The Descent

The  sea stretched  on. They  had  been  walking  for  twenty-one  days.  Ike  kept  them  on a  short  leash.  He  set  the  pace,  resting  every  half  hour,  circulating  among  them  like Gunga  Din,  filling  their  water  bottles,  congratulating  them  on  their  endurance.  'Man, where  were  you guys  when I needed you on Makalu?' he would say.

Next   to  Ike,   the   strongest   was   Troy,   the   forensics  kid,   who'd   probably   been watching Sesame  Street  at  the  time  Ike  was  battling  his  Himalayan  peaks.  He  did  a fine  job  trying  to  be  Ike-like,  solicitous  and  useful.  But  he  was  wearing  down,  too. Sometimes Ike  posted him at the front, a place of trust,  his way  of honoring the boy. Ali decided the best  help she could be was to walk with Twiggs,  whom  everyone  else wanted to  hogtie  and  leave.  From  the  moment  he  woke,  the  man  whined  and  begged and committed petty  thefts. The  microbotanist was a  born  panhandler.  Only  Ali  could deal  with  him.  She  treated  him  like  a  teenage  novitiate  with  pimples.  When  Pia  or Chelsea  marveled  at  her  patience,  Ali  explained  that  if  it  wasn't  Twiggs,  it  would  be someone else. She had never  seen a tribe without a scapegoat.

Their  tents  were  history.  They  slept  on  thin  sleeping  pads  as  a  pretense  of  their former civilization. Only three  of them had sleeping bags, because  the  three  pounds  of weight had proven too much for the rest.  When  the  temperature  cooled,  they  pressed together  and  draped  the  bags  over  their  collective  body.  Ike  rarely  slept  with  them. Usually he took his shotgun and wandered away,  returning in the morning.

On  one  such  morning,  before  Ike  came  in  from  his  night  patrolling,  Ali  woke  and walked down to the sea to clean her face. A  boggy  mist  had  come  in  off  the  water,  but she  could  see  to  place  her  feet  on  the  phosphorescent  sand.  Just  as  she  was  about  to skirt a large boulder, she heard noises.

The  sounds  were  delicate  and  bony.   Instantly   she   knew   this  was   not  English, probably  not  human.  She  listened  more  keenly,  then  gently  worked  ahead  several more steps  to the flank of the boulder and kept  herself hidden.

There  seemed  to  be  two  figures  down  there.  In  silence  she  listened  to  the  voices murmur and click  and  slowly  dial  her  into  a  different  horizon  of  existence.  There  was no question they  were  hadals.

She  was  breathless.  One  sounded  little  different  from  the  water  lightly  lapping against  the  shore.  The  other  was  less  joined  at  the  vowels,  more  cut  and  dried  at  the edges  of  his  word  strings.  They  sounded  polite  or  old.  She  stepped  from  around  the rock to see them.

There  weren't  two,  but  three.  One  was  a  gargoyle  similar  to  those  that  Shoat  and Ike  had  killed.  It  was  perched  upon  the  very  skin  of  the  water,  hands  flat,  while  its wings  fanned  languidly  up  and  down.  The  other  two  appeared  to  be  amphibians,  or close  to  it,  like  fishermen  who  have  no  memory  but  the  sea,  half  man,  half  fish.  One lay  on  his  side  on  the  sand,  feet  in  the  water,  while  the  other  drifted  in  repose.  They had the sleek heads and large eyes  of seals, but  with  sharpened  teeth.  Their  flesh  was slick and white, with small black hairs fletching their backs.

She had been afraid they  would flee. Abruptly  she was afraid they  would not.

One of the amphibians stirred  and twisted  to see her, showing his thick pizzle. It  was erect.  He'd  been  stroking  himself,  she  realized.  The  gargoyle  flexed  his  mouth  like  a baboon, and the dental arcade looked vicious.

'Oh,' Ali said foolishly.

What had she been thinking, to come here alone?

They   watched   her   with  the   composure   of  philosophers  in  a  glen.   One   of   the

amphibians went ahead  and  finished  his  thought  in  their  soft  language,  still  looking  at her.

Ali considered running back to the group. She set  one foot behind her to turn and  go. The  gargoyle cut the briefest  of side glances at her.

'Don't move,' muttered  Ike.

He was  hunkered  on  top  of  the  boulder  to  her  left,  balanced  on  the  balls  of  his  feet. The  pistol in one hand hung relaxed.

The  hadals  didn't  speak  anymore.  They  had  that  peculiar  Oriental  ease  with  long silences.  The  one  went  on  stroking   himself  with  apelike   bemusement,   not  at   all self-conscious  or  purposeful.  There  was  nothing  to  hear  but  the  water  licking  sand, and the skin sound of the one fondling himself.

After  a while, the gargoyle cast one more  glance  at  Ali,  then  pushed  forward  against the  water's  surface  and  departed  on  slow  wings,  never  rising  more  than  a  few  inches above the sea. He diagonaled into the mist and was gone.