The Descent

They  tugged at  the  rope  and  ended  pulling  the  whole  fifty  meters  back  out.  Walker held  the  end  up.  'He  untied  himself,'  Walker  shouted  to  a  second  'volunteer.'  'That means there's  a hollow  inside.  This  time,  don't  untie.  Give  three  tugs  when  you  reach the chamber, then attach it to a rock or something. The  idea is to make a  handline,  got it?'

The  second  soldier  set  off  more  confidently.  The  rope  wormed  in,  deeper  than  the first time. 'Where's he going in there?'  Walker said.

The  line  came  taut,  then  seized  harder.  The  belayer  started  to  complain,  but  the rope suddenly yanked  from his hands and its tail whipped off into the mist.

'This isn't tug-of-war,'  Walker lectured his  third  scout.  'Just  anchor  your  end.  A  few

moderate  pulls  will  signal  us.'  In  the  background,  several  mercenaries  were  amused. Their  comrades  in  the  mist  were  having  some  fun  at  the  colonel's  expense.  The tension relaxed.

Walker's  third  man  stepped  through  the  curtain  of  spray  and  they  started  to  lose sight  of  him.  Abruptly  he  returned.  Still  on  his  feet,  he  came  hurtling  from  the  mist, backpedaling in a frenzy.

It  happened  quickly.  His  arms  flailed,  beating  at  some  unseen  weight  on  his  front, suggesting  a  seizure.  Backward  momentum  drove  him  into  the  crowd.  People  spilled to the sand. He landed deep in their midst, among their legs, and he spun spine up  and arched, heaving away  from the ground. Ali couldn't see what happened next.

The  soldier  let  loose  a  deep  bellow.  It  came  from  his  core,  a  visceral  discharge.

'Move away,  move away,' Walker yelled, pistol in hand, wading through the crowd. The  soldier sagged, facedown, but kept  twitching. 'Tommy?'  called a troop.

Brutally,  Tommy  came  erect,  what  was  left  of  him,  and  they  saw  that  his  face  and torso had been ripped to scraps. The  body keeled over  backward.

That  was when they  caught sight of the hadal.

She was squatting in the sand where  Tommy  had carried her,  mouth  and  hands  and dugs brilliant with blood and their lights, blinded, as white as the abyssal  fish  they  had seen. Ali's view  lasted just  a  fraction  of  a  second.  A  thousand  years  old,  that  creature. How could such a withered thing accomplish the butchery  they  had just seen?

With a  cry,  the  crowd  fell  away  from  the  apparition.  Ali  was  knocked  to  the  ground and  pummeled  by  the  stampede.  Above  her,  soldiers  fumbled  at  their  weapons.  A boot glanced off  her  head.  Overhead,  Walker  came  crashing  through  the  frantic  herd, more shadow than man among the wheeling lights, his handgun blazing.

The  hadal  leaped  –  impossibly  –  twenty  feet  onto  the  shield  of  olive  stone.  In  the strobing patchwork  of  lights,  she  was  ghastly  white  and  rimed,  it  seemed,  with  scales or  filth.  This  was  the  repository  for  the  mother  tongue?  Ali  was  confused.  Over  the past  months  they  had  humanized  the  hadals  in  their  discussions,  but  the  reality  was more  like  a  wild  animal.  Her  skin  was  practically  reptilian.  Then  Ali  realized  it  was skin cancer, and the hadal's flesh was ulcerated and checkered  with scabs.

Walker  was  fearless,  running  alongside  the  wall  and  firing  at  the  scampering  hadal. She  was  making  for  the  waterfall,  and  Ali  guessed  it  was  the  sound  that  was  her compass.  But  the  stone  grew  slick  with  spray  or  the   holds  were   polished  off  or Walker's bullets were  striking the mark. She fell. Walker and his men closed  in  around her, and all Ali could see were  eruptions of light from muzzle flash.

Dazed  from  the  kick,  Ali  crawled  to  her  feet  and  started  over  to  the  cluster  of excited  soldiers. She understood from their  jubilation  that  this  was  the  first  live  hadal any  of  them  had  ever  seen,  much  less  fought.  Walker's  crack  team  of  mercenaries were  no more familiar with the enemy  than she was.

'Back to the boats,' Walker told her.

'What are you going to do?'

'They've  taken  our cylinders,' he said.

'You're going in there?'

'Not until we've  pacified the waterfall.'

She  saw  soldiers  prepping  the  bigger  miniguns  mounted  to  their  rafts.  They  were eager  and  grim,  and  she   dreaded   their   enthusiasm.   From   her   passages   through African  civil  wars,  Ali  knew  firsthand  that  once  the   juggernaut   got  loose,  it  was irrevocable.  This  was  happening  too  quickly.  She  wanted  Ike  here,  someone  who knew the  territory  and  could  measure  the  colonel's  hot  backlash.  'But  those  two  boys are still inside.'