The Descent

Several  of the scientists who wanted to resign and return  the way  they'd  come,  chief among them Gitner, accused Ike  of collaborating with Shoat to force them deeper.

Ike  shrugged and told them to do whatever  they  wanted. No one dared cross that line.

On  October  2,  a  pair  of  mercenaries  bringing  up  the  rear  vanished.  Their  absence was  not  noticed  for  twelve  hours.  Convinced  the  men  had  stolen  a  raft  and  were

making  a  renegade  bid  to  return  home,  Walker  ordered  five  soldiers  to  track  and capture them. Ike  argued with him. What  caused  the  colonel  to  reverse  his  order  was not  Ike,  but  a  message  over  the  walkie-talkie.  The  camp  stilled,  thinking  the  missing pair might be reporting in.

'Maybe  they  just got lost,' one of the scientists suggested.

Layers  of  rock  garbled  the  transmission,  but  it  was  a  British  voice  coming  over  the radio. 'Someone made a mistake,' he told them. 'You took my  daughter.' The  wild  child made a noise in her throat.

'Who is this?' Walker demanded.

Ali knew. It  was Molly's midnight lover.

Ike  knew. It  was the one who had led him into darkness  once upon a time.  Isaac  had returned.

The  radio went silent.

They  cast downriver and did not make camp for a week.

Every lion comes from its den, All the serpents bite;

Darkness hovers, earth is silent, As their maker rests in lightland.

– 'The Great Hymn to Aten,' 1350 BC

20

DEAD SOULS

San Francisco, California

Headfirst,  the  hadal  drew  himself  from  the  honeycomb  of  cave  mouths.  He  panted feebly, starved,  dizzy, rejecting his weakness.  Rime coated the  perfect  round  openings of concrete pipes. The  fog was so cold.

He could hear the sick and dying in the  pyramided  tunnels.  The  illness  was  as  lethal as  a  sweep  of  plague  or  a  poisoned  stream  or  the  venting  of  some  rare  gas  through their arterial habitat.

His eyes  streamed  pus. This air. This awful light. And  the  emptiness  of  these  voices. The  sounds  were  too  far  away  and  yet  too  close.  There  was  too  much  space.  Your thoughts  had  no  resonance  here.  You  imagined  something  and  the  idea  vanished  into nothingness.

Like  a  leper,  he  draped  hides  over  his  head.  Hunched  inside  the  tattered   skin curtains, he felt better,  more able to see. The  tribe needed him. The  other  adult  males had  been  killed  off.  It  was  up  to  him.  Weapons.  Food.  Water.  Their  search  for  the messiah would have  to wait.

Even  given  the  strength  to  escape,  he  would  not  have  tried,  not  while  children  and women  still  remained  here  alive.  All  together  they  would  live.  Or  all  together  they would  die.  That  was  the  way.  It  was  up  to  him.  Eighteen  years  old,  and  he  was  now their elder.

Who  was  left?  Only  one  of  his  wives  was  still  breathing.  Three  of  his  children.  An image  of  his  infant  son  rose  up  –  as  cold  as  a  pebble.  Aiya.  He  made  the  heartbreak into rage.

The  bodies  of  his  people  lay  where  they  had  pitched  or  reeled  or  staggered.  Their corruption  was  strange  to  see.  It  had  to  be  something  in  this  thin,  strangling  air.  Or the light itself, like an  acid.  He  had  seen  many  corpses  in  his  day,  but  none  so  quickly gone to rot this  way.  A  single  day  had  passed  here,  and  not  one  could  be  salvaged  for meat.

Every  few  steps,  he  rested  his  hands  on  his  knees  to  gasp  for  breath.  He  was  a warrior and hunter. The  ground was as flat as a  pond  top.  Yet  he  could  scarcely  stand on his feet! What a terrible  place this was. He moved on, stepping over  a set  of bones. He  came  to  a  ghostly  white  line  and  lifted  his  drape  of  rags,  squinting  into  the  fog. The  line was too straight to be a game trail. The  suggestion of a  path  raised  his  spirits. Maybe  it led to water.

He followed the line, pausing  to  rest,  not  daring  to  sit  down.  Sit  and  he  would  lie,  lie and  he  would  sleep  and  never  wake  again.  He  tried  sniffing  the  currents  of  air,  but  it was  too  fouled  with  stench  and  odors  to  detect  animals  or  water.  And  you  couldn't trust  your  ears  for  all  the  voices.  It  seemed  like  a  legion  of  voices  pouring  down  upon him. Not one word made sense. Dead souls, he decided.

At its end, the line hit another line that ran right and left into  the  fog.  Left,  he  chose, the  sacred  way.  It  had  to  lead  somewhere.  He  came  to  more  lines.  He  made  more turns, some right, some left... in violation of the Way.