The Descent

'Do  you  mind?'  he  asked,  and  came  a  seat  closer.  For  a  better  smell?  Ali  wondered. She looked quickly at the doorway. More passengers were  filing through.

'Speak up,' she snapped.

Unbelievably,  the  goggles  were  aimed  at  her  chest.  He  even  bent  to  improve  his view. He seemed  to squint, reckoning.

'What are you doing?' she demanded.

'It's been a long while,' he said. 'I used to know these  things....'

His audacity astounded her. Any  closer, and she'd lay her open palm across his face.

'What are those?' He was pointing right at her breasts.

'Are you for real?' Ali whispered.

He  didn't  react.  It  was  as  if  he  hadn't  heard  her.  He  went  on  wagging  his  fingertip.

'Bluebells?' he asked.

Ali  drew  into  herself.  He  was  examining  her  dress?  'Periwinkles,'  she  said,  then doubted him again. His face was  too  monstrous.  He  had  to  be  trespassing  against  her. And if he was not? She made a note to say  a quick act of contrition some other time.

'That's what they  are,' the man said to himself, then went back to his  seat,  and  faced forward again.

Ali remembered  a sweatshirt  in her daypack, and put it on.

Now  the  chamber  filled  quickly.  Several  men  took  the  seats  between  Ali  and  that stranger.  When there  were  no more seats, the doors gently  kissed  shut.  The  LCD  said seven  minutes.

There  was  not  another   woman  or  child  in  the   chamber.   Ali  was   glad  for  her sweatshirt.  Some  were  hyperventilating  and  eyeing  the  door,  full  of  second  thoughts. Several  had  a  sedated  slackness  and  looked  at  peace.  Others  clenched  their  hands  or opened    portable    computers    or    scratched    at    crossword    puzzles    or    huddled shoulder-to-shoulder for earnest  scheming.

The  man  to  her  left  had  lowered  a  seatback  tray  and  was  quietly  laying  out  two plastic  syringes.  One  had  a  baby-blue  cap  over  the  needle,  the  other  a  pink  cap.  He held  the  baby-blue  syringe  up  for  her  observation.  'Sylobane,'  he  said.  'It  suppresses the  retinal  cones  and  magnifies  your  retinal  rods.  Achromatopsia.  In  plain  English,  it creates  a  supersensitivity  to  light.  Night  vision.  Only  problem  is,  once  you  start  you have  to keep  doing it. Lots of soldiers with cataracts  up top. Didn't keep  up.'

'What about that one?' she asked.

'Bro,'  he  said.  'Russian  steroid.  For  acclimation.  The  Soviets  used  to  dose  their soldiers with it in Afghanistan. Can't hurt, right?'

He held up a white pill. 'And this little angel's just to let me sleep.' He swallowed it. That  sadness  washed  over  her  again,  and  suddenly  she  remembered.  The  sun!  She had forgotten to get a final look at the sun. Too late now.

Ali  felt  a  nudge  at  her  right.  'Here,  this  is  for  you,'  a  slight  man  offered.  He  was holding out an orange. Ali accepted the gift with hesitant thanks.

'Thank that guy.' He  pointed  down  the  row  to  the  stranger  with  tattoos.  She  leaned forward to get his attention, but the man didn't look at her.

Ali frowned at the orange. Was it a peace  offering?  A  come-on?  Did  he  mean  for  her to  peel  and  eat  it,  or  save  it  for  later?  Ali  had  the  orphan's  habit  of  attaching  great meaning  to  gifts,  especially  simple  gifts.  But  the  more  she  contemplated  it,  the  less this orange made sense to her.

'Well, I don't know what to do with this,' she complained quietly  to  her  neighbor,  the messenger.  He  looked  up  from  a  thick  manual  of  computer  codes,  took  a  moment  to recollect. 'It's an orange,' he said.

Far  more  than  seemed  right,  it  irritated  her,  the  messenger's  indifference,  the  idea of a gift, the fruit itself. Ali was keyed  up,  and  knew  it.  She  was  frightened.  For  weeks her   dreams   had   been   filled   with   awful   images   of   hell.   She   dreaded   her   own superstitions.  With  each  step  of  the  journey,  she  was  certain  her  fears  would  ease.  If only  it  weren't  too  late  to  change  her  mind!  The  temptation  to  retreat  –  to  allow herself to be weak  – was terrible. And  prayer  was  not  the  crutch  it  had  once  been  for her. That  was concerning.

She  was  not  the  only  anxious  one.  The  chamber  took  on  a  moment-to-moment tension.  Eyes  met,  then  darted  away.  Men  licked  their  lips,  rubbed  their  whiskers, took bites at the air. She collected the tiny gestures  into her own anxiety.

Ali  wanted  to  put  the  orange  down,  but  it  would  have  rolled  on  the  tray.  The  floor was  too  dirty.  The  orange  had  become  a  responsibility.  She  laid  it  in  her  lap,  and  its weight  seemed  too  intimate.  Following  the  instructions  on  the  LCD,  she  buckled  into the  seat  rig,  and  her  fingers  were  trembling.  She  picked  up  the  orange  again  and cupped her fingers around it and the trembling eased.