5 Onslaught

by Jeremy Robinson

  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.

  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 multilingual 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.

  28

  Just thirty seconds later, a vibration rolls through the ground beneath the base. The source is distant, but a potent reminder of what is coming, and what might already be here. I take my telescope and raise it to my eye, focusing on the distant choke point where the cliffs come together. Smoke and still settling dust obscure the view.

  “What is it?” Kainda asks.

  I watch a swirl of dust, rising as though something had just sped past. “Something’s out there.”

  “They’re using the smoke as cover,” she says plainly, then looks at me. “It’s what we would do.”

  Hunters. With the mine field destroyed and smoke clouding the air, they’re pouring through the pass and working their way silently toward us. Unlike the berserkers, the hunters will use strategy and skill. It’s possible that some will make it through to the trenches. And if that happens... One hunter with a sword, in a trench—it would be a bloodbath.

  Get ready, I think strongly, but hold your fire. Gold Alpha—with a little something extra.

  I hear grunts of understanding from the nearby soldiers as the orders reach them via Luca. I wait a full minute, while soldiers reload, take aim at a field of smoke and wait. When the stillness becomes intolerable, I start with the little something extra. A sudden wind sweeps in from the ocean, catching the smoke and pulling it back and up like a blanket.

  Hunters emerge from the shroud, still and silent, surprised by the sudden and unwelcome exposure. They no doubt believe they are about to be cut down. Some must have seen what happened to the berserkers. Those at the front, hold their ground, waiting at the razor wire. The rest come in slowly, creeping toward us.

  They’re too close for the tanks, and not far from the first trench. If they can get past the razor wire, and I’m sure they could, things would get bad, fast.

  I quickly count three thousand men and woman. Though the berserkers outnumbered them ten to one, this group is far more dangerous.

  As the hunters congest together, somewhere from within the group, a man shouts out. He’s
not speaking any words. It’s more of a punchy, three syllable chant that the others take up. And when they are done, to my great surprise, the nearly two thousand hunters inside the base, including Em and Kainda respond with the same, shouted chant.

  “What’s happening?” I ask in surprise.

  “It’s a challenge,” Em says. “To combat. As Hunters.”

  “We cannot turn them down,” Kainda adds.

  “The hell you can’t,” I say growing angry, and then do my best mind shout, Gold-Alpha! Luca does a good job translating the passion of my command and I hear it in my own head a second later.

  Kainda turns to me. “It is not honorable. Hunters—”

  “We are not hunters!” I shout. “Not anymore.”

  “Someone must face them!” she shouts back.

  I look to the gathering of hunters, who have taken up a formation and look ready to spring into action. “Then it will be me.”

  I leap from the wall and am carried up and over the battlefield, soaring past rows of tanks and entrenched infantry. I land on the near side of the razor wire, just fifty feet from the enemy. An army’s eyes settle on me. I do my best to match their gaze, and then say, “There is not one of you who could stand against me.”

  A grumble works its way through the ranks of hunters, but no one argues. After my little flight, they all know who I am.

  I decide to lay it on thick. “I have slain your masters.” I motion to the base behind me. “I have set your brothers and sisters free. And I can do the same for you. The choice is yours. It has always been yours.”

  “I will stand against you,” shouts a man. I cannot see him, but his words seem to bolster the enemy rank.

  These are hunters, I remind myself. They respect action over words. A demonstration might help convince them. Sure, I could hit them with the shofar, but I’m not sure if that will be enough. If they don’t choose the light, they might not stay in it. I have to give them the chance to choose freely first. And if that doesn’t work... They might yet see what I can do.

  I reach out my hands, directing a surge of wind to snip through the rows of razor wire. Spreading my hands apart, the wire shifts across the ground, forming a clearing through the death trap. I don’t really need to use my hands for these things, but I want to leave no doubt that it’s me doing it. Feeling a little like a mini-Moses, I walk into the clearing.

  “Show yourself,” I shout to the hidden man.

  There’s a distant shuffle and murmur as the man walks forward, shoving his fellow hunters out of the way. As the man approaches, I look at the other hunters in the group. They’re clutching their weapons, eager to attack.

  Then why aren’t they?

  Hunters aren’t known for their teamwork or patience. Why would they wait for a single man to face me? It’s a fight they all must realize can’t be won. More than that, why are they not all arguing about who will face me. That every hunter thinks he or she is the best hunter is Underworld 101 stuff. They should all be vying for the chance of killing me, and proving that they are, in fact, stronger than the chosen vessel of Nephil and are the rightful recipient of that honor.

  The fact that no one has launched an arrow in my direction shows uncommon restraint.

  Why? I wonder again.

  As the man reaches the outer fringe, I figure it out, and that split second of realization saves my life.

  Merrill! Now!

  “Hello, Solomon,” the man says, throwing back a cloak that hid his face from view.

  The face of Ninnis glares at me with all the hatred and loathing the spirit of Nephil can project.

  Black tendrils launch out at me like spears. The first strikes my shoulder, shooting a lancing pain through my body. In that single instant, I feel the darkness seep into my body, its barbs latching onto my very soul. I try to resist it, but it’s like trying to lift a behemoth.

