The Descent

It  looked like an  industrial  accident  involving  heavy  machinery.  The  body  had  been rammed  into  a  six-inch-wide  crevice  between  one  column  and  another.  The  dynamic force  necessary  to  break  the  bones  and  squeeze  the  skull  and  pack  all  the  flesh  and meat and clothing into that narrow space was beyond comprehension.

Thomas made the sign of the cross.

We are quick to flare up, we races of men on the earth.

– HOMER, The Odyssey

5

BREAKING NEWS

Fort Riley, Kansas

1999

On  these  wide  plains,  seared  in  summer,  harrowed  by  December  winds,  they  had conceived  Elias  Branch  as  a  warrior.  To  here  he  was  returned,  dead  yet  not  dead,  a riddle. Locked from sight, the man in Ward G turned to legend.

Seasons turned.  Christmas  came.  Two-hundred-pound  Rangers  at  the  officers'  club toasted  the  major's  unearthly  tenacity.  The  hammer  of  God,  that  man.  One  of  us. Word of his wild story  leaked out: cannibals with breasts.  No one believed it, of course. One  midnight,  Branch  climbed  from  bed  by  himself.  There  were  no  mirrors.  Next

morning  they  knew  he'd  been  looking  by  the  bloody  footprints,  knew  what  he'd  seen through the mesh grille covering his window: virgin snow.

Cottonwoods  came  to  green  glory.  School  hit  summer.  Ten-year-old  Army  brats racing  past  the  hospital  on  their  way  to  fish  and  swim  pointed  at  the  razor  wire surrounding  Ward  G.  They  had  their   horror   tale   exactly   backward:   in  fact,   the medical staff was trying  to unmake a monster.

There  was  nothing  to  be  done  about  Branch's  disfigurement.  The  artificial  skin  had saved  his  life,  not  his  looks.  There  was  so  much  tissue  damage  that  when  it  healed, even  he could not find  the  shrapnel  wounds  for  all  the  burn  scars.  Even  his  own  body had trouble understanding the regeneration.

His bones healed so quickly the doctors  did  not  have  the  chance  to  straighten  them. Scar  tissue  colonized  his  burns  with  such  speed  that  sutures  and  plastic  tubing  were integrated into his new flesh. Pieces of rocket  metal fused into his organs and skeleton. His entire body was a shell of cicatrix.

Branch's  survival,  then  his  metamorphosis,  confounded  them.  They  openly  talked about  his  changes  in  front  of  him,  as  if  he  were  a  lab  experiment  gone  awry.  His cellular 'bounce' resembled  cancer in  certain  respects,  though  that  did  not  explain  the thickening of joints, the new  muscle  mass,  the  mottling  in  his  skin  pigment,  the  small, calcium-rich  ridges  ribbing  his  fingernails.  Calcium  growths  knobbed  his  skull.  His circadian rhythms  had  tripped  out  of  synch.  His  heart  was  enlarged.  He  was  carrying twice the normal number of red blood cells.

Sunlight  –  even  moonbeams  –  were  an  agony  to  him.  His  eyes  had  developed tapetum,  a  reflective  surface  that  magnified  low  light.  Until  now,  science  had  known only  one  higher  primate  that  was  nocturnal,  the  aotus,  or  night  monkey.  His  night vision neared triple the aotus norm.

His  strength-to-weight  ratio  soared  to  twice  an  ordinary  man's.  He  had  double  the endurance of recruits  half his  age,  sensory  skills  that  wouldn't  quit,  and  the  VO2  max of a cheetah. Something had turned him into their long-sought super soldier.

The  med  wonks  tried  blaming  it  all  on  a  combination  of  steroids  or  adulterated drugs  or  congenital  defects.  Someone  raised  the  possibility  that  his  mutations  might be  the  residual  effect   of  nerve   agents   encountered   during  past   wars.   One  even accused him of autosuggestion.

In a sense, because he was a witness to unholy evidence, he  had  become  the  enemy. Because he was inexplicable, he was the threat  from  within.  It  was  not  just  their  need for  orthodoxy.  Ever  since  that  night  in  the  Bosnian  woods,  Branch  had  become  their chaos.

Psychiatrists  went  to  work  on  him.  They  scoffed  at  his  tale  of  terrible  furies  with women's  breasts  rising  up  among  the  Bosnian  dead,  explaining  patiently  that  he  had suffered  gross  psychic  trauma  from  the  rocketing.  One  termed  his  story  a  'coalition fantasy'  of  childhood  nuclear  nightmares  and  sci-fi  movies  and  all  the  killing  he  had directly  seen  or  taken  part  in,  a  sort  of  all-American  wet  dream.  Another  pointed  at similar stories of 'wild people' in the forest  legends  of  medieval  Europe,  and  suggested that Branch was plagiarizing myth.

At  last  he  realized  they  simply  wanted  him  to  recant.  Branch  pleasantly  conceded. Yes,  he said, it was just a bad fantasy.  A state  of mind. Zulu Four never  happened.  But they  didn't believe  his retraction.