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

The flow of berserkers looks like a living black river of mud, flowing from the jungle. They scream in rage, blind to danger, oblivious to anything but a lust for carnage.

But then, among the black horde are specks of white, shorter, wider and bobbing back and forth as they run. I scan the now salt and pepper colored force and focus on one of the white bodies. It’s a feeder. Its large black eyes are emotionless, but its massive, shark-like jaws snap open and closed, like it’s excited or ravenously hungry. Both are probably true. In some ways, feeders are comical in appearance, but I know from experience that they are savage and deadly, and from the looks of it, there are just as many of them as there are berserkers. Together, they’re a dangerous mix.

But we’re prepared for this.

Hold your fire. The order goes from Holloway to Luca and then to our multi-lingual army. For a moment, I wonder if I should have given the order, but then realize I already did, to Holloway himself. He’s just carrying it out.

The half-mile long mine field does its dirty work. Thousands of berserkers and feeders meet with abrupt and explosive ends. The shock wave from each explosion tears through me, cutting deeply as another human being meets his end. Sure, many are feeders, whose deaths I will never mourn, but too many are people, who are only here because they were kidnapped and broken beyond repair. I have to force myself to remain stoic. Kat notices my stiff upper lip and gives me a nod. This is what the men need to see. But is this bravery? Is this confidence?

War is a stranger to me.

Despite the field of carnage and the overwhelming death toll, the berserkers and feeders keep coming.

“How many are there?” I hear someone ask. I don’t know who it was, but I hear anguish in the question. No one here wants to kill people. But then it gets worse. The last of the mines detonates and the field is clear all the way to the razor wire.

Pick your targets, Holloway orders. Blue Alpha.

Blue Alpha is one of the most basic plans. Infantry takes the near ground. Snipers take the middle ground. Artillery and tanks level the jungle.

The tank cannons whir, rising up to fire a ranged attack.

This is it, I think with a sour stomach.

Holloway’s next thought comes through loud and clear. Fire!

The small-arms fire comes first, popping steadily, but then frantically. Men in the trenches fire first, then more from the walls on either side of me. The staccato pop of automatic gunfire is then accentuated with a less rapid, but far louder crack of sniper rifles. Each shot makes me jump, in part because of the volume, but also because half of the sharp retorts result in the killing of another human being.

But all of the gunfire is suddenly drowned out by a wave of thunder that shakes the ancient walls so hard I fear they might collapse. More than a hundred tanks open fire, leveling the distant jungle along with the men and monsters still pouring out from between the trees. The artillery behind the base fires next, further decimating the enemy ranks.

The enemy numbers are so high that despite all of this power and technology, a few of the berserkers and feeders make it as far as the razor wire. But they make it no further as they become hopelessly tangled, like flies in a spider’s web.

The next fifteen minutes is a nauseating blur of uproarious violence that shakes the ground, and my core. And then, the flow of berserkers finally slows. The feeders taper off too, leaving just a few random individuals bumbling clumsily over the dead. The tanks hold their fire. The artillery ceases, too. And then, as there are no enemies within range, those with assault rifles pause to reload and catch their breath. Only the snipers are still firing. But even they soon slow until there is a single sniper tracking the motion of a single berserker. He’s screaming, gnashing his teeth, and charging as though his army still existed and victory was assured.

The sniper pulls the trigger, making me jump, and the last man falls.

Silence sweeps over the base.

There’s no cheering or congratulations or even relief. Instead, there is moaning. Cries of pain. Weeping. All of it from the battlefield full of the dead and dying.

With a quiver in my voice, I turn to Holloway. “Is there anything we can do for them?”

He purses his lips and shakes his head. “You can pray for them.”

When he walks away, head to the ground, I realize the true nature of this attack. The berserkers were never meant to cause us physical harm. Their role was to demoralize us, to make us despair and grieve.

A high pitched wail rises up from the razor wire. A man suddenly lurches forward, pulling himself free and tearing his flesh only to become even more entangled when he tries to force his way through. He shouts madly, rage and confused pain lancing out from his raw throat. A single shot is fired, putting the man out of his misery.

I turn to the shooter. It’s Kat. She lowers her rifle and quickly wipes a tear from her eyes.

Round one goes to the Nephilim.





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