The Last Hunter - Collected Edition (12 page)

18

I will not cry.

Wedged tight inside Antarctica’s esophagus, I can feel my claustrophobia building. But I will not cry. I am stronger than that now. The last time I felt the world closing in around me was in the back seat of my parents’ car on the way to Logan airport. Escaping that predicament was as easy as shifting the luggage. The spot I’m in now presents a far greater challenge.

Without thinking, I pushed myself into a gap that was too small. I ignored the pressure on my chest and pushed onward, desperate for freedom. What I got was stuck. Both arms are wedged forward, pinned in front of me. They are useless for pulling, or pushing. So I won’t be going back the way I came. I can now recall clearly what I ignored before. A second branch off to the right, larger than the straight shot I chose.

Like the Orange Crush
, I think. Too big or simply not brave enough, my father and mother always took the Orange Crush over the Lemon Squeeze at Polar Caves. It’s a slightly more roundabout path, but all that’s required to pass through is a simple crouch. This Lemon Squeeze had an Orange Crush alternative, and I failed to take it.

It’s a lesson
, I think. Slow down. A mistake down here, whether pitted against an egg-monster or squeezing through a crevice, can be deadly. That’s when I realize that this must be part of the test too. Whoever took me is seeing if I’ll survive. It’s a test I’m meant to survive, but that doesn’t mean I can’t fail. Of course, things could be worse. Somehow I can still see, despite the absence of crystals in the walls here. The air is fresher. And I can hear something ahead. A swish of something—water, wind, something else—I don’t know.

But what really keeps me from panicking is the fact that I have a plan. I don’t like it, but it should work. The largest part of my body is my ribcage. Despite bulking up on egg-monster meat, my stomach is still slim and according to my mom, Vincent men have skinny butts. So if I can get my ribs through the small space, the rest of me can follow.

But that’s going to hurt.

A lot.

My ribs are partially compressed already, wedged in stone. As a result, my breaths are shallow and quick. Getting enough oxygen to stay conscious is an effort. If I hadn’t focused on the task I might have passed out already. Time is critical.

Unable to see behind me, I move my feet from side to side, bending them as close to my body as I can. Once I find purchase, they will provide the force I need to squeeze through. I find a good sized rise on the floor for my right foot and a crack in the wall big enough to slip my toes inside.

I breathe faster, hoping to increase the amount of oxygen in my system. It will soon be starved, but the effort simply taxes my body, so I stop. And rather than suck in a deep breath, I push it out. I force the air from my lungs, shrinking them down and reducing the pressure on my ribs. I know its time to move when I feel my back come away from the tight ceiling.

I push.

I slip forward.

The skin of my bare chest clings to the rough stone, slowing my progress. Each rib compresses as I move through the tiny space, bending near to breaking before popping through. If not for the stone grit gripping my skin, I would already be through.

I push harder.

A different kind of pain flashes into my mind. It’s not dull like the constant pressure. It’s sharp. And wet. The stone has opened a wound. The sudden pain causes me to suck in a breath.

It’s a mistake.

My chest expands quickly. The ribs currently in the stone’s grip bend, and then snap. This deeper welling of pain brings a scream from my mouth. Not of anguish, but of anger. I shove hard with my feet while the scream carries the air from my lungs. My body slips forward, the movement lubricated by my blood.

With a final pop of rib over stone, I launch from the stone orifice and land on my side. Despite the pain in my chest from both internal and external wounds, I laugh, which of course increases the pain. But this doesn’t bother me, because I’m moving again.

I choose my path more deliberately, backtrack when things get too tight and try multiple handhold arrangements before committing myself. I make remarkable time, slipping through the bowels of the South Pole like some kind of worm.

After rounding a tight corner, I stop when a breeze tickles my face. It’s wet and fresh. I ignore my learned caution and rush through the final stretch of tunnel. Then I’m free.

I’m in a cavern, perhaps forty feet across and twice as tall as it is wide. A waterfall pours down from the upper right, pooling in the middle and then disappearing down a hole on the left. A kind of tunnel vision overcomes me and I run for the swirling pool. Had I heeded the lessons learned in the cave—caution, patience, observation—I would have noted the cooling embers of a fire. I would have seen the packs of supplies. The tools. The meat hung to dry. More than that, I would have seen
him
.

