The Fall

by Michael McBride

  Mûwth was God’s fourth horseman, rider of the black steed.

  The fourth seal rested on his legs. He grasped it with his sweaty fingers, barely able to hold the clay disc, tracing the engraved symbols with his thumbs. The children have lost their way, it translated roughly from a tongue never meant to be spoken by human mouth. It was his lot to call them home. Sorrow permeated every pore, leeching into every bone and muscle. He’d never felt such overwhelming remorse and regret. A solitary tear, the last he would ever shed for his flock, swelled from beneath his eyelid, rising up over the lashes. It shivered there at the tip of those fine hairs, growing until finally victimized by gravity and snapping free. The tear fell onto the seal in his grasp, which shattered at the moment of impact.

  He buckled backward, his knees still beneath him, shoulder blades touching the ground. Thrashing about, the base of his skull pounding the stone floor, his eyes slid up beneath flagging lids. His mouth opened to scream in agony, but instead fired a flume of white smoke up to the ceiling, swirling above him like a forming tornado. He swelled from within, plumping like a cooked sausage, his neck growing thick and riddled with bulging veins, chest sealing over the formerly open wound and appearing on the verge of popping. When it looked as though his skin could stretch no more, it began to rip open in bloody seams, peeling back and curling. Dead skin sloughed off, littering the floor around him in long strips like a snake slithering out of a shed. The skin beneath was blacker than the darkness, so smooth it felt like satin. Serpentine scales melded together seamlessly, covering the entirety of his form, what remained of his former humanity on the cavern floor disintegrating into piles of dead cells like dust.

  Rising to his feet, his movements fluid, Mûwth arched backward, arms stretched to his sides, and screamed up into the ceiling in the voice of a thousand tortured souls. His body was still human in shape, but that was the totality of it. No hairs originated from anywhere on his body, only scales that appeared to absorb light rather than reflecting it. His scalp was coarse where the tips of the scales pointed up like the short spines at the base of an adder’s head, a crest running down his spine like a short, rocky dorsal fin.

  The others crept from behind him. He could feel them beside him there in the darkness as though each were an extension of his flesh. Their breathing was out of synch, haggard.

  Mûwth’s eyes snapped down from under twin black eyelids, yellow as the rising sun, slit with a slash of darkness.

  There was no longer any need to speak, for their thoughts were one.

  They knew him as Death, and before the sun set that night, countless souls would speak his name as well.

  Death placed his hands on the stone wall before him, which immediately crumbled away, sending a small avalanche of rocks thundering down the face of the mountain.

  The late afternoon sun beat heavily on them as they emerged from the mouth of the mountain, the earth trembling beneath their feet.

  The day of reckoning had arrived.

  II

  ADAM STOOD KNEE-DEEP IN THE LAKE OF BLOOD, STUDYING THE MAP BENEATH the almost celestial light that descended like glitter from the hole in the cavern roof. He tried to remember Mûwth’s story, recalling a point where the man had said there had been a lake of blood where his medallion had been. He had illustrated that spot by pointing to his tattooed map above his navel. Adam could clearly see the small hole in the drying skin where it had been torn from the umbilicus. Black lines spread from that location like the sun’s rays, branching into a maze of passageways. As he watched, the long dried ink became damp, moving rhythmically, wavering as though trying to peel from the very skin into which it was stitched.

  He had heard the others screaming, sounds that had assaulted him for what felt like an eternity. Trying to follow the anguished cries, he’d sprinted blindly through the passageways, splashing through water and stumbling on the uneven rock. By the time he reached this room, the screams had ceased. All that he could do was pray that they were still all right, but deep down, he knew otherwise. The abrupt end to each voice’s cry and the subsequent silence that followed was enough to convince him that his speculations were correct.

  Long, formerly straight lines of ink peeled from the skin, draining off into the blood where they wriggled away like snakes. The majority of the swatch of flesh was now bereft of the tribal design, save for a lone series of lines that stretched toward where the skin would have covered the right ribs from the precise spot where he stood right now.

