Darwinia (19 page)

Sullivan wanted to explore it.

“The slope is trivial,” he said. “The passage is intact and it was obviously meant to be walked. We’re in no more danger here than we would be out in the cold.”

Tom Compton stroked his mist-dewed beard. “You’re stupider than I thought,” he said, “if you mean to climb down there.”

“What would
you
suggest?” Sullivan wheeled to face the frontiersman. He was as angry as Guilford had seen him, his face a thunderous brick-red. “That we walk back to our pathetic little shambles and pray for sunny weather? Creep north to the Bodensee come spring, unless cold kills us first, or the Partisans, or the Rheinfelden?
Damn
thee, Tom, this might be our only chance to
learn
something from this place!”

“What good is learning,” the frontiersman asked, “if you take it to your grave?”

Sullivan turned away scornfully. “What good is friendship, then, or love, or life itself? What
don’t
you take to your grave?”

“Wasn’t planning on taking anything there,” Tom said. “At least not yet.”

He reeled the rope from his hands.

It won’t be so bad in daylight
, Guilford thought, and there was daylight here, through the breached vault of the dome, dim as it might be. In any case, the rope was reassuring. They rigged harness to link themselves together. The slope might be gentle but the stone was slick with moisture, a fall could turn into a slide, and there was no telling how far into the fog this decline might reach. Below ground level the limit of visibility was a scant few yards. A dropped stone gave back uncertain echos.

Sullivan went first, favoring his bad leg. Then Guilford, favoring his own. The frontiersman followed behind. The down-spiraling walkway was broad enough that Guilford was able to avoid looking directly into the well’s smoky deeps.

He couldn’t guess what this well had been made for or who might have walked this way in ages past. Nor how far down it might descend, into what lava-heated cavern or glowing underworld. Hadn’t the Aztecs used wells for human sacrifice? Certainly nothing much
good
could have happened down this rabbit hole.

Sullivan called a halt when they had descended, by Guilford’s estimate, a hundred feet or more. The rim of the well was as invisible now as the bottom, both hidden in lofting spirals of fog. Sullivan was winded and gasping, but his eyes were bright in the strange, dim radiance.

Guilford wondered aloud whether they hadn’t come far enough. “No offense, Dr. Sullivan, but what exactly do you expect to find here?

“The answer to a hundred questions.”

“It’s some kind of well or cistern,” Guilford said.

“Open your eyes, for God’s sake! A well is what this is
not
. If anything, it was designed to keep groundwater out. Do you think these stones
grew
here? The blocks are cut and the joints are caulked… I don’t know what the caulking material is, but it’s remarkably well preserved. In any case, we’re already below the water table. This is not a
well
, Mr. Law.”

“Then what is it?”

“Whatever its purpose — practical or ceremonial — it must have been important. The dome is a landmark, and I’d guess this passageway was meant to accommodate a great deal of traffic.”

“Traffic?”

“The city builders.”

“But they’re extinct,” Guilford said.

“You hope,” the frontiersman muttered from behind.

But there was no end to the descent, only this spiral of stone winding monotonously into blue-tinted fog, until even Sullivan admitted he was too fatigued to go any farther.

“We need,” he said at length, “more men.”

Guilford wondered who he had in mind. Keck? Robertson? One-armed Digby?

Tom looked up the way they had come, now a colorless overcast. “We shouldn’t wait to turn back. Daylight’ll be gone soon — what there is of it.” He cast a critical eye at Sullivan. “When you get your breath back—”

“Don’t worry about me. Go on! Reverse order. I’ll follow behind.”

He was pale and dewed with sweat.

The frontiersman shrugged and turned. Guilford followed Tom, calling a halt whenever the line between himself and Sullivan grew taut. Which it often did. The botanist’s breathing was audible over a considerable distance now and it grew more labored as they climbed. Before long Sullivan began to cough. Tom looked back sharply and slowed the ascent to a crawl.

The fog had begun to thicken. Guilford lost sight of the far wall, stone steps vanishing behind a twining curtain of vapor. The rope served a purpose now, as even Tom Compton’s broad back grew faint in the mist.

