The Descent

By  the  time  Ali  brought  her  attention  back  to  the  amphibians,  one  had  vanished. The  last one –  the  masturbator  –  reached  a  state  of  boredom  and  quit.  He  slid  below the water,  and it was as if he  had  been  drawn  into  a  mouth.  The  lips  of  the  sea  sealed over  him.

'Did  that  really  happen?'  Ali  asked  in  a  low  voice.  Her  heart  was  pounding.  She started  forward to verify  the handprints in the sand, to confirm the reality.

'Don't go near that water,'  Ike  warned her. 'He's waiting for you.'

'He's still there?'  Her Zen hadals, lurking? But they  were  so pacific.

'You want to back up, please. You're  making me nervous, Sister.'

'Ike,' she suddenly bubbled, 'you can understand them?'

'Not a word. Not these.'

'There  are others?'

'I keep  telling you, we're  not alone.'

'But to actually see them...'

'Ali, we've  been passing among them the whole time.'

'Ones like those?'

'And ones you don't want to know about.'

'But they  looked so peaceful. Like three  poets.' Ike  tsk'ed.

'Then why  didn't they  attack  us?' she said.

'I  don't  know.  I'm   trying   to  figure   it  out.  It's   almost  like  they   knew   me.'  He hesitated. 'Or you.'

Branch lagged, weary.

He  kept  cutting  their  trail,  but  their  spoor  wandered,  or  else  he  did.  It  was  likely him,  he  knew.  Insect  bites  had  made  him  sick,  and  the  best  thing  would  be  to  find  a burrow  and  wait  until  the  fever  passed.  With  so  much  human  presence  around,  he didn't trust  the burrowing, though.

To  stop  would  be  to  attract  predators  from  many  miles  around.  If  one  found  him convalescing in a cubbyhole, it would be all over.  And so Branch kept  on his feet.

A lifetime of wounds hampered his pace. Delirium  sapped  his  attention.  He  felt  very old. It  seemed  as though he'd been voyaging since the beginning of time.

He  came  to  a  narrow  sinkhole  with  a  skinny  rivulet  trickling  down.  Rifle  across  his back, Branch roped  into  the  abyss.  At  the  bottom,  he  pulled  the  line  and  coiled  it  and moved on. He was new to this region, but was not a neophyte.

He  came  upon  a  woman's  skeleton.  Her  long  black  hair  lay  by  the  skull,  which  was unusual,  because  it  made  good  cordage  when  braided.  That  it  had  been  left  told  him there  were  many  more  such  humans  available.  That  was  good.  Predators  would  be less prone to hunt him.

Through  the  day,  Branch  found  more  evidence  of  humans:  whole  skeletons,  ribs,  a footprint,  a  dried  patch  of  urine,  or  the  distinctive  smell  of  H.  sapiens  in  hadal  dung. Someone  had  scratched  his  name  on  the  wall,  along  with  a  date.  One  date  from  only two weeks  before gave  him hope.

Then  he  found  the  blubbery  pile  of  survival  suits,  of  which  a  number  had  been speared or hacked. To a hadal, the neoprene  suits  would  seem  like  supernatural  skins or  even  live  animals.  He  rummaged  through  the  pile  and  dressed  in  one  that  was whole and fit.

Shortly afterward,  Branch found the rolls of paper with Ali's maps. He raced through them in chronological order. At the end, someone else's hand had  scrawled  in  Walker's treachery  at the sea,  and  the  group's  dispersal.  It  all  came  together  for  him,  why  this band had become separated  and vulnerable, why  Ike  was nowhere to  be  found  among them. Branch saw now  where  he  needed  to  go,  that  subterranean  sea.  From  there  he might  find  more  signs.  Ali's  chronicle  made  perfect  sense  to  him.  He  took  the  maps and went on.

A day  later, Branch realized he was being stalked.

He  could  actually  smell  them  on  the  airstream,  and  that  disturbed  him.  It  meant they  had  to  be  close,  for  his  nose  was  not  keen.  Ike  would  have  sensed  them  long before. Again he felt old.

He had the same two choices every  animal does, fight or flight. Branch ran.

Three  hours later he reached the river.  He saw the trail leading along  the  water,  but it  was  too  late  for  that.  He  faced  around,  and  there  were  four  of  them  fanning  out  in the talus above, as pale as larvae.

A  slender  spear  –  reed  tipped  with  obsidian  –  shattered  on  the  rock  next  to  him. Another  pierced  the  water.  It  would  have  been  easy  to  shoot  the  one  youngster nearing on his left. That  still would have  left three,  and the same necessity  for what  he now did.

The  leap  was  clumsy,  impaired  by  his  rifle  and  the   tube   of  maps   wrapped   in waterproofing.  He  had  meant  to  strike  open  water,  but  his  right  foot  caught  a  stone. He  heard  his  right  knee  snap.  He  clung  to  the  rifle,  but  dropped  the  maps  on  shore. Momentum alone carried him into the current. The  current  sucked him under.