The Divide

by Jeremy Robinson

  As it shoves away from a pine, the trunk bends, exposing a slice of sky. Only I don’t see sky. The behemoth is there, arms reaching over its head where a smaller Golyat clings to the spines jutting out of its back.

  Roars cascade through the forest. If we’re as close to the Divide as Plistim and Salem think, it’s possible the people on the far side can hear the raging battle.

  Though it’s hard to hear anything, the forest ahead appears to be open. We strike out together, but we can’t run. Unlike the level field, the forest is full of obstacles that require navigation. The terrain is uneven, riddled with roots, rocks, and shrubs. But we make good time. The sounds of unimaginable battle start to fade behind us, but our urgency remains.

  Whichever Golyat stands victorious will come hunt us down. Persistence is usually an admirable quality, but it’s one I wish the Golyats did not possess. The monsters would probably follow us around the entire planet.

  “Up ahead,” Del says, her keen vision spotting a change in the forest before the rest of us see it.

  But when I do, there’s no mistaking what it means. Light glows behind the trees a half mile ahead. The forest comes to an end. It could be another field, or rocky terrain, or a path carved by a passing Golyat, but there’s something about it…something familiar.

  It’s the air. The way it flows. The scent of it.

  “That’s the Divide,” I say.

  “I think she’s right,” Shua says.

  “We’ll need to scout the edge,” Plistim adds. “Find the best way down.”

  “No time,” Dyer says.

  “If we don’t—”

  Dyer points to our left. “No time!”

  Two hundred feet away, a monster matches our pace. It’s identifiable as a Golyat thanks to its blackened and stretched skin, its sunken form, and its exaggerated bone structure. But it resembles nothing else we have seen thus far. It stands twelve feet tall, running on two long legs, with sword-like talons that tip the ends of its three toes. I do not see a pair of arms, just two flailing stubs. The head atop its long neck bobs forward and back with each step. A black beak snaps open and closed, the chattering sharp, but also subtle compared to its toothed brethren.

  I’m not sure what species, but this Golyat was once a bird. It’s not nearly as big as the brawling humanoid things behind us, but since it started out as something much smaller, its size is still impressive, and more than enough to tear us to shreds.

  “It looks like a dinosaur,” Salem says. I have no idea what a dinosaur is, but the look of terror in his eyes means it’s not a good thing.

  “You all keep going,” Dyer says, starting to veer toward the dinosaur-Golyat.

  “What are you doing?” I shout at her. “It will kill you!”

  “I’m already dead,” she says, and for a moment I think she’s being a romantic. Then she tears the bandage away from her arm to reveal blackened and dried flesh. “Spreads a little every day. I’ve been waiting for a good way to go out. This is it.”

  Dyer draws two swords and unleashes a battle cry as she angles toward the raptor. The giant once-a-bird squawks and rushes to meet her, its gut vibrant, nearly yellow.

  “Bullshit,” I grumble.

  “Del!” I shout. When the still-running girl glances back at me, I nod toward the bird. “Help her! Plistim, take the stretcher!”

  We pause for a moment, to make the exchange. Del doesn’t hesitate, handing her load to Plistim and nocking an arrow on her bow.

  “Do what you can,” I tell her, “and catch up. Let’s go!”

  Salem looks mortified, and about to argue.

  “Now!” I shout, and I give the stretcher a shove, bumping it into Shua.

  We leave Del behind as she draws her bowstring back, takes aim, and lets the arrow fly. There’s a whack, an angry squawk, and then Dyer roaring like the Golyat she is slowly becoming.

  I glance over in time to see Dyer leap through the air, swords raised and aimed toward the Golyat, which has an arrow in one eye. As impressive as the attack is, the monster swings its head, colliding with Dyer and slamming her to the ground.

  Instead of stopping to consume its meal, the chattering thing keeps running—straight for Del. As a second arrow flies, striking the bird’s forehead, I lose sight of Del, the Golyat, and Dyer, convinced I’ve just sentenced my daughter-in-law—my son’s precious wife—to her death.

  40

  My eyes squint as the gaps between the trees grow larger, allowing the day’s bright light to filter into the forest. Despite nearing the end of our journey to the Divide, my heart aches as chattering, angry squawks, and inhuman war cries rise up from the forest behind us.

  Del and Dyer are giving the beast hell, but can they stop it? And if not, will their sacrifice give us enough time to escape over the edge?

  Plistim exits the tree line first. His feet grind over solid stone as he comes to a sudden stop. Salem, eyes wet with tears, fails to react in time, bumping into his grandfather from behind.