With the loss of visible landmarks came disorientation. He couldn’t guess how far they had come or how much of the climb remained.
Doesn’t matter
, he told himself sternly.
Every step is one step closer.
His bad leg had began to hurt him, a vicious pain that ran like a wire from calf to knee.

Shouldn’t have gone so far down
, Guilford thought, but Sullivan’s enthusiasm had been contagious, the sense of some immense revelation waiting, if only they could reach it. He stood a moment, closed his eyes, felt chill air flow past him like a river. He smelled the mineral smells of granite and fog. And something else. Muskier, stranger.

“Guilford!”

Tom’s voice. Guilford looked up sheepishly.

“Watch where you’re standing,” the frontiersman said.

It was the brink of the escarpment. Another step and he might have fallen.

“Keep your left hand on the wall. You too, Sullivan.”

Sullivan came into view, nodding wordlessly. He was a shade, a wraith, a gangly spirit.

Guilford was groping his way behind the frontiersman when the rope suddenly cinched at his waist. He called a halt and turned.

“Dr. Sullivan?”

No answer. The rope remained taut. When he looked back he saw only fog.

“Dr. Sullivan — are you all right?”

No answer, only this anchoring weight.

Tom Compton came scrabbling out of the mist. Guilford backed up, slacking the rope, peering into the dimness for any sign of Sullivan.

He found the botanist lying on the wide granite ledge, face down, one hand still touching the damp rock wall.

“Ah, Christ!” Tom dropped to his knees. He turned Sullivan over and searched his wrist for a pulse.

“He’s breathing,” the frontiersman said. “More or less.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“Don’t know. His skin’s cold and he’s ungodly pale. Sullivan! Wake Up, you son of a bitch! Work to do!”

Sullivan didn’t wake up. His head lolled to one side, limply. A trickle of blood escaped one nostril.
He looks shrunken
, Guilford thought dazedly.
Like someone let the air out of him.

Tom stripped his pack and bunched it under the botanist’s head. “Stubborn fucker, wouldn’t slow down for love of life…”

“What do we do now?”

“Let me think.”

Despite their best efforts, Sullivan wouldn’t wake up.

Tom Compton rocked on his heels for a time, deep in thought. Then he hitched his pack over his shoulder and shrugged out of the rope harness. “Hell with it. Look, I’ll bring blankets and food from the sledge for both of you. After that you stay with him; I’ll go for help.”

“He’s wet and nearly freezing, Tom.”

“He’ll freeze faster in the open air. Might kill him to move him. Give me a day to reach camp, another day to get here with Keck and Farr. Farr will know what to do. You’ll be all right — I don’t know about Sullivan, poor bastard.” He frowned fiercely. “But you stay with him, Guilford. Don’t leave him alone.”

He might not wake up
, Guilford thought.
He might die. And then I’ll be alone, in this godforsaken hole in the ground.

“I’ll stay.”

The frontiersman nodded curtly. “If he dies, wait for me. We’re close enough to the top, you ought to be able to tell night from day. You understand? Keep your fucking wits about you.”

Guilford nodded.

“All right.” Tom bent over the unconscious shape of Sullivan with a tenderness Guilford had never seen in him, smoothed a strand of gray hair from the botanist’s dank forehead. “Hang on, you old cock-knocker! You damn stupid
explorer
.”

Guilford took the blankets Tom brought him and made a rough bed to shield Sullivan from cold air and cold stone. Compared to the atmosphere outside the temperature in the well was nearly balmy — above the freezing point; but the fog cut through clothing and chilled the skin.

When Tom vanished into the mist Guilford felt profoundly alone. No company now but his thoughts and Sullivan’s slow, labored breathing. He felt both bored and near panic. He found himself wishing stupidly for something to read. The only reading matter that had survived the Partisan attack was Digby’s pocket New Testament, and Diggs wouldn’t allow it out of his possession. Diggs thought the onion-leafed book had saved his life: it was his lucky charm.
Argosy
was long lost.