  Adam wiped his hand across the crinkly surface, but none of the remaining ink rubbed off onto his palm.

  He didn’t know what to think or what to do. The whole situation had crossed from real to surreal the moment they crawled through that hole into the mountain. The refugee camp seemed a million miles away, fading like a memory lived in another lifetime entirely. The imperative to make it to the extraction point was overwhelming, festering within him like an obsession, hooked into his guts and tugging him forward. He needed to get out of these caves before…

  Before what?

  Adam didn’t know, but there was a dreadful sinking feeling deep inside that insisted he didn’t want to hang around long enough to find out. As a doctor, he’d become familiar with the scent of death. It may have come in a variety of fragrances, but when boiled down, all of them were composed of the same biological foundation. There was that rich ammonia component from when the bladder ceased to work and the urine crystallized; the mealy stench of cellular decay, as though the whole body breathed a foul last breath; and the smell of the bacteria now breeding unchecked in the abdomen and bowels, propagating disease and decomposition. It was the sour reek of sepsis, the vile repulsion of deteriorating connective tissue allowing the meat to fall from the bones. He’d smelled it at the camp long before the refugees emerged from the concealed trail following the river. He’d smelled it in the hospitals back home, though they went to much greater lengths to hide it.

  That smell was all around him now: filling his nostrils, settling on his skin like a skein of oil, dripping down his pores.

  He’d never smelled it this intense. It overrode whatever qualms he may have had about following a tattooed map peeled from a presumably dead man’s chest, the physical impossibility of the ink bleeding back out of the epidermis and leaving but a single route to follow. If it meant his life, he’d follow a white rabbit down a hole, and this didn’t seem nearly as insane. Besides, he had no clue how to get out of this labyrinth. He couldn’t have even followed his own path back out the way he’d come. The map at least pointed him in some direction, which was far better than he was able to come up with on his own.

  If his interpretation was correct, it appeared as though if he swam across the lake, on the other side would be an entrance to a series of passageways. He needed to make sure that he memorized his path now while there was still light to read by. Once he was back in the absolute darkness, there’d be no way he could follow the map. Rehearsing it in his mind, he rolled the flap of skin like a scroll and tucked it beneath his waistband, wading forward until the ground fell away from his feet. He paddled on, careful to keep his chin above the water level so as not to accidentally drink any of the warm fluid. He’d had his hands in enough blood to know the texture and consistency, and he had absolutely no doubt that this was exactly what he was swimming through.

  Passing beneath the light, he looked down into the fathomless depths, unable to see the cavern floor. The light was blinding, making everything else seem pitch black after passing back through. By the time he reached the far shore, it felt as though he’d been doing the butterfly for hours. Every muscle ached, but the urge to hurry out of there superseded his fatigue.

  He didn’t immediately see it, but after crawling around on the smooth boulders, he eventually found a crevice wide enough to accommodate his shoulders, but not quite tall enough to allow him to walk fully erect. Stooping, he clomped onward, arms held out before him. Cobwebs parted for his probing fingers, which felt as th
ough they were now glazed with filth. The passage wound steadily to the right, often opening to either side over another silent cavern, where every drip from the stalactite-riddled ceiling sounded like the thump of a bass drum. He didn’t even realize he was ascending until his ears popped.

  Exhaustion set in long before he saw the first hint of muted light. It took all of his strength to drag his tired legs forward, but the moment those first rays of light permeated the darkness, it was all he could do to keep from breaking into a sprint.

  A rocky slope led upward toward the source of the light: a crescent-shaped opening through which he could see the overcast sky. It was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. The dry desert air poured down on him, the leading breath sheer ecstasy. The air down there had been so humid and dense that it had felt more like swallowing than breathing, but this…this was by far and away the most divine experience of his life. Tears streaming down his cheeks, he crawled upward, fingertips tearing open, pants shredding from his bloody knees. The dust clung to his face, forming a layer of mud. He could barely catch his breath with the excitement, spurring him on over boulder after boulder until finally he crawled out into the sunlight. After so long in the darkness, the glare felt like needles driven through his retinas, but it was so blessedly comforting against his skin that he moaned in relief.

