It’s an image. Two faces have been captured. A photograph, I think. A Polaroid. I can remember facts about the process of taking photos, of film and development, but nothing beyond that. No real memories. Just information. And the two people in the image are strangers to me.
There is a girl. Dark skin. Light hair. Her head is leaning on a boy’s shoulder, his hair as light as hers, though much straighter. And his skin is as white as hers is brown. Both are smiling. Happy. But the bared teeth make me feel like the pair want to eat me. Like they want to tear me apart.
I don’t like this image.
I turn it back over, unable to look at it again. I want to destroy it, but find myself unable to do so. I can fling it outside, I think. Let the wind take it away. I step toward the cave exit again and stop. It feels wrong for some reason. Despite my loathing of the image, my gut says it could be important later on.
So I save it.
Not on my person. That would be unbearable.
I find a thin crack and insert the picture. When it’s almost all the way in, I tap it with my finger and it disappears into the space. I peer in after it. I’ll need a stick or something thin to pry it out later on.
I stand back. No one will ever know it’s there. For a moment I wonder if I’ll remember where it is, but make a mental note on my map. If I need this image again, I’ll know where it is.
Until then I make a silent vow to avoid this tunnel and the photo that scares me more than being eaten alive.
24
I’ve adopted a new system of time. Who’s to say whether or not it coincides with the twenty-four hour days on the surface? I doubt it, but I have noticed I have regular periods of sleep followed by regular periods of being awake. I suppose I could count out the minutes and translate this into hours, but trying to force time underground to make sense in terms of the above-ground world will only distract me. So I judge days by my waking and sleeping now. But how long is a day really? For all I know it could be a week. It doesn’t matter anymore.
According to my new calendar, I’ve been on my own for a month. It’s been twenty days since I found and hid the photo. And in that time I have hunted and been hunted. I have killed and nearly been killed. But, as Ninnis taught me, I have survived.
I have a new weapon. At its core is a staff of very flexible wood. It’s old, and I’m not sure how it got down here, but it bends like a fishing pole, so it follows me through the tightest squeezes, but it’s rigid enough to make a good thrusting spear. At one end—the spear end—I have attached a sharpened bone from a dinosaur skeleton. I had hoped to use one of its teeth, but the skull was missing. On the other end—the mace end—is a baseball-sized stone. It’s not intimidating to look at, but it’s solid, and dense. I fashioned the weapon after realizing there are two types of creatures in the underground. Those that you need to stab. And those that you need to bludgeon.
In addition to the weapon, which I have dubbed Whipsnap, I now have a thirty-foot rope created from the skins of several different prey creatures. After skinning the creatures, I dried the skins and then cut them into thin strips, which I then braided together. The line can stretch and hold my weight, even after a deadfall. I learned this the hard way, but now I know.
I have stones for making fire. A collection of dried dung for fueling said fires. And a collection of sharpened bones I use to pry apart, fillet, skewer and otherwise dismantle my meals. I’m a regular subterranean butcher and chef rolled into one.
But I have yet to take down anything bigger than me.
That changes today.
Today is the day I overcome one of my lingering fears. Granted, it’s not the biggest specimen I’ve seen, but it’s a start.
My map of the underworld has expanded from three cubic miles to four miles deep and twelve square miles around. The territory is vast and overlaps in several places with the domain of the dinosaurs that I now call Crestosaurs. Cresty for short. Not very Latin sounding, I know, but it’s descriptive. The crest atop their heads ranges in size and color on the males. The most dominant have tall, bright red crests. The females have average-sized green colored crests. But the females are also much larger—up to thirty feet long—though they never stand fully upright. Even the biggest stands only fifteen feet high. They are lean, fast and move in packs.
But they hunt alone.
Like this one.
At ten feet long, it’s no lightweight, but it’s still an adolescent and not the best hunter. It chases after everything it sees, running madly, striking fast. It catches a centipede, toys with it for a moment, then gets distracted by something else further down the tunnel.
We’re in a river tunnel I call the Deep River. It’s actually very shallow, but it runs about a mile beneath the High River, which drains into the old temple ruins (which I have yet to return to—that is a fear to conquer on another day). This river is wide, nearly forty feet, but the ceiling and floor are covered with stalactites and stalagmites, some of which merge and form columns running floor to ceiling. A scattering of smaller stalagmites makes moving quickly difficult because I’m likely to impale my foot if I’m not careful, but the large ones provide ample hiding places. And this allows me to stalk my prey without fear of detection.
As the young cresty claws at a stone, trying to flip and chase down the small crab-like thing that scuttled beneath it, I sneak up behind. With my free hand and feet, I cling to the larger stalagmites and shift from one to the next, careful to keep my feet out of the rushing water. I’ve learned not to underestimate any creature in the underworld and I’m not about to start with one that could remove my head in one bite. A drip or splash might be enough to alert the beast to my presence.
I’m within striking range now, just ten feet away. I consider my approach. Silent? Check. Down wind? Check. Out of sight? Check.
Something tickles my foot.
I look down. A long green tendril slides back and forth over my foot. The rest of it disappears into the water. Is it a snake or some kind of worm?
