The Descent

Also  scattered  among  the  hadal  corpses  were  five  slender  figures,  gracile,  delicate, almost  feminine,  but  definitely  male.  At  first  glance,  Branch  expected  them  to  be teenagers,  but  under  the  red  ochre  their  faces  were  every  bit  as  aged  as  the  rest.  All five of the gracile hadals had  shaped  skulls,  flattened  on  back  from  binding  in  infancy. It   was   among   these   smallest   specimens   that   the   outside   canines   were   most pronounced, some as long as baboon canines.

'We need to take  some of these  bodies up with us,' Branch said.

'What we want to do that for, Major?' a boy asked. 'They're  the bad guys.'

'Yeah. And dead,' said his buddy.

'Proof positive. It  will begin our  knowledge  about  them,'  Branch  said.  'We're  fighting something  we've  never  really  seen.  Our  own  nightmares.'  To  date,  the  US  military had  not  acquired  a  single  specimen.  The  Hezbollah  in  southern  Lebanon  claimed  to have  taken  one alive, but no one believed it.

'I'm not touching those things. No, that's the devil, look at him.'

They  did  look  like  devils,  not  men.  Like  animals  steeped  in  cancers.  A  lot  like  me, thought Branch. It  was hard for him to  reconcile  their  humanlike  forms  with  the  coral horns  that  had  bloomed  from  their  heads.  Some  looked  ready  to  claw  their  way  back to life. He didn't blame his troops for being superstitious.

They  all  heard  the  radio  at  the  same  time.  A  scratchy  sound  issued  from  a  pile  of trophies, and Branch  carefully  rooted  through  the  photographs  and  wristwatches  and wedding and high school graduation rings, and  pulled  out  the  walkie-talkie.  He  clicked the transmit button three  times. Three  clicks answered.

'Someone's down there,' said a Ranger.

'Yeah. But who?' That  gave  them pause. Human teeth  crackled under their boots.

'Identify yourself, over,' Branch spoke into the radio.

They  waited. The  voice that replied was American. 'It's so dark in  here,'  he  groaned.

'Don't leave  us, man.'

Branch placed the radio on the ground and backed away.

'Wait a minute,' said the  chain  gunner.  'That  sounded  like  Scoop  D.  I  know  him.  But we didn't get his location, Major.'

'Quiet,' Branch whispered to his troops. 'They  know we're  here.' They  fled.

Like  worker  ants,  the  soldiers  scurried  through  the  dark  vein,  each  bearing  before him  one  large  white  egg.  Except  these  were  not  eggs,  but  balls  of  illumination,  cast round and  individual  by  each  man's  headlamp.  Of  the  thirteen  yesterday,  there  were just  eight  left.  Like  souls  extinguished,  those  other  men  and  lights  were  lost,  their weapons  fallen  into  enemy  hands.  One  who  remained,  Sergeant  Dornan,  had  broken ribs.

They  had  not  stopped  moving  in  fifty   hours,  except   to  lay   fire   into  the   pitch blackness   behind  them.   Now,  from  the   deepest   point,  came   Branch's  whispered command:  'Make  the  line  here.'  It  passed,  man  by  man,  from  the  strongest  to  the stricken up the chain. The  Rangers  came  to  a  halt  in  a  forking  passage.  It  was  a  place they  had visited before.

The  three  stripes  of  fluorescent  orange  spray  paint  upon  the  Neolithic  wall  images were  a  welcome  sight.  They  were  blaze  marks  made  by  this  same  platoon,  three  to indicate their third camp on the way  down. The  exit  was no more than three  days  up. Sergeant  Dornan's tiny moan of relief filled the limestone  silence.  The  wounded  man sat, cradled his weapon, laid his head against the stone. The  rest  of them went to  work prepping their last stand.

Ambush  was  their  only  hope.  Failing  here,  not  one  would  reach  the  light  of  day, which  had  taken  on  all  the  King  James  connotations  they  had  ever  known.  The  glory of the light of day.

Two   dead,  three   missing,  and  Dornan's  broken   ribs.   And  their   chain  gun,   for chrissake.  The  General  Electric  gun  with  all  its  ammo.  Snatched  whole  from  their midst.  You  don't  lose  a  weapon  like  that.  Not  only  did  it  leave  their  platoon  without suppressing fire, but someday some bravo  like  themselves  was  going  to  meet  its  solid wall of machine-gun fire made in America.

Now  a  large  party  was  closing  fast  upon  their  rear.  They  could  clearly  hear  the approach  on  their  radio  as things, whatever  they  were,  passed  by  the  remote  mikes they'd   placed   on   their   retreat.   Even   amplified,   the   enemy   moved   softly,   with serpentine ease,  but  quickly,  too.  Now  and  then  one  brushed  against  the  walls.  When they  spoke, it was not in language any of these  grunts knew.

One nineteen-year-old  spec 4 hunkered by  his ruck, fingers  trembling.  Branch  went to him. 'Don't listen, Washington,' he said. 'Don't try  to understand.'