The Descent

It  had  been  a  caravan,  they  determined,  though  an  empty  one.  No  one  could  say what  these  captives  had  been   hauling,  but   hauling  they   had  been,   and  for  long distances  and  recently.  As  Branch  had  noticed,  the  emaciated  bodies  had  fresh  sores on  their  shoulders  and  backs,  the  kind  any  soldier  recognized,  from  a  heavy  load carried too long.

The  Rangers  were  grave  and  angry  as  they  made  their  way  through  the  dead.  At first  glance,  most  of  these  people  looked  Central  Asian.  That  explained  the  strange language.  Afghanis,  Branch  guessed  from  the  blue  eyes.  To  his  Lurps,  though,  these were  brothers  and sisters. That  was enough for them to think about.

So  the  enemy  had  beasts  of  burden?  All  the  way  from  Afghanistan?  But  this  was sub-Bavaria.   The   twenty-first   century.   The   implications  were   staggering.   If   the enemy  was  able  to  run  strings  of  captives  from  so  far  away,  it  could  also  move armies...  beneath  humankind's  feet.  Screw  the  high  ground.  With  this  kind  of  low ground,  the  high  ground  was  nothing  but  a  blind  man  waiting  to  be  robbed.  Their enemy  could surface anywhere,  anytime, like prairie dogs or fire ants.

So  what's  new?  Who  was  to  say  the  children  of  hell  hadn't  been   popping  into mankind's  midst  from  the  start?  Making  slaves.  Stealing  souls.  Raiding  the  garden  of light. It  was a concept too fundamental for Branch to accept easily.

'Here he  is,  I  found  him,'  the  Spec  4  called  near  the  back  of  the  heap.  Knee-deep  in the torn mass,  he  had  his  rifle  and  light  aimed  at  something  on  the  ground.  'Oh  yeah, this the one. Here's their boss man. I got the motherfucker.'

Branch  and  the  others  hurried  over.  They  clustered  around  the  thing.  Poked  and kicked  it  a  few  times.  'It's  dead,  all  right,'  the  medic  said,  wiping  his  fingers  after hunting for a pulse. That  made them more comfortable. They  gathered  closer.

'He's bigger than the rest.'

'King of the apes.'

Two   arms,   two   legs:   the   body   looked  long  and  supple,  lying   tangled   with   its neighbors. It  was soaked in gore, some its own,  to  judge  by  the  wounds.  They  tried  to figure it out, carefully, at gunpoint.

'That some kind of helmet?'

'He got snakes. Snakes growing out his head.'

'Nah, look. That's  dreadlocks. Full a' mud or something.'

The  long  hair  was  indeed  tangled  and  filthy,  a  Medusa's  nest.  Hard  to  tell  if  any  of the muddy hair-tails on his head was bone or not, but he surely  seemed  demonic.  And something  in  his  aspect  –  the  tattoos,  the  iron  ring  around  his  throat.  This  was  taller than  those  furies  he  had  seen  in  Bosnia,  and  immensely  more  powerful-looking  than these other dead. And yet  he was not what Branch had expected.

'Bag him,' Branch said. 'Let's get out of here.'

The  Spec 4 stayed  as jumpy as a Thoroughbred. 'I ought to shoot him again.'

'What you want to do that for, Washington?'

'Just ought to. He's the one running the others. He's got to be evil.'

'We've done enough,' Branch said.

Muttering,  Washington  gave  the  creature  a  tight  kick  across  the  heart  and  turned away.  Like  an  animal  waking,  the  big  rib  cage  drew  a  great  breath,  then  another. Washington heard the respiration and dove among the bodies, shouting as he rolled.

'He's alive! He's come back to life.'

'Hold your  fire!' Branch yelled. 'Don't shoot him.'

'But they  don't die, Major, look at it.'

The  creature  was stirring among the bodies.

'Keep your  heads on,' Branch said. 'Let's just walk in on this, one step  at a  time.  Let's see what we see. I want him alive.' They  were  getting  closer  to  the  surface.  With  luck, they  might  emerge  with  a  live  catch.  If  the  going  got  complicated,  they  could  always just cap their prisoner and keep  running. He watched it in their light beams.

Somehow  this  one  had  missed  the  massed  headshot  woven  into  their  ambush.  The way  Branch  had  set  his  claymores,  everyone  in  the  column  was  supposed  to  have taken  it  in  the  face.  This  one  must  have  heard  something  the  slaves  hadn't,  and managed  to  duck  the  lethal  instant.  With  instincts  this  acute,  the  hadals  could  have avoided human detection for all of history.

'He's the boss, all right, he's the one,' someone said. 'Got to be. Who else?'

'Maybe,' Branch said. They  were  fierce in their desire for retribution.

'You can tell. Look at him.'

'Shoot him, Major,' Washington asked. 'He's dying anyhow.'

All  it  would  take  was  the  word.  Easier  still,  all  it  would  take  was  his  silence.  Branch had only to turn his head, and it would be done.

'Dying?' said the thing, and opened its eyes  and looked  up  at  them.  Branch  alone  did not jump away.

'Pleased to meet  you,' it said to him.