I can’t tell, but I’ve never seen it before, and if it lives down here, it’s a predator. I expect the thing to bite into my foot with whatever small jaws it has, but it suddenly disappears beneath the water, as though pulled away.
Pulled away.
The cresty has stopped scraping the rock. I can still smell it, but it’s not moving. It’s waiting.
For me.
I take a deep breath. It’s time.
With a howl I jump out from my hiding spot, Whipsnap held high.
The dinosaur has misjudged my position and nearly falls over with surprise. It may have detected me, but the element of surprise is still on my side. I press the attack, lunging with the spear tip. But the cresty is fast and leaps away.
And now it’s angry.
The cresty snaps at me twice, eyeing my weapon. It’s smart enough to know rushing into a blade would hurt. But how smart can it be, really? Dinosaurs have what? Almond sized brains?
I lower the spear tip slowly until its point fully pierces the water.
“Out of sight, out of mind,” I say. Either emboldened by the disappearance of the spear tip or spurred by my voice, the cresty charges.
Whipsnap earned its name because of its ability to snap back into place. When I lift with my arms, the blade pops back out of the water and rises to meet the dinosaur’s chest. The cresty tries to backpedal, but a sudden and fortunate gush of water helps carry it forward. The blade sinks in, but stops at the beast’s breastbone.
Had that been the extent of my attack, the cresty might recover, but I am far from done. I have imagined this technique again and again and have practiced on boulders. I know it can work and I put it to the test.
With the blade firmly planted in the cresty’s chest, I bend the back end up and over. I can feel the shaft tensing as it bends to the point where I feel it will break, and then beyond. But it doesn’t break.
The mace end clocks the dinosaur on the head, stunning it for a moment. But
the impact also frees the blade from the breast bone. As I sidestep, the spear end of Whipsnap springs down and out, returning to its straight form. But it has done far more than straighten. When the blade snapped down it was still buried in two inches of flesh. The cresty has been eviscerated.
As its guts fall out, I jump back and wait. The cresty thrashes, slicing its innards to bits. A few minutes later, the thing is dead.
I smile. I have overcome my fear and I’ll have food for another month. And by then I might be strong and fast enough to take down one of the grownups.
Before I can really savor my conquest, my smile fades.
Had I still been fighting the cresty, I might have missed it.
A drip.
I’m being hunted.
25
The hunter is good. I haven’t detected any movement, scent or sound since the drip. But I know it’s there. The key to my survival is to not let it know that I know. So I gut the cresty right there in the water, letting the river carry away the blood and undesirable organs. This also helps me narrow down my list of potential predators. The blood would have sent some into a mindless hunger. But the predator remained silent even as the river carried the copper odor of a fresh kill past its nose.
It could be another cresty, I think. They don’t eat their own kind. Not that I’ve seen anyway. But it would have to be another small specimen. The stalagmites couldn’t possibly hide a large cresty.
Of course, it could be something new. Every time I think I’ve got a handle on the strange creatures living underground, I run into something new. This might be one such occasion. And if that’s the case, I’ll need to be extra careful.
With the dead crusty ready for butchering, I drag it to the shore. I pull it half way behind the largest stalagmite I can find, leaving the lower body still visible from the river, but hiding the upper torso, and my body from view. I cut into the dinosaur, making sure the tear of skin is loud. The cut tells the hunter that my attention is on the kill, that this is a good time to strike.
This is not at all true. In fact, I have never been so focused on the world around me. The river fills the cavern with a ceaseless bubbling. The air is clean, but tinged with a mineral scent. The breeze, carried by the water, tickles my skin. There is no sign of the hunter. And this is the moment most creatures in the underworld would shrug their shoulders and return to their meal, only to become a meal themselves a moment later.
Not me. I slide in the dark maze of stalagmites, working my way quickly upriver, then across the water, shifting from one stone pillar to the next like a monkey in the Amazon. In complete silence, I work my way downstream, cross the river again and come up behind the hunter.
I’m downwind. I’m silent. I’m home. A smile creeps onto my face. Whatever predator I’ll find has been down here longer than me. It has most likely evolved to life in the underworld. I’ve been here just over a year, and I’ve got the thing beat.
I close in slowly. The hunter is still hidden from me. But I find it right where I expected it to be. The thing is concealed in shadow, crouching low, but it is approaching my kill, ready to pounce.
The distance between us is less than ten feet. Two leaps from stalagmite to shore will close the distance in silence. And then, Whipsnap will finish the job. I picture my movements like I do before any kill. One leap. Then another. In the air I’ll flex Whipsnap in my hands and upon landing, will let the mace spring loose and sweep out the predator’s legs. Once it’s down, the spear tip will finish it off.
Had the hunter turned around it would have seen my white teeth spread in a smile. But it didn’t turn.
I leap once. Then again.
Whipsnap bends. And snaps!
I hear a roar of pain as Whipsnap sweeps its legs. The creature falls back. A cough escapes its lungs as the air is knocked from them. I pull the spear back, lining up my strike, aiming for the thing’s core. My muscles tense, ready to thrust the spear home.
