The Descent

It  was said that Roman slingers could  hit  a  man-sized  target  at  185  meters.  For  the record,  the  stone  that  cored  Boom-Boom  Jefferson  was  slung  from  235  meters.  His neighbor  heard  the  watermelon-like  thump  through  Boom-Boom's  chest  wall,  and looked to see the once-notorious  center  for  the  Utah  Jazz  stiffen  and  drop  like  a  huge tree  deciding it was time.

Ten  seconds had passed.

'Haddie!' cried the neighbor.

They'd  been  through  this  before,  so  the  surprise  was  not  surprising.  They  knew  to react  with  no  thought,  to  simply  pull  the  trigger  and  make  noise  and  light.  They  had no  targets  yet,  but  you  didn't  wait  for  targets,  not  with  the  hadals.  In  the  first  few moments,  firepower  was  your  one  chance  at  jumbling  their  puzzle  pieces  and  turning the picture around.

And  so  they  fired  at  the  cliff  walls.  They  fired  at  the  sand.  They  fired  at  the  water. They  fired at the sky.  They  tried not to fire on one another, but that was the  collateral risk.

Their  special  loads  gave  spectacular  results.  The  Lucifer  rounds  struck  rock  and shattered  into  splinters  of  brilliant  light,  July  Fourth  with  intent  to  kill.  They  plowed the  sand,  blew  up  the  water  in  arcing  gouts.  High  overhead,  the  ceiling  sparkled  with lethal constellations, and bits of stone rained down.

It  worked. Haddie quit. For a minute.

'Hold fire,' yelled a man. 'Count out. I'm one.'

'Two,' yelled another.

'Three.'

There  were  only seven  left.

The  mercenaries  closest  to  the  boats  raced  downshore.  Three  forged  back  toward the fortress  through molasses-thick sand.

'I'm hit.'

'The lieutenant's dead.'

'Grief?'

'Gone.'

'Boom-Boom?'

'Is it over?  Did Haddie leave?'  This had been the pattern  for weeks,  hit and  run.  The hadals owned the night in a place where  night was forever.

'Fucking Haddie. How'd they  find us?'

Huddled  just  inside  the  fortress  gate,  Shoat  took  in  the  scene  and  converted  the odds. He had not quite left when the attack  began,  and  saw  no  reason  to  announce  his good health. He touched the pouch containing his homing device. It  was like a  talisman to  him,  a  source  of  comfort  and  great  power.  A  way  to  make  this  dangerous  world vanish.

With a few simple taps on the keypad,  he  could  eliminate  the  threat  altogether.  The hadals  would  turn  into  illusions.  But  so  would  the  mercenaries,  and  they  were  still useful to him. Among other things, Shoat didn't enjoy paddling. He held  his  apocalypse pouch  and  considered:  Use  you  now  or  use  you  later?  Later,  he  decided.  No  harm  in waiting  a  few  minutes  more  to  see  how  the  dust  settled  out  there.  It  seemed  the hadals  might  have  driven  home  their  point,  so  to  speak,  and  boogied  back  into  the darkness.

'What should we do?' shouted a soldier.

'Leave.  We  got  to  leave,'  yelled  another.  'Everybody  get  onto  the  boats.  We're  safe on the water.'

Several  of the rafts  were  drifting unmanned. The  chain gunner was paddling his  own boat back to  shore.  'Let's  go,  let's  go!'  he  shouted  to  three  comrades  crouched  against

the fortress  wall.

Uncertain,   the   three   landbound  men   stood   and   peered   around   for   any   more ambushers.  Seeing  no  one,  they  snapped  fresh  clips  into  their  rifles  and  tried  to prepare  themselves  for  the  sprint.  The  soldiers  in  the  boats  kept  waving  at  them  to come along.

'A  hundred   meters,'   one  of  the   trapped   mercenaries   estimated.   'I   did  that   in nine-point-nine once.'

'Not in sand you didn't.'

'Watch me.'

They  offloaded  their  packs  and  shed  every  extra  ounce,  their  grenades  and  knives and lights and inflatable vests.

'Ready?'

'Nine-point-nine? You're  really  that slow?' They  were  ready.

'Set.'

A  woman's  cry  fell  upon  them  from  the  highest  reaches  of  the  fortress.  Everyone heard it.  Even  Ali,  winding  her  way  down  through  the  fortress,  stopped  to  listen,  and knew that Troy  had disobeyed her.

The  mercenaries  looked  up.  It  was  the  feral  girl,  leaning  from  the  window  of  the tower  overlooking  the  sea.  With  the  tape  pulled  from  her  mouth,  she  unleashed  a second call from  deep  in  her  throat.  Her  ululation  echoed  upon  them.  It  felt  like  their own hearts  lifting across the waters.

She could have  been calling to the earth  or the sea. Or invoking God. As if summoned, the sand came to life.

Ali reached a window in time to see.

Midway between  the fortress  and  the  water,  a  patch  of  beach  bulged  and  grew  into a small  mountain.  The  hump  rose  up  and  took  on  the  dimensions  of  an  animal.  The sand  guttered  from  its  shoulders  and  he  became  a  man.  The  mercenaries  were  too astounded to lay waste  to him.