Of course, he makes himself impossible to ignore. He allows me to reach the water, to cup it in my hands and raise it to my lips. Then he strikes. His arm goes around my throat and squeezes. The water flies from my hands as I reach up and take hold of his arm. My climbing claws stab into his flesh, creating six neat puncture wounds. But he shows no reaction. He simply squeezes tighter.

He drags me away from the water and tosses me away like I’m a bag of something vile.

The stone floor is unforgiving when I land on my broken ribs. I roll to ease the pain in my chest, but in doing so lay my back onto the still hot embers. I feel a sharp sting, and the sound of my sizzling skin is quickly drowned out by my scream. I roll off the fire, and still feeling the heat, I make for the water once more.

He strikes again. This time with both fists. He strikes my chest, knocking the air from my lungs and sending me flying over the extinguished fire. My back slaps against the smooth stone wall, pushing a stuck-on ember further in. The pain clouds my mind, but his message gets through—the water is off limits.

I brush the back of my hand over my back, freeing the hot ember and reducing the pain. As I catch my breath, I look at my foe, who has emerged from the shadows.

He is a man, and for that I am grateful. But he is unlike any man I have seen before. He’s hunched forward, concealing his height, which I place around six feet. He’s skinny. Skinnier than me. But he’s strong. His muscles are unbelievably defined and snaked with thick veins. A small piece of cloth covers his waist and groin, but he’s otherwise naked, like me. His body is remarkably clean and pale white, nearly translucent. His face and body are hairless, but his head holds thickly clumped, blood-red hair that hangs down to his shoulder. I’d seen the hair before, but up close, the feature that catches my attention is his face. It’s covered in wrinkles.

He’s an old man
, I think.

I look at my climbing claws and think about how easy it was to use them against the egg-monsters. Could an old man be any harder? Something deep within revolts at the idea. He’s a human. They were food. Could I really just kill him?

I could
, I think.

And he reads my mind.

“You may try once,” he says, his English perfect and proper, tinged with a British accent. But the sound is wet and rough. Barely human. He steps to the side, giving me a clear path around the burning embers. This makes no sense.

“You want me to kill you?” I ask.

“If you can kill me, you are already fit to take my place.”

Take his place? As what?

I don’t bother asking. To my surprise, I charge.

My hands are gripped into fists, the one inch teeth extending from my knuckles. I aim for his throat like I would the belly of an eggy. One slice. That’s all it would take. And the man who brought me to this hell-on-earth, the fiend who took me away from my parents and everyone else I care about, would be dead.

My fist cuts through the air, headed for the man’s neck. But it finds only empty space. The old man moves like lightning, sidestepping the attack and striking my back. I fall forward, landing half-way in the pool. Without thought, I gulp in a drink. The water is fresh and cold. The distraction nearly costs me my life.

A pounding pressure smashes into my back. The man is on top of me. I push against the pool floor, but find it slippery with algae. He grips my long hair and shoves me down. I shout and thrash, helpless in his hands. My lungs begin to burn. My broken ribs pulse with pain with each heartbeat.

As the urge to breathe becomes unbearable, I resign myself to my fate and stop fighting. My mind turns to the past, to those I’ve lost, but as the images take root, he pulls me up.

Sounding like a howler monkey, I breathe hard. Despite filling my lungs, each breath seems to have no effect. He drags me over the stone floor by my hair and shoves me into the corner.

I shiver, but not from the cold. Coming so close to death has broken some part of me that had yet to break. As my breathing evens out, I pull my legs to my chest and look at the floor, afraid to meet the eyes of my captor.

His feet approach and stop in front of me. The toe nails are thick and yellow. Possibly sharpened as well. By the way his lower legs bend, I can tell he’s squatting in front of me, but I don’t look up.

“You will stay in this corner until I tell you otherwise,” he said. “Understand?”

I nod.

He strikes my head. The pain is sharp, but doesn’t cause injury. “Speak your replies. Head nods do no good in the dark.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do not call me, sir,” he says, his voice even now.

I’m not sure what to call him, but I suspect the truth. “Master?”

He chuckles. “Were you lucky, that might be true. You will meet your master when you are ready.”

“What should I call you, then?”

I see his hand lower. He takes my chin and raises my head. My eyes meet his—dark black saucers surrounded by bloodshot white. He smiles a rotting grin. “You can call me Ninnis.”