“Wait!” the hunter screams. The voice rolls down the Deep River cavern. I pause, which is strictly against my rules of engagement, and had the voice been any other, I would have struck. But I recognize this voice. It disarms me.
“Ninnis?” I ask.
“Help me up, Ull.” A hand emerges from the shadow.
I take hold and pull my mentor to his feet. Despite being dead and nearly killed again, his smile is infectious.
“Well done,” he says.
I eye him up and down suspiciously. There is no hugged greeting. No cheerful reunion. I am a hunter now. “I thought you died.”
“I know. But it takes more than a little snow to kill old Ninnis.” He leans against a stalagmite. “Not that it didn’t take its pound of flesh.” He holds up his left hand. His pinkie and ring finger are missing. “Frostbite.”
I know I should feel some kind of compassion about my friend losing his fingers, but think, if he’d been faster, he’d still have those fingers.
He seems to sense my assessment of his injury and gives a nod. He wouldn’t be soft on me, either.
“Why didn’t you come to me earlier?” I ask.
“This was the first of three tests,” he says.
“Surviving on my own?”
“That was part of it, yes. But you also beat me.”
“You had to do the same thing when you were trained?”
He nods.
“What happened to your trainer? Is he still alive?”
He laughs. “No, no. I ran him through.”
He sees the shift in my gaze and my tightening grip on Whipsnap. He knows what I’m about to do.
“You can kill me if you’d like. I’ve seen the way you handle that weapon. But it’s not necessary.”
Our eyes lock. “Why did you kill your trainer?”
“The man was a savage. A brutish relic from the past. He deserved to die. I’d like to think I’ve done right by you, Ull.”
I loosen my grip on Whipsnap. “You have.”
“Besides, if you killed me now you might never pass the next two tests.”
“Tell me about them. The tests.”
He waggles a finger at me. “Later.” He eyes my kill. “Right now, I’m famished.”
I pull the cresty out from its hiding spot and squat down next to it. If a roast leg commemorating Ninnis’s return will loosen his tongue, I’ll oblige him. My curiosity over the next two tests has been piqued. Not to mention the long list of questions I have about the creatures and locations I have discovered since he went missing. And if he doesn’t answer my questions, well, I might have to unleash a little savagery of my own. Either way, I’ll get my answers. But it’s nice to have someone to talk to. I would prefer to not have to kill Ninnis yet.
26
“You were watching me the whole time?” I ask Ninnis before taking a bite of the meat I’ve just prepared over a fire of dried dung. The cresty is tender and juicy like pot roast and I have to slurp the juice from my lower lip after biting it.
“You weren’t in eyeshot the entire time.” He takes a bite and talks with his mouth full. “That’s impossible down here. But I was never more than a few hours behind you, following your tracks, inspecting your kills, gauging your progress. You almost caught me once.”
My eyes widen at this revelation. I had no idea Ninnis had survived, let alone remained close by. “When?”
“You found the photo, yes?”
“I did.”
“I noticed you were exploring every tunnel and knew you’d head toward the surface. I was leaving the photo behind, when you returned.”
“Where did you hide? I didn’t see any cracks or tunnels above that spot.”
Picking his teeth, Ninnis reveals, “I was outside. Above you. Be glad you never looked up or your test would have come early.”
Before I can ask what he means by that, he asks, “What did you do with the photo?”
“Destroyed it,” I say. The lie comes easily. I see no reason to tell him I kept the image. I still don’t know
why I did it, but I think telling the truth will somehow fail one of his tests.
“Why?”
“The image revolted me.” This, at least, is the truth.
“You didn’t recognize the people?”
“Should I have? Who were they?”
“Relics from your past, but you’ll never see them again.”
“Good,” I say, tossing my meat to the ground, my appetite sapped by the memory of the two smiling faces. “Why did you expose yourself?”
After a good burp, Ninnis rubs his stomach and says, “It wasn’t my intention to expose myself.”
I squint at him, suspecting the truth before he confirms it.
“I was to kill you.”
“But you failed.”
He nods. “And you passed.”
I sit straighter, puffing out my chest.
“Don’t get cocky, boy. Besting me was a simple thing compared to what comes next. You’ll lose the next fight you’re in. There is no way around that.”
This news deflates me, and I can hear the truth of it in Ninnis’s voice. He’s not trying to frighten me. There’s a look in his eyes, too, like he’s remembering his own test.
“Then what’s the point?” I ask.
“The test isn’t about winning. It’s about how you lose. There are only two possible outcomes. You’ll die, or you’ll be broken.”
“Broken?”
“You remember your first days with me?”
I remember the dog days well. Ninnis’s commands were like the very word of God to me. My obedience was unquestionable. “I do.”
“But you are not that frail boy anymore. You are Ull, the hunter. Confident. Skilled. But obedient? Not anymore.”
I cross my arms. “You haven’t asked me to do anything.”
He lets out a soft chuckle. “One look in your eyes says you’re more likely to gut me for asking anything of you than to obey. That will change tomorrow, but it won’t be my voice that commands you. It will be your master’s.”
The Last Hunter - Collected Edition Page 13
