look down at my legs. I’m wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt. I shed my outer layers last night. I wasn’t hot, just itchy.

I should get dressed before Mom sees me, I think. She wouldn’t be happy to see me dressed like this. And I don’t want her to know I’m not cold. She’d probably think I had a tumor and catch the next flight home. Since it hasn’t come up, I don’t think Dr. Clark has told my parents yet. He probably knows they’d send me home, too. Besides, if they can keep secrets from me for thirteen years, I’m entitled to keep a few of my own.

I can’t see Mira, but I know she’s asleep because she snores. They all snore. Even if I was tired, I doubt I’d have slept through the noise, any more than I could sleep with a pack of squealing pigs.

The ladder leading to my top bunk squeaks like a tortured lab rat. Using it will only wake everyone up. Without thinking I push off the bed and fall to the floor. I land on my toes, bend at the knees and stop in a crouching position next to Mira, who has a red-hooded sweatshirt up over her head. The agility and silence of my leap brings a smile to my face.

Like a ninja! I think.

I gather my clothes and tiptoe to the open space by the door. The room’s only window is on the door. I can see dirty snow on the ground, a bright blue metal shipping container, and a frozen puddle of something foul that can only be vomit. A sense of frustration builds quickly. This is not the Antarctica I came to see.

Before I know what I’m doing, I’m opening the door and stepping outside. I breathe deep. The air is fresh. The sun, just peeking over the horizon, makes me smile. But it’s not enough. I need to—

A hand on my shoulder startles me.

Dr. Clark steps around me, fully dressed for frigid conditions, but still hopping up and down, rubbing his arms. Steam pours from his nose and mouth with each breath. I exhale hard and see nothing. Dr. Clark notices, too, but says nothing about it.

“Spoke to a few people last night,” he says. “Seems you’re something of a legend around here. More than a few stories about your birth have been shared around the fire on cold nights over the past thirteen years. And there are a lot of cold nights here. A few people—the ones with functioning brains—are happy to see you back. The others, not so much. If we weren’t heading out to Clark Station Two today, we might even have trouble on our hands.”

I’ve heard everything he said, but the only thing that really registers is ‘Clark Station Two’. Before I can ask about it, Dr. Clark continues.

He steps in close. “The point is, put on some clothes.” He shoves a jacket into my hands. “If anyone saw you out here like this, like it’s the middle of the summer, there would be no doubting the stories of your birth.”

“I thought I should be proud of being strange,” I say, sounding a bit more obtuse than I meant to.

Dr. Clark looks both ways quickly like we’re dealing drugs. “Not. Here. People disappear all the time on Antarctica and no one questions why. People get lost in whiteouts. Drunks get buried in snow. It happens. If these people decide a sneeze from you could sever this ice shelf and carry them all into the ocean...”

He doesn’t have to finish. I know what he’s saying. I could disappear.

“You would find me,” I say.

He takes my shoulders in his hands. “Solomon, listen. When people go missing in Antarctica, they’re usually not found. If they are, they’re frozen solid.”

“But that can’t happen to me.”

His voice gets louder. “You’ll be as stiff as the rest of them if you’ve got a knife in your back.”

This gets my attention. I’m looking both ways now, too.

“You’re changing. We both know it. I saw you jump down from the bed just now. You didn’t make a sound. You were in complete control of your body.”

This fills me with pride.