19

“Sit,” Ninnis says. And I obey, settling down against the stone wall. We’ve been at this for some time. I recognize that he’s treating me like a dog, that he’s
training
me like a dog. The simple commands of sit, stay and come are the basics of canine obedience. I should be revolted by the idea, but I really don’t mind.

I’m fed once a day, sometimes after begging and always his leftovers. I’m not sure what it is I’m eating—it’s not egg-monster—but it’s cooked. He rations out my water, pouring it in a depression in the floor from which I sip it. My wounds are healing well, though I’ll have more than a few messy scars.

I contemplated escape only once. He was asleep, lying by the waterfall. I thought if I were quiet enough I might be able to dive into the river and let it pull me away. One step forward, just one, and I saw his muscles tense. He somehow sensed my movement. Or my thoughts. I’m not sure which.

But I wouldn’t do that now. I’m seeing things differently.

My time in the pit with the egg monsters made me strong and toughened me inside and out. My passage through the tunnel made me cautious and thoughtful. He is helping me. Preparing me. He spoke of my master, who I believe is also his master. He is acting under compulsion, but he’s also working hard to make sure I survive.

So I appreciate Ninnis. I listen to him. Without him I would be lost.

I sit in my spot while Ninnis prepares and cooks a limb of some creature. I’m not sure where it came from. I suspect he hunts while I sleep. The meat has a pungent odor, but my mouth waters nonetheless. I whine.

“Wait,” he says.

He turns the meat once, letting both sides cook. I watch the fat drip away and sizzle in the small fire fueled by the defecation of creatures I have yet to see. “Tell me about your father,” Ninnis asks.

This is the first time he has spoken to me aside from commands. I’m so taken aback that I fail to answer.

“Speak!” he shouts over his shoulder. Not answering now would result in a beating. I’ve endured four already, for various offenses. But they were necessary. I’m sure the lessons will save me some day.

I search for something to say about my father, but can’t think of anything. I try to imagine him so that I might describe his face. But all I see is a blur, as though the lens peering into my perfect memory has been smudged. I try to imagine my mother. The results are the same.

Ninnis is on his feet now, storming toward me. I tense for a beating, but he stops. In one hand he holds the roast meat, its juices dripping down over his hand and forearm. In the other hand, he holds a knife. I’ve seen the blade before. It’s very old. About five inches long and sporting an engraved wooden handle. I’ve only seen bits of the engraving, but I think it’s some kind of military insignia.

“Speak, boy!” Ninnis screams at me. “Can’t you remember your own father?”

“I—I can’t,” I say. “I’m trying to remember him, anything about him, but I can’t.”

Ninnis steps back, all hints of anger erased. “And your mother?”

“Nothing.”

“Stand,” he says.

I obey, casting my eyes to his feet like a subservient animal. He takes my hand and places his knife in it. When he lifts my hand, my eyes follow. The tip of the knife is placed over Ninnis’s heart. He lets go of my hand, leaving the blade in my control. “I want you to kill me,” he says.

I stare at the knife, which has already nicked his skin.

“Kill me,” he repeats.

It would be so easy. A quick thrust and I would be free. But like a lost dog, I would simply roam the underworld, unsure, hungry and longing for the one who keeps me safe and fed. I can’t kill Ninnis any more than I can kill myself.

“Ninnis, no!” I shout, dropping the knife and wrapping my arms around him.

He stands there with his arms out for a moment, then returns my embrace. I can’t see his face, but I know he’s smiling. After stepping back from me, Ninnis holds out the roast limb. “Your reward,” he says. “Come. Eat with me.”

A true smile creeps onto my face and I sit with him by the fire. The meat is tender and fatty. I eat with gusto, but do not fill my stomach. When I place the meat down and wrap it in skins as I’ve watched Ninnis do, he nods in approval. I have learned far more than obedience during my time here. Ninnis has modeled moderation and survival skills I will need. I know which stones will light a fire. I know which skins are best for water and which are best for meat. I know to keep clean and free of infection.

We live like subterranean Neanderthals for a time, getting to know each other—two men living off the land—like hunters. I enjoy this time of bonding, of camaraderie. Ninnis is as good a friend as I’ve ever had.

I sleep and dream of egg-monsters. They dance around me. They fall at my feet, worshiping me, chanting the name, “Nephil.”