As if a person
could
read, in this arsenic-colored dusk.

He knew night had fallen when the light above him faded entirely and the moist air turned a deeper and more poisonous shade of green. Minute particles of dust and ice wafted out of the deeps, like diatoms in an ocean current. He rearranged the blankets around Dr. Sullivan, whose breathing had grown harsh as the rasp of a saw blade in wet pine, and ignited one of the two mosquewood torches Tom Compton had brought him. Without a blanket of his own, Guilford shivered uncontrollably. He stood up whenever his feet grew numb, careful to keep one hand on the rock wall. He propped the torch in a cairn of loose rocks and warmed his hands at the low flame. Mosquewood dipped in snake tallow, it would burn for six or eight hours, though not brightly.

He was afraid to sleep.

In the silence he was able to hear subtle sounds — a distant rumbling, unless that was the pulse of his own blood, amplified in the darkness. He remembered a novel by H.G. Wells,
The Time Machine
, and its subterranean Morlocks, with their glowing eyes and terrible hungers. Not a welcome memory.

He talked to Sullivan to pass the time. Sullivan might be listening, Guilford thought, though his eyes were firmly closed and blood continued to ooze sluggishly from his nose. Periodically Guilford dipped the tail of his shirt into a trickle of meltwater and used it to wipe the blood from Sullivan’s face. He talked fondly about Caroline and Lily. He talked about his father, clubbed to death during the Boston food riots when he had doggedly tried to enter his print shop, as he had done every working day of his adult life. Dumb courage. Guilford wished he had some of that.

He wished Sullivan would wake up. Tell some stories of his own. Make his case for an ancient, evolved Darwinia; hammer the miraculous with the cold steel of reason.
Hope you’re right about that
, Guilford thought.
Hope this continent is not some dream or, worse, a nightmare. Hope old and dead things remain old and dead.

He wished he had a hot meal and a bath to look forward to. And a bed, and Caroline in it, the warm contours of her body under a snowdrift of cotton sheet. He didn’t like these noises from the deeps, or the way the sound rose and ebbed like an impossible tide.

“I hope you don’t die, Dr. Sullivan. I know how you’d hate to give up without understanding any of this. No easy task, though, is it?”

Now Sullivan drew a deep, convulsive breath. Guilford looked down and was startled to see the botanist’s eyes spring open.

Sullivan looked hard at him — or
through
him — it was hard to tell which. One of his pupils was grotesquely dilated, the white rimmed with blood.

“We don’t die,” Sullivan gasped.

Guilford fought a sudden urge to back away. “Hey!” he said. “Dr. Sullivan, lie still! Don’t excite yourself. You’ll be all right, just relax. Help’s on the way.”

“Didn’t he tell you that? Guilford tell Guilford that Guilford won’t die?”

“Don’t try to talk.”
Don’t talk
, Guilford thought,
because you’re frightening the crap out of me.

Sullivan’s lips curled into a one-sided frown, awful to behold. “You’ve seen them in your dreams…”

“Please don’t, Dr. Sullivan.”

“Green as old copper. Spines on their bellies… They eat dreams. Eat everything!”

In fact the words struck a chord, but Guilford pushed the memory away. The important thing now was not to panic.

“Guilford!” Sullivan’s left hand shot out to grasp Guilford’s wrist, while his right clutched reflexively at empty air. “This is one of the places where the world ends!”

“You’re not making sense, Dr. Sullivan. Please, try to sleep. Tom will be back soon.”

“You died in France. Died fighting the Boche. Of all things.”

“I don’t like to say it, but you’re scaring me, Dr. Sullivan.”

“I cannot die!” Sullivan insisted.

Then he grunted, and all the breath sighed out of him at once.

After a time Guilford closed the corpse’s eyes.

He sat with Dr. Sullivan for several hours more, humming tunelessly, waiting for whatever might climb out of the dark to claim him.

Shortly before dawn, exhausted, he fell asleep.

They were bound here after the battle.