The Descent

The  hadal assault had been crystallizing for days.  In  their  ignorance,  Walker  and  his mercenaries had failed to see the signs. But tucked in a cubbyhole in the  cliffs,  Ike  had been  watching  hadals  arrive  almost  from  the  hour  Walker  landed,  and  their  strategy was clear. They  would wait for the soldiers to begin departing on boats, and during the transition  from  land  to  sea,   they   would  attack.   Anticipating  all  of  that,   Ike   had arranged  diversions  and  scouted  hiding  places  and  selected  what  parts  of  the  human depot  he  wanted  for  himself.  In  addition  to  Ali,  he  wanted  two  hundred  pounds  of military  rations  and  a  raft.  They  didn't  need  more.  Two  hundred  pounds  would  feed her to the surface. And he would live off the land.

Ike's  one  hope  was  his  disguise.  The  hadals  did  not  know  he  was  operating  on  their fringe, dressed  like them,  in  powdered  rock  and  ochre  and  rags  of  the  human  enemy. For  months  he  had  been  eating  as  they  ate,  harvesting  creatures  of  all  kinds,  feeding on the  meat,  warm  or  cold,  raw  or  jerked.  He  had  their  smell  now,  and  some  of  their strengths.  His  spoor  was  hadal  spoor.  His  sweat  tasted  like  hadal  sweat.  They  would not be looking for him. Yet.

He  reached  the  tower  stairs  and  dashed  to  the  top.  Embellished  like  the  savage,

rigged with war gear, all but naked, Ike  burst  into the room.

Chelsea was perched in the window, legs out, waiting as if for a bus ride.

To her,  what  entered  was  a  hadal  beast.  Chelsea  tipped  herself  outward  just  as  Ike yelled, 'Wait!' In the final instant she heard him.

'Ike?'  she said. But there  was  no  getting  back  from  gravity  what  she  had  given.  She tumbled from the window.

Ike  didn't  waste  a  second  glance.  He  went  straight  to  the  vault  in  the  floor,  and  it was empty.  Ali had left. Troy  and the girl were  nowhere to be seen.

The  great  circle  was  wrapping  him  again.  That  was  the  way.  Everyone  had  a  circle. He had lost a woman once, and  now  was  losing  Ali.  Was  that  his  fate,  to  play  Orpheus to his own heart?

He had almost surfaced from the maze with Ali, and now  the  maze  was  beginning  all over  again.  God  help  me,  he  thought.  He  looked  down,  and  it  seemed  that  the  new labyrinth  was  growing  from  his  feet,  extending  in  Daedelian  twists,  his  next  million miles.  Start  from  scratch,  he  told  himself.  It  was  the  old  paradox.  He  had  to  lose  his path in order to find it.

Ali  had  left  no  clues.  He  looked.  No  footprints.  No  blood  trail.  No  blaze  marks  with her fingernails.

He  ranged  the  room,  trying  to  get  a  sense  of  things.  Who  had  been  here.  When. What had motivated  their leaving. Little came to him. Maybe  she  had  taken  Troy  and the girl with her, though it seemed  unlikely  Ali  would  have  left  Chelsea  alone.  It  came to Ike.  Ali had gone searching for him.

The  realization  was  not  immaterial.  It  meant  Ali  would  be  looking  for  him  in  places she thought he might be. If he  could  anticipate  her  guesswork,  then  he  might  yet  find her.  But  the  prospect  was  bleak.  She  wouldn't  know  to  look  in  the  cliffside  pockets, two  hundred  feet  off  the  deck,  or  in  his  hideout,  burrowed  among  sand  worms  and tuber  clams. She'd be looking throughout the fortress,  now swarming with hadals.

Ike  weighed his options. Discretion was safer, but a waste  of  precious  time.  He  could creep and steal through the building, but this was  a  race,  not  hide-and-seek.  The  only alternative  was to reveal  himself and hope she would do the same.

'Ali!'  he  yelled.  He  went  to  the  doorway  and  shouted  her  name  and  listened,  then went to the window and shouted again.

Far  below,  hadals  crouching  around  their  human  windfall  glanced  up  at  him.  The boats  were  being  stripped.  Supplies  were  being  looted.  Rifles  were  chattering  in  long, random bursts,  all for the noise and fireworks.

Some of the bigger mercenaries were  under  the  knife,  he  saw,  providing  impressive strings of meat that would be cured over  heat sources or pickled  in  brine.  At  least  two had  been  captured  alive  and  were  being  bound  for  transport.  Chelsea's  body  was  in use by  a  pack  of  skinny  fighters  pretending  she  was  a  live  captive.  Clan  leaders  often gave   deceased   property   to   their   followers   as   a   vicarious   experience,   a   way   of amplifying their own prestige.

There  were  a good hundred or more hadals on  the  beach,  probably  that  many  more wending  through  the  fortress  proper.  It  was  a  huge  number  of  warriors  to  bring together  in  one  place.  Already  Ike  had  counted  eleven  different  clans.  They  had  laid their trap  well; it suggested  a knowledge of humans that was extraordinary.