  Plistim’s arms flail as he teeters on the Divide’s edge. Shua drops the stretcher and lunges for his father, grasping his belt and yanking him back. Plistim falls atop the stretcher of ropes he’d been carrying. Rather than complaining, expressing fear, or anger at Salem for nearly killing him, he is simply concerned for my son.

  “It’s okay,” Plistim says to Salem. “It was an accident. It’s—”

  But Salem, who’s now glaring at me, isn’t hearing him.

  “You left her!” Salem stabs a finger at me. “You. Left. My. Wife!”

  When he storms in my direction, I’m sure he’s going to strike me. I have to fight against my instincts to not raise my hands, not in defense, but counter attack. If he hits me, I’ll live. He’s right to be angry at me, but he’s also angry with Del, who chose to listen, and maybe sacrifice herself.

  Maybe is what Salem needs to remember.

  “She’s strong,” I tell him. “And smart. Give her a chance.”

  “And when you’re done with that,” Shua says, digging climbing gear out of his pack, “help me figure this shit out.”

  Salem swallows his rage, wipes his tears, and hurries to help his father. While they prepare for a journey to a land below the land, where no living man has set foot, I close my eyes and listen.

  The distant battle between Golyats still trembles the earth and fills the air with the sounds of a great storm, but Del and Dyer’s struggle has gone silent.

  “Please,” I whisper to no one, who somehow feels like someone. “Let them survive.”

  “Almost ready,” Plistim announces, throwing a bundle of bright orange rope over the side, and watching it fall and unravel.

  Shua approaches me holding what looks like a tangle of belts that have, for some reason, been stitched together and decorated with metal clips and carabiners. “Put this on.”

  “I don’t even know what it is.”

  “It’s called a harness,” he says, holding a hole open. “Take off your pack.”

  I slide out of the backpack, still not hearing any action from the woods.

  “One leg at a time.” Shua slides a strap up my thigh, carefully avoiding the bloody, reopened wound. We repeat the process with the other leg. Then he wraps and binds a second strap around my waist, then over each shoulder. When he’s done, he cinches everything tight. “They’re uncomfortable, but will keep you from falling.”

  Then he leaves me again, to continue prepping. He shoves several small metal devices into a crack, letting them snap open inside. “What are those?”

  “Camalots, or ‘cams’ for short,” Salem says, clipping the rope into carabiners attached to loops at the end of each device. “They’ll hold the rope.”

  “And us?” I say.

  “Each one can hold upwards of three thousand pounds,” Salem explains. “We’re using four, just in case.”

  “In case a Golyat wants to climb down after us?” I joke.

  No one laughs. Salem glances toward the quiet fo
rest, and then returns to his work. When they’re done with the rope, the three men slide into their harnesses.

  We’re ready to go.

  I turn toward the forest, resisting the urge to go back. The four of us can complete the mission and, if we’re lucky, end the Golyats’ reign. Then I remember Shua’s words about love. The desire for freedom can’t exist without love, and it is not the result of success, it is what propels us toward it.

  I take a single step back into the forest and stop.

  Heavy footfalls are approaching, oblivious to the crunch of leaves and twigs underfoot.

  “Shua,” I say, drawing my machete.

  When he steps beside me, weapon drawn, I shake my head. “I don’t want your help. I want you to go. The three of you.”

  “No,” Salem says, overhearing. “Not you, too.”

  “You don’t need me from here.” I give Shua a shove. “Go! Now!”

  Shua looks as wounded as Salem, but he steps back. He reaches out for his son and leads him to the edge, where Plistim has already started preparing to descend, attaching a heavy bundle of rope to a carabiner on his harness. He attaches a second rope to Salem, and then shoves the second stretcher of ropes—already attached to the line, over the side. He slides over the edge behind the falling ropes and out of view, holding something attached to the rope. Salem gives me a last, sad look and follows him. Shua clips himself to the rope and then holds the device up so I can see.

  “This is a rope grip. You clip it on, like this.” He demonstrates the action. “Squeeze it to stop. Loosen your grip to descend. If you let go completely, it will catch and stop you from falling, but only if your carabiner is attached.”

  I nod my understanding, and he pauses. “Vee…”

  “Just go,” I tell him. Whatever he’s got to say will distract me from what I need to do. The time for talk has passed. The time for action is nearly upon me. I turn away from him and crouch behind a red-berried bush, machete ready to swing.

  “I have the last of the rope,” he says. “All you need to bring is yourself.”