  He forced himself to his feet, laughing excitedly while still crying.

  The world came slowly into focus. The desert stretched away from him as far as he could see to the north. He was standing on a rocky crag about a dozen feet above a steep, boulder-lined hill leading toward a town set like an oasis amidst a clump of trees. There was even a small lake beyond. It had to be Ali Sadr.

  Adam whooped and raced toward what looked like the least treacherous path down the mountainside.

  * * *

  The steppe leveled off, the ground, once steep and hard enough to hold vegetation, turned into sand that sunk beneath his weight. His throat was beyond parched, the sun baking him red. Ahead, a dirt road appeared from the wavering heat. He stumbled onward, coughing up the last of his body’s moisture as he pulled up before it. The tracks were well worn, the sand not given much time to drift across it before being scattered again. Shielding his eyes from the sun, he looked down the road to the east where it led into Ali Sadr. To the west, a cloud of dust rose from the road at the end of his range of sight. He recognized it immediately as the signature of a car headed toward him at a high rate of speed.

  His heart jumped.

  Whatever bore down upon him could either be carrying his salvation or his doom, but there was no way of knowing for sure until it was too late. He was fifty yards out into the open from the nearest suitable boulder to hide behind, and besides, he was completely drained. By the time he made the sprint, were he even able, the car would already be on top of him.

  His legs buckled, dropping him to his knees on the shoulder of the road.

  He wasn’t going anywhere. All of his strength had deserted him, leaving him barely able to watch the cloud of dust growing larger beneath the late afternoon swelter, the dust merging with the clouds above the shimmering heat. The shape of a car slowly materialized through the angry cloud stirred by its passage. It looked like a transport vehicle of some kind, painted tan to blend with the infinite sand.

  Adam plopped back onto his rear, barely able to steady himself. He swooned as a result of the heat or exhaustion or a combination of both. His eyes were beginning to cross of their own accord, the ground beneath him tilting back and forth.

  The front grille of the cab looked almost like that of a Jeep; framed from behind by a canvas-covered cargo hold. Sunlight reflected from the front windshield as the first sounds of the engine and the pebbles clanging from the undercarriage reached his ears. He could taste the dry dust on the mild wind.

  Adam toppled to his side. His arms were unresponsive, his legs crumpled beneath him. All he could see through his left eye was the sand pressed painfully into his forehead, the blazing sun through his right as it momentarily parted the clouds.

  Darkness converged from the corners of his vision, forcing his eyelids closed.

  With great effort, he pried them open. It felt as though they’d only been closed a second, but when he opened them, the cloud of dust was all around him. The transport vehicle was idling on the road beside him, gushing black exhaust into the brown cloud. The frame of the truck shuddered as the engine roared. The passenger door stood ajar.

  “He’s one of ours!” a man yelled, dropping to his haunches.

  He filled Adam’s vision: camouflaged helmet; sunburned, heavily stubbled face; white stripe across his eyes like the negative image of a raccoon; tan and brown camo fatigues. McMAHON was stenciled into the black strip over his breast pocket.

  “Get him on board!” a voice bellowed from within. “Clock’s tickin’!”

  Adam’s eyes dripped closed again.

  The lids felt as though they each weighed a ton, but he finally forced them open again, his lazy eyes taking their sweet time finding the opening and focusing.

  Dust exploded from the rear tires through the square of the open back flap of the cargo bed. Someone had already started an IV in his right arm, the cold saline creeping up his biceps and spilling into his chest. Another red-faced man leaned over him from the right, stethoscope hanging from his neck. He flashed a penlight into Adam’s eyes, triggering him to look away.

  The corrugated metal bounced and vibrated beneath him; gravel pinging in the wheel wells, grinding under the truck’s weight.

