The Descent

Ali  stood.  'You  were  their  prisoner,'  she  said.  'Can  you  share  a  little  about  your experience?  What did they  do to you? What are the hadals like?'

The  dining  car  fell  silent.  Here  was  a  campfire  story  they  could  listen  to  all  night. What  a  resource  Ike  could  be  to  her,  with  his  insights  into  the  hadals'  habits  and culture. Why, he might even  speak their language.

Ike  smiled at her. 'I don't have  a lot to say  about those days.' There  was disappointment.

'Do  you  think  they're  still  out  there  somewhere?  Is  there  any  chance  we  might  see one?' someone else asked.

'Where  we're  going?'  Ike  said.  Unless  Ali  was  wrong,  he  was  provoking  Shoat  on purpose, dancing on the edge of information they  were  not yet  supposed to have. Shoat's annoyance built.

'Where are we going?' a man asked.

'No comment,' Shoat answered  for Ike.

'Have you been in our particular territory  yourself?'

'Never,' Ike  said.  'I  used  to  hear  rumors,  of  course.  But  I  never  believed  they  could be true.'

'Rumors of what?'

Shoat was checking his watch.

The  train gave  a soft lurch. They  braked  to a  slow  halt.  People  went  to  look  through the small windows and  Ike  was  forgotten,  momentarily.  Shoat  stood  on  a  chair.  'Grab your bags and personal effects, folks. We're changing trains.'

Ali shared an open flatcar with three  men and  freight,  mostly  heavy  equipment  parts. She  sat  against  a  John  Deere  crate  labeled  PLANETARIES,  DIFFERENTIALS .  One  of  the men had bad gas and kept  grimacing in apology.

The  ride  was  smooth.  The  artery  was  man-made,  bored  to  a  uniform  twenty-foot diameter.  The  trackbed  was  crushed  gravel  sprayed  with  black  oil.  Overhead,  bare bulbs bled down rusty  light. Ali kept  thinking of  a  Siberian  gulag.  Wires  and  pipes  and cables veined the walls.

Cavities  opened  to  the  sides.  They  didn't  see  any  people,  just  crawlers  and  loaders and excavators  and pipe layers,  piled rubber  tires, and cement  ties.  The  track  made  a slithery  sound  under  their  wheels,  seamless.  Ali  missed  the  click-clack  of  rail  joints. She remembered  a  train  journey  with  her  parents,  falling  asleep  to  the  rhythm  while the world passed by.

Ali gave  one of her fresh apples to the  man  who  was  still  awake.  They'd  been  grown in  the  hydroponic  gardens  at  Nazca  City.  He  said,  'My  daughter  loves  apples,'  and showed her a picture.

'What a beautiful girl,' Ali said.

'Kids?' he asked.

Ali pulled a jacket over  her knees. 'Oh, I don't think I could bear  to leave  a child,'  she answered too quickly. The  man winced. Ali said, 'I didn't mean it that way.'

The  train  was  relentlessly  gentle.  It  never  slowed,  never  stopped.   Ali  and  her neighbors  improvised  a  latrine  with  privacy  by  pushing  some  of  the  crates  together. They  had a communal supper, each contributing some food.

At  midnight  the  walls  brightened  from  cinnamon  to  tan.  Her  companions  were  all sleeping  when  the  train  entered  a  band  of  marine  fossils.  Here  exoskeletons,  there ancient seaweeds,  there  a spray  of tiny brachiopods. The  bore-cutter  had  sheared  the rich find with impunity.

'Did you see that, Mapes!' a voice yelled from a car ahead. 'Arthropoda!'

'Trilobitomorpha!' Mapes shrieked in ecstatic response from behind.

'Check those dorsal grooves! Pinch me!'

'Look at this one coming up, Mapes! Early Ordovician!'

'Ordovician,  hell!'  Mapes  bellowed.  'Cambrian,  man.  Early.  Very  early.  Look  at  that rock. Shit, maybe  even  late Precam!'

The  fossils jumped and writhed and  wove  like  a  miles-long  tapestry.  Then  the  walls went blank again.

At three  in the  morning,  they  came  upon  the  remains  of  their  first  ambush.  At  first it seemed  like nothing more than a car accident.

The  clues  began  with  a  long  scrape  mark  on  the  left  wall  where  a  vehicle  of  some sort  had  struck  the  stone.  Abruptly  the  mark  leaped  to  the  right  wall,  where   it became  a  gouge,  then  ricocheted  to  the  opposite  side  and  back  again.  Someone  had lost control.

The  evidence  became  more   violent,   more   puzzling.  Broken   fragments   of  stone mixed with headlight glass, then a torn section of heavy  steel mesh.

The  gashes and scrapes went on and on, left, then right.

Miles  farther,  the  crazy  bounce  ended.  All  that  remained  of  the  reckless  ride  was  a tangle of metal. The  destroyed  backhoe had been torn open.

They  drifted  past.  The  stone  was  scorched,  but  furrowed,  too.  Ali  had  seen  war zones in Africa, and recognized the starred  splatter  print of an explosion.

Around  the  bend,  they  came  on  two  white  crosses  planted  Latino-style  in  a  grotto