The Descent

One morning she woke to find Ike  facing the wall in his  lotus  position,  much  the  way she'd  first  seen  him.  In  the  blackness  of  the  dead  zone,  she  could  make  out  the  faint glow  of  a  circle  painted  on  the  wall.  It  could  have   represented   some  aborigine's dreamtime  or  a  prehistoric  mandala,  but  she  knew  from  the  fortress  that  it  was  a map.  She  entered  Ike's  same  contemplation,  and  the  lines  snaking  and  crossing  one another  within  the  circle  took  on  dimension  and  direction.  Their  memory  of  the  wall painting guided them for days  to come.

Badly  lamed,  Branch  entered  the  ruins  of  the  city  of  the  damned.  He  had  given  up finding Ike  alive. In truth, fevers  and delirium and  the  poison  on  that  hadal  spear  had harrowed  him  so  that  he  could  barely  remember  Ike  at  all.  His  wanderings  wound deeper  less from his initial search than because the earth's core had  become  his  moon, subtly  pulling  him  into  a  new  orbit.  The  myriad  pathways  had  reduced  to  one  in  his mind. Now here he was.

All lay still. By the thousands.

In his confusion, he was reminded of  a  Bosnian  night  long  ago.  Skeletons  lay  tangled in final embrace. Flowstone had absorbed many of the dead back  into  the  plastic  floor. The  putrescence  had  become  an  atmosphere  all  its  own.  Currents  of  stench  whipped around  building  corners  like  squalls  of  rowdy  ghosts.  The  one  sound,  besides  the whistle of abyssal  wind, was of water  in canals slicing away  at the city's underbelly. Branch meandered through the apocalypse.

In  the  center  of  the  city  he  came  to  a  hill  studded  with  the  ruins  of  an  edifice.  He scanned it  through  his  night  scope.  There  was  a  cross  on  top,  and  it  held  a  body.  The cross drew  him as a childhood relic, a vestige  of some Arthurian impulse.

His  bad  leg,  plus  the  closely  packed  dead,  made  the  climb  arduous.  That  reminded him  of  Ike,  who  had  talked  about  his  Himalayas  with  such  love.  He  wondered  if  Ike might be somewhere  around here, perhaps even  on that cross.

The  creature  on  their  crucifix  had  died  much  more  recently  than  the  rest  of  them, unkindly  sustained  by  a  shank  of  meat.  Nearby,  a  Ranger's  sniper  rifle  lay  broken  in pieces beside a laptop computer. Branch couldn't  say  whether  he'd  been  a  soldier  or  a scientist. One thing was certain, this was not Ike.  He had been  newly  marked,  and  the grimace held a jumble of bad teeth.

As he turned to leave,  Branch noticed the corpse of a  hadal  dressed  in  a  suit  of  regal jade.  Unlike  the  others,  this  one  was  perfectly  preserved,  at  least  from  the  neck  up. That  curiosity  led  to  another.  The  man's  face  looked  familiar  to  him.  Bending  closer, he recognized  the  priest.  How  could  he  have  come  to  be  here?  It  was  he  who'd  called with  information  of  Ike's  innocence,  and  Branch  wondered  if  he'd  descended  to  save Ike,  too.  What  a  shock  hell  must  have  been  for  a  Jesuit.  He  stared  at  the  face, straining to summon the good man's name.

'Thomas,' he suddenly remembered. And Thomas opened his eyes.

New Guinea

They  stood stock-still  in  the  mouth  of  a  nameless  cave,  with  the  jungle  spread  before them. All but naked, a little raving, Ali resorted  to what she knew, and began to offer a hoarse prayer  of thanks.

Like  her,  Ike  was  blinded  and  shaken  and  afraid,  not  of  the  sun  above  the  ropelike canopy,  or  of  the  animals,  or  of  whatever  waited  for  him  out  there.  It  was  not  the world that frightened him. Rather, he did not know who he was about to become. There  comes a time on every  big mountain when you descend the snows and  cross  a

border back to life. It  is a first patch of green grass by  the trail, or a waft  of  the  forests far  below,  or  the  trickle  of  snowmelt  braiding  into  a  stream.  Always  before,  whether he  had  been  gone  an  hour  or  a  week  or  much  longer  –  and  no  matter  how  many mountains he had left  behind  –  it  was,  for  Ike,  an  instant  that  registered  in  his  whole being. Ike  was swept  with a sense not of departure,  but of advent.  Not of  survival.  But of grace.

Not trusting his voice, he circled Ali with his arms.