  Before the burden becomes too great, Merrill puts his lips to the mouth of that great horn and unleashes an ancient battle call that strikes fear into the hearts of Nephilim, not of physical pain, but because for a moment, they can feel the disparity of their own existence. As the first sound wave reaches me, the darkness is repulsed. But it tears out of me, yanking a scream of pain from my lungs.

  Ninnis hisses and launches into the air. The sound hits him, causing black tendrils to explode in every direction. He shrieks and flails, lashing out and striking several of his own hunters.

  But they’re not his hunters. Not anymore. All three thousand men and women fall to the ground, writhing in agony. But it’s not pain they’re feeling, it’s truth. Those who were kidnapped and broken, like me, Ninnis and Tobias, are remembering who they were for the first time. Others, who were born in the underworld are feeling the weight of their crimes like never before. A shift of color works its way back through the throng as blood red hair gives way to shades of black, brown, gray, blond and orange.

  This happens to be one of the situations for which we have no plan in place. I would have never thought Nephil would risk himself like this, but that was the brilliance of the plan. Who would see it coming? None of us, that’s who. So as my reeling mind tries to center itself, I look up at the writhing form of Ninnis, a man who was broken, turned into a monster and is now the vessel of an evil force, and think, sorry—and then—fire!

  When the first bullet flies, striking Ninnis’s leg, the demon-possessed man flinches and seems to snap out of his agonized state. The wound drips purple and heals quickly. With a hiss, he launches himself up and away, carried by frenzied tendrils. The gunfire chases him for a moment, but it’s clear no one will hit the man. Still, a tank gunner tracks Ninnis’s retreat toward the valley’s choke point and fires off a single shot.

  The distant cliff explodes, showering Nephil with debris and knocking him sideways with the shockwave. He lurches to the side, but then disappears. The attack won’t injure him. He heals like a Nephilim now. But the lingering sting to his pride will make him think about exposing himself like this again.

  With the danger momentarily waned, I turn my attention to the hunters. Those that remember previous lives will also remember their time as a hunter. They won’t be confused by what has happened, but they will certainly be conflicted by it. Some of these people have been living in darkness, literal and figurative for far longer than they lived in the outside world.

  One by one, they stand. I nearly laugh when I see some helping others to their feet. But will they stay this way? Or will they choose to remain in darkness?

  Then it happens. A single man runs away, his hair turning redder with each step.

  Then another.

  And another.

  And then, no one else.

  Let them go, I think. We have shed enough human blood for one day.

  A footstep behind me catches my attention. I turn to find Kainda strutting up confidently. She steps up next to me and addresses the freed hunters. “I am Kainda, daughter of Ninnis, servant to Thor.”

  The group reacts with a mixture of fear and tension.

  “But I am now free,” she says, quieting the rising talk. “And my master is dead.”

  Those still speaking, fall silent. They have been freed from the bondage of their hearts and minds, but the threat of physical bondage to their Nephilim masters still very much exists.

  “And I fight the monster Nephil who controls the form of my father. All of this is possible because of this man.” She motions to me.

  Inwardly, I’m caught off guard and thinking, Who? Me? But on the outside, I stand confident and bold. I know what I have to do, even if it makes me feel uncomfortable. Despite being freed, these people are still hunters, like Kainda, and Em...and me, despite my previous denial.

  “I am the Last Hunter,” I say loudly. “I am Solomon Ull Vincent, the first and only Antarctican, leader of the human resistance against the Nephilim, and...I am your King!”

  To my surprise, and I’ll admit it, delight, a cheer rises up. It’s just one person at firs
t—Em, I think—but then it moves through the base behind me and the hunters before me.

  As a smile spreads on my face, I think, round two goes to the human race, though it nearly didn’t. I glance down to my shoulder, where the black tendril burrowed into my flesh. There’s no wound, but I can still feel its lingering effects, and the raw power of its attack. Had Merrill waited just an instant, the darkness might have claimed me. And if that happened, all would be lost.

  29

  Em, Adoni, Zuh, I think, letting Luca know who I want my orders to be transmitted to, split these hunters between you. Get them settled inside the base. Do your best to explain how we’re organized and how we are communicating. Put them in defensive units with hunters already among us.

  Luca can send my orders to these new hunters just as easily as everyone else, and they’ll understand, but they need to be prepared for the mental intrusion.

  Em speaks up from just behind me. She must have already been on her way out. “Hunters, I am Emilie, daughter of Tobias—”

  “The daughter of Tobias,” a woman hunter says in surprise. She’s tall and slender with long curly, light brown hair that hangs wildly to her shoulders. She’s holding a double edged sword that looks like something a Roman centurion would carry in one hand and a long spear in the other. “Was he not slain by Ninnis, father of Kainda?”

  Em frowns and nods. “He was.”

  “And yet you stand beside her?”

  I think I understand the gist of this questioning. In hunter culture, the slaying of one hunter’s kin by another might result in some sort of blood feud, or at least a deeper than average hatred.

  Em steps up next to Kainda, who’s at least a foot taller, and looks up at her. “We are as sisters. The sins of our past, and those of our fathers, are forgotten. As they are for you, as well.”

  To say the hunters are surprised is an understatement. The news travels quickly toward the back of the throng. It’s clear the conversation is about to expand and while I would love to explain the depth of their new found freedom, the rumbling beneath my feet is a constant reminder that we have no time.