  The swirling cloud of dust trailing them shifted long enough for Adam to glimpse the landscape falling away behind them. He could see the mountain he had barely survived, a cluster of strangely formed rocks atop it like a crown. Boulders and bushes lined the hillside, and higher up, his eyes were drawn to movement. Atop a rocky ledge, four silhouettes stood out against the pale sky.

  Dear God, was his last thought before unconsciousness claimed him. They’re still alive.

  A bend in the road returned the swell of dust, closing behind him like a mouth.

  III

  Denver, Colorado

  WHEN DR. CHARLES EAGAN AWOKE THAT MORNING, IT HAD FELT LIKE A DAY like any other. The coffee from the drive thru stand tasted every bit as bitter as usual, the donut as dry as every day before. He’d decided on his navy blue suit and the red power tie like he had so many times before, using pomade to slick his rich black hair perfectly into place with practiced ease. Thin gold-rimmed glasses framed his Pacific blue eyes very professionally, his Italian loafers buffed to a reflective shine. He’d driven the same route to work he had taken every day, parking his sleek black Lexus in the exact same spot he’d used for the last five years. Charles always believed that the measure of a man was in the details. It was a philosophy that had served him well, from graduating fourth in his class at the University of Colorado Medical School to landing a cardiology fellowship at the University Hospital in downtown Denver. Some might have called him obsessive-compulsive, but for Charles it was a gift of unerring focus. Routine eliminated surprise and promoted precise goal setting and accomplishment.

  Instinctively, there was a part of him deep down that suspected that something was amiss. He’d checked to make sure that the car doors were locked twice, and patted down his pocket to ensure he had his wallet. His watch was on his left wrist; both cufflinks were in place; his keys were in his right trouser pocket; his hospital identification badge was clipped to his shirt pocket; and the creases in his slacks were straight and firm. Yet something seemed out of the ordinary, somehow…wrong…but he’d gone through the checklist and everything was in place.

  He looked up to the withering gray sky.

  “Might snow,” he said aloud, tugging his sleeves sharply into place.

  Grabbing his soft leather briefcase, Charles strode across the reserved parking lot, walking briskly through rows of Mercedes, Beamers, Porsches, and Jaguars toward the front of the hospital. The nor
theast parking lot was reserved for physicians, with the understood rule that residents were to park their junkers toward the rear. The asphalt scuffed the fine leather soles, much to his chagrin, but he’d feel better once he was in his office where he could change into the pristine loafers he kept beneath his desk.

  On the north side of the hospital was a wide, stone-paved courtyard surrounding a heaping pile of snow-spotted soil where during the summer flowers of all colors and varieties bloomed to spite his allergies. Further ahead, there was a raised walkway, shielded by tinted glass, connecting the older wing to the newer construction across Ninth Avenue.

  Charles turned crisply to the right, taking a precise forty-five degree angle across the courtyard toward the wide set of stairs leading to the revolving doors as he did every day.

  The state flag with its large C flew to the left of the American flag, though two inches lower on a matching pole. A patient stood beside an ashtray to the far side of the front steps, holding onto the silver IV pole with his right hand, a thin tube connecting the drained bag to his elbow, a smoldering cigarette in his left. His powder blue gown hung past his knees, from which two pasty lower limbs stretched to bare feet as red as arterial blood on the frigid concrete. There was a woman sitting with a screaming child on one of the benches flanking the circular patio across the dead flowerbed. He could tell she’d been trying to quiet the child for quite some time as she was now squeezing the child’s arm so tightly her fingers were red in contrast to his white flesh. She’d spent the night in the emergency room, he assumed, based on her ratty hair and wrinkled clothes. The only bags she’d managed to pack were the ones beneath her eyes. A pair of nurses sat on the opposite bench, now directly to his right as he swiftly stepped past, violating every possible HIPAA regulation whining about one of their patients by name. The man apparently was neck-deep in the dementia pool and spat at anyone who walked into his room, from the staff to his own children. Fortunately they were warned by the retching of him gathering his phlegm. Both wore scrubs that had obviously belonged to surgery before they were permanently borrowed.