The Descent

The  frightened  kid  looked  up.  And  there  was  Frankenstein.  Their  Frankenstein. Branch knew the look.

'They're  close.'

'No distractions,' Branch said.

'No sir.'

'We're going to turn this thing around. We're going to own it.'

'Yes  sir.'

'Now those claymores, son. How many in your  ruck?'

'Three.  Everything  I got, Major.'

'Can't ask for anything more than that, can we?  One here, I'd say.  One  there.  They'll do just fine.'

'Yes  sir.'

'We stop them here.' Branch raised his volume slightly for the other Rangers. 'This is the line. Then it's over.  Then we go home. We're almost out, boys. Get  your  sunscreen ready.'

They  liked that. Except  for the major, they  were  all black. Sunscreen, right.

He  moved  up  the  line  from  man  to  man,  spacing  the  mines,  assigning  their  fields  of fire,  weaving  his  ambush.  It  was  a  spooky  arena  down  here.  Even  if  you  could  put aside  these  bursts  of  cave  paintings  and  strange   carved   shapes   and  the   sudden rockfall  and  flash  floods  and  the  mineralized  skeletons  and  the  booby  traps.  Even  if you made  this  place  at  peace  with  itself,  the  space  itself  was  horror.  The  tunnel  walls compressed  their  universe  into  a  tiny  ball.  The  darkness  threw  it  into  freefall.  Close your eyes,  and the mix could drive  you mad.

Branch  saw  the  weariness  in  them.  They  had  been  without  radio  contact  with  the surface   for  two   weeks.   Even   with  communications,  they   couldn't  have   called   in artillery  or  reinforcements  or  evacuation.  They  were  deep  and  alone  and  beset  by bogeymen, some imagined, some not.

Branch  paused  beside  the  prehistoric  bison  painted  on  the  wall.  The  animal  had spears bristling from its shoulders,  and  its  entrails  were  trampled  underneath.  It  was dying, but so was the hunter  who  had  killed  it.  The  stick  figure  of  a  man  was  toppling over  backward, gored by  the long  horns.  Hunter  and  hunted,  one  in  spirit.  Branch  set the  last  of  his  claymores  at  the  feet  of  the  bison  and  tilted  it  upon  little  wire  tripod legs.

'They're  getting closer, Major.'

Branch looked  around.  It  was  the  radioman,  with  a  pair  of  headphones  on.  One  last time  he  perused  his  ambush,  saw  in  advance  how  the  mines  would  flower,  where  the shot  would  fly  true,  where  it  would  skip  with  terminal  velocity,  and  which  niches might escape their explosion of light and metal. 'On my  word,' he said. 'Not until.'

'I  know.'  They  all  knew.  Three  weeks  in  the  field  with  Branch  was  enough  time  to learn his lessons.

The  radioman cut his light. Around  the  fork,  other  soldiers  doused  their  headlamps, too. Branch felt the blackness flood them over.

They  had  pre-sighted  their  rifles.  Branch  knew  that  in  the  terrible  darkness,  each soldier  in  his  lonely  post  was  mentally  rehearsing  the  same  left-to-right  burst.  Blind without  light,  they  were  about  to  be  blinded  with  it.  Their  muzzle  flash  would  ruin their  low-light  vision.  The  best  thing  was  to  pretend  you  were  seeing  and  let  your imagination take  care of the target.  Close your  eyes.  Wake up when it was over.

'Closer,' whispered the radioman.

'I  hear  them  now,'  Branch  said.  He  heard  the  radioman  gently  switch  off  his  radio and set  aside his headphones and shoulder his weapon.

The  pack advanced single file, of course. It  was  a  tubular  fork,  man-wide.  One,  then two  passed  the  bison.  Branch  tracked  them  in  his  head.  They  were  shoeless,  and  the second slowed when the first did.

Can  they  smell  us?  Branch  worried.  Still  he  did  not  give  the  word.  The  game  was nerves.  You  had  to  let  them  all  come  in  before  you  shut  the  door.  Part  of  him  was ready  with the claymores in case one of his soldiers startled  and opened fire.

The   creatures   stank   of   body   grease   and   rare   minerals   and   animal   heat   and encrusted  feces.  Something  bony  scratched  a  wall.  Branch  sensed  that  the  fork  was filling. His sense had less to do with sound than with the feel of the air. However  slight, the current  was altered. Their  mass  respiration  and  the  motion  of  bodies  had  created tiny  eddies  in  the  space.  Twenty,  Branch  estimated.  Maybe  thirty.  God's  children, perhaps. Mine now.

'Now,' he uttered.  He twisted  the detonator.

The  claymores  blossomed  in  a  single  colorless  buck  of  shot.  Pellets  rattled  against the stone, a fatal squall. Eight rifles  joined,  walking  their  bursts  back  and  forth  among the demon pack.

The  bursts  of  muzzle  flash  seared  between  Branch's  fingertips  as  he  held  them before  his  glasses.  He  rolled  his  eyes  up  into  his  skull  to  protect  his  vision.  But  the lightning streaks  of auto-fire still reached  in.  Unblind  and  yet  not  seeing,  he  aimed  by