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

“XM29,” she says. “Wright taught me how to use it and trust me, you don’t want to be on the receiving end of its explosive rounds.”


Holloway turns at the sound of my voice. As I step up between him and Kainda, she takes my hand and gives it a quick squeeze before returning to her vigil. Holloway motions toward the battlefield. “Have a look.”

I turn forward, seeing the lines of tanks, which have expanded overnight, the trenches full of men, now aiming their weapons toward the distant jungle, the rows of razor wire and the mine field beyond. After that, I see trees and a distant gap where the two cliffs almost come together. But I don’t see any Nephilim.

“Base of the trees,” Holloway says.

“Looks like a lot of shadow,” I say.

“They are the shadows.” He hands a pair of binoculars to me, but I dig into my pack and take out the spyglass that Ninnis gave to me so long ago. I raise the telescope to my eye and focus on the distant trees. When I see them, I flinch. They’re nearly invisible, covered in mud, but their white eyes almost glow in the morning sun now rising behind us.

“Berserkers,” I whisper.

“Those are the people who are lost, right?” Holloway asks. “Not like the hunters who can be—whatever the word is.”

“Redeemed,” I offer.

“Right,” he says.

“But we can try,” I say. “We have to try.”

“And if it doesn’t work?” he asks. “What then?”

The answer hurts too much to say aloud, so my response is to look down at the line of tanks. I can hear the hum of their engines.

“Right,” Holloway says.

“I don’t see any Nephilim,” I say.

“They’re still an hour out,” he says. “These guys were hard to spot. Didn’t even know they were there until the sun came up.”

“How many of them are there?” I ask.

He shrugs. “No way to know for sure. Several thousand at least, but the canopy blocks our view from above.”

As it blocked my view from the nunatuk. With the number of berserkers unknown, we have to assume the worst. If this is the Nephilim’s opening salvo, then they must believe the berserkers are a real threat, which means there must be a massive number of men waiting in those trees.

Merrill, are you ready? I think, directing the question to Luca.

Almost, comes the reply from Merrill. The voice is in my head, and sounds like Luca, but something about it, like a signature, says the thought originated from Merrill.

A hiss of static fills the air, followed by the booming fumbling of a microphone and a whispered, “Sorry. Sorry.” Then, in my head. Ready.

Stand by, I think.

“How do you do it, General?” I ask Holloway. “How do you condemn men to death?”

“We’re not condemning them to death, son,” he says. “We’re merely providing the means. They’re doing all the condemning themselves.”

I suppose that makes sense, but it doesn’t make me feel any better. I’m the one giving the order. Still, we’re doing everything we can.

Go ahead, Merrill, I think.

The speakers are so loud and the microphone so sensitive, that we can hear Merrill take a breath. And then, he blows. The shofar isn’t exactly a pleasant instrument to listen to, but Merrill manages to get a robust sound out of the thing. It’s so loud that I can feel my insides shaking. Several of the men below, put their hands to their ears. And then the effect kicks in. No one here is directly under Nephilim corruption, but neither is anyone here completely pure. The sound moves through me. Its effect feels something like Christmas morning as a child—magical and peaceful.

The horn sounds for a full thirty seconds before Merrill lets up.

Then we wait.

If the horn has had any effect on the berserkers, we should see them acting strangely. Confused. Perhaps remembering their old selves. Wandering about. But as I watch through my telescope, I see none of these things, just agitation. Then one of the berserkers dashes forward and stops in the sunlight. He’s a hairy man, covered in mud from head to toe, so much so that his blood-red hair is hard to see, but its there, corrupt as ever. The berserkers truly are lost.

The man pumps his fists in the air and screams wildly. When he’s done, a chorus of voices join in, sending a sound wave of hate and madness over the base that quickly erases the lingering effects of the shofar.

And then, they charge.

The man in front makes it just twenty feet before stepping on a land mine. Then, he’s just gone, a mist of a person that the next berserker runs through without pausing, before joining the first in a similar fate.