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

“About a half mile,” I tell him.

“Geez.” Wright shakes his head. “In that case, it’s possible they are on the surface, and near the surface. The outer fringe of this place was a beehive of activity when we first saw it. If they’re smart, and I think they are, they won’t fully abandon the underground bases. It’s just bad strategy. They could survive a nuclear assault down here. They’re just not guarding the lowest levels because, let’s be honest, who in their right mind would try to attack the Nephilim in the pitch black, a half mile underground.”

That’s an easy answer, “Nobody.”

Wright grins. “Which is why this is going to work. They’ll never expect it. Now let’s move.”

Em leads the way in and up. The first stairwell we reach spirals up to the next level, fifty feet above. The solid stone stairs are carved out of the wall, following the perfect curve. I’m not sure how the ancient Nephilim carved stone with such precision, but the more I see of it, the more I understand they had a hand in the creation of the ancient world’s religious wonders: the pyramids at Giza, Stonehenge, Pumapunku, Teotihuacán, Machu Pichu, Tiwanaku, Easter Island—there are similar structures all over the world. Most of the megaliths were built to worship the ancient gods, who I now know were the Nephilim posing as gods.

Glowing crystals embedded in the wall light the stairs running along it, and allow Kat and Wright to move without help. The outer stairs are four feet tall and equally deep—sized for Nephilim. But the stairs running up the inner edge of the spiral are human-sized, which makes the ascent bearable. Two fifty foot flights later, I’m starting to find this climb particularly unbearable. So when Em holds up her open hand, signaling for us to stop, I’m relieved.

I crouch and climb up to the top of the staircase where Em is ducking down. “What is it?” I ask.

She taps her nose.

I smell the air. People. Lots of them.

But they don’t smell like hunters. They smell afraid. That doesn’t mean there aren’t hunters nearby, using the heavy odor to mask their own.

“This is the prison level,” Em says. Pleading voices echo off the walls. “Sounds like the cells are full.”

“What will they do with them?” I ask. I can’t imagine what Nephilim would want with this many people. They don’t need any more hunters. And they don’t need to interrogate anyone. They know everything they need to know about the outside world, except where I am.

She shrugs, but Wright has an answer.

“They’re eating them,” he whispers. “Eating us. We saw the remains of a Nephilim barbeque in the jungle. The people being kept here are nothing more than cattle.”

This news is not surprising. Not at all. The Nephilim are cannibals. They eat anything and everything. But knowing that people, locked away in the Nephilim cells on this floor, are destined for the slaughter house is an offense that I can’t shirk off for the sake of the mission. This cannot stand.

“We will set them free,” I say.

My four comrades have four different reactions to what I’ve just said. Wright clearly agrees. Kat is skeptical. Em isn’t sure. And Kainda is offended, which bothers me. A lot.

“We will be exposed,” Kainda says. “You will be exposed.”

What I took for indifference to the plight of these people has been revealed to actually be concern for my welfare.

“Don’t worry about me,” I say. “The men in these cells are probably soldiers, yes?”

Wright nods. “Though I can’t say where they’re from. Not everyone here will be happy to see a bunch of Americans.”

“We’re not Americans,” I remind him. “We are Antarctican. And I’m fairly certain the soldiers in those cages now know the world has a common enemy.”

“Agreed,” Wright says.

I look at Kainda. She reluctantly nods.

I move to exit the stairwell. Kat stops me with a hand on my arm. “Wait.”

I turn around, not really interested in hearing another reason to abandon my fellow man, but ask, “What?”

“Guns first,” she says. “The prisoners will be guarded. They have to be. If things go south, I want a gun.”

“Go south?” Em says, not understanding the modern slang.

“Go wrong,” I say to her, then to Kat, “You’re right.” Back to Em. “Guns first.”