The vision fades as I’m nudged awake. Ninnis stands above me, his belongings slung over his back in a bundle of skin. “Time to go,” he says. “There’s something I want to show you.”

I gather my things, bundling food, scooping water in a skin and donning my climbing claws (Ninnis was impressed by them, but only recently told me so). He leads me through a tight passage. It’s tall enough to stand in, but very narrow. On the other side, Ninnis says, “Keep track of the small spaces you see. Remember them and they will save your life.”

I nod, but am not sure what could threaten Ninnis’s life. He seems a King in this underground realm. The tunnel beyond the tight fissure is vast, carved out by the river that falls into what was our living space. Erosion has smoothed out the river bed, but a sea of boulders skirts the eight foot wide waterway. It’s over these giant stones that we travel. Crystals glitter from the cavern ceiling and from many of the boulders. Ninnis stays in the darkest parts of the tunnel. He’s following a path I think he has traveled many times in the past.

After several hours I realize that we have been heading steadily up, but it’s not until the first hint of daylight strikes me that I realize how far up we’re going. The distant light is really just a speck, but feels intense on my eyes.

“Here,” he says, holding something out to me. I take the strange thing and look at it for a moment. Then I remember what they are and what they’re for.

“Sunglasses,” I say.

“Got them from a gatherer.”

I stop. He hasn’t mentioned gatherers before. In fact, he has said very little of the world in which I now live. “A gatherer?”

“Later,” he says. “Put them on when the light becomes unbearable, but you will eventually have to operate in daylight without them.”

“We go outside?”

He nods. “Occasionally. If ordered.”

“Like when you got me?” I ask.

“Exactly.”

I follow him over a line of stones that looks like a ruined wall. “What are we called?”

He looks back at me, confused by the question. I explain. “If there are gatherers, then there must be names for everything else in this world.”

A smile stretches across his face. “You’re quick. I can see why they chose you, Ull.”

Ninnis has been calling me by my middle name all along. So much so that I’m not sure what my first or last name was. I know I had them, but like everything else down here, my memory of them is a fog. All that remains is Ull. And when Ninnis finally answers my question, I know why he chose to use that name.

“There are gatherers, warriors, seekers, feeders, breeders, thinkers, and us.”

I lean forward expectantly.

“The hunters.”

I smile wide. Ull, the Norse god of the hunt. This pleases me.

One hundred yards from the tunnel exit, I can no longer bear the light. I put on the sunglasses and find they only offer partial relief. Ninnis is squinting but requires no artificial aid. The exit is a small hole dug into a wall of blue ice. Through the tunnel is a circle of blue sky. The tunnel is horizontal, so I realize we must be high up. Inside a mountain perhaps.

Ninnis pauses by the exit and reaches into his pack. He pulls out a small device and holds it out to me. I take it and flip the copper cylinder in my hands. For a moment, I don’t recognize it. Then, in a flash, I do. I take hold of one end and pull. The telescope expands.

I think I’ve used one before. Maybe even had one of my own.

“You like it?” Ninnis asks.

“Very much.”

“Good.”

“It’s for me?”

Ninnis nods. “A gift.”

“For what?”

Ninnis chuckles like I’m silly for asking. “For your birthday, of course.”

Some part of my brain, perhaps the part in charge of numbers, isn’t totally blurred out and I think,
I’ve been here for eleven months
.

“How is that possible?” I ask.

He understands what I’m asking. To me, and possibly him, it feels like a month, two at the most, has passed.

“Time is different here,” he says. “Outside, time moves faster. For us, we only met weeks ago. In that time outside, several months have passed. If I were to tell you how long I have lived here, I might say ten years. But in the outside world, perhaps one hundred years have passed.

“You’re one hundred years old?” I ask, eyes wide.

Ninnis grins. “I was thirty-four when I arrived.”

“One hundred and thirty-four years old...How is that possible?”

“A gift that now belongs to you. Your body will age as though it were still in the outside world despite your perception of time being different. But your body will resist the deterioration of age with uncommon resilience.”

“And when I reach your age, I will train my replacement?”

Ninnis shakes his head. “From what I understand, you are to be the last hunter.”

“The last?”

“Destined for some greater purpose. You need not worry yourself with such things right now.” Ninnis takes my shoulder in his hand. He motions toward the tunnel. “Let’s go try out that spyglass, eh?”