  His rope grip hums as he descends. When I think he’s out of sight, I look back to confirm it and feel a sudden and profound loss. The three men I’ve just sent along have all taken me off guard, with their knowledge, understanding, and compassion. As much as I loved Salem before, I now feel like I really know him for the first time. My son is brilliant, and brave in ways I did not know—perhaps he has enough of both to save humanity, five hundred years after it nearly destroyed itself.

  The heavy footsteps grow louder, nearly upon me. I grip the machete tighter, my muscles tensing before the strike.

  I glance through an opening in the bush, peering through tangled branches and leaves, and I see a flash of brown.

  Not black.

  “Del?”

  “I’m not as pretty,” Dyer says, entering the clearing, “but you’d never know in the dark.”

  While I’m thrilled to see Dyer alive, even if she is bleeding from several fresh wounds, I’m mortified that she’s not Del.

  Then Del enters the clearing, out of breath, only five arrows left in her quiver. There’s not a single injury on her.

  Before I realize what I’m doing, I pull the young woman into a hug. She’s rigid for a moment, but then returns the embrace.

  “You killed it?” I ask, stepping back.

  “I wouldn’t say ‘killed’ it,” Dyer says. “But she put ten arrows in its head, I cut off its beak, slit its throat, and put two swords in its gut. All melted, of course, but—”

  “It’s still alive?” I ask. “Still hunting us?”

  “Oh, right,” Dyer says. “I also cut off its leg. So unless it’s going to hop after us—”

  A repetitive thump sounds out from the forest.

  Dyer sinks in on herself, rolling her eyes and sighing. “Shitty cupcakes.”

  Del hurries to the climbing gear. “What do we do with this?”

  “Wait…” Dyer scans the area. “They left?”

  I nod to the rope that’s wiggling as the three men descend.

  “Typical,” Dyer says.

  “Put these on,” I say, holding up the harnesses. When they both look at me like I’ve lost my mind, I help both climb into the awkward garments, careful to avoid touching Dyer’s blackened triceps.

  Dyer stretches her legs and does a squat, tugging at the tight straps. “I can’t tell if I like or hate this.”

  I take the three remaining rope grips and attach them. Then I clip a line between them and the carabiners on Dyer’s and Del’s harnesses. I show them the grip, keenly aware that the thumping is growing louder. “Squeeze to slow down. Loosen to descend. If you let go, it will stop. Now go!”

  Del goes first, moving slow as she hangs out over the ledge, eyeing the strange devices holding all her weight. But when Salem’s excited voice rises up from below, “Del!” she leaps down, buzzing out of view.

  “What happened to dying today?” I ask Dyer, as she heads toward the edge.

  She shrugs. “What can I say? The thing was a chicken.”

  I clip myself to the rope. “It was afraid of you?”

  “No, literally a chicken. I’ve feathered and roasted enough to know what a burned chicken looks like. Being a Golyat made it bigger, uglier, and more dangerous, but that didn’t teach it to fight.”

  The same can’t be said for the human Golyats, which fight with brutal, headstrong tactics.

  “The problem with chickens,” Dyer says, “is that they keep on running, even after you cut off their heads. Or, I guess, legs.”

  With that, she drops over the side, falling from sight.

  “Squeeze to go slow!”

  The line snaps tight, the cams holding fast. There’s a thump, followed by a, “Fuck!” and then the sound of a buzzing rope grip sliding down.

  I sheath my machete, finish clipping myself on and move to the edge, grip in one hand. The thumping is joined by a papery hiss, and I see the large black bird hopping toward me on one leg, the other missing at the knee. Its mouth is now a beakless hole, its head decorated with arrows, points jutting from one side, feathers out the other.

  I lower myself part way over the edge.

  The bird lunges for me.

  Then I leap out over the abyss and loosen my grip.

  The chicken-Golyat flies out over the Divide’s vast open space, and without the wings it was born with, it plummets.

  “Incoming!” I shout down to the others who pause to watch the creature sail past. I watch it for a moment and then look down. My head spins at the depth, but I can see the bottom. A river runs through the valley far below, concealed partly by mist. There are patches of green, black, and specks of white dotting the land below.

  I’m about to look away from the dizzying view when I really see what lies below. There is water, and plants, but the segments of black crisscrossing the bottom aren’t stones. Just like the moss-covered behemoth still fighting for its right to consume us, the massive formations below are bodies.

  Golyat bodies.

  Thousands of them.

  41

  With living and hungry Golyats still out for blood on the land above, there is no choice but to descend. I don’t know if the others have figured out that the land far below is riddled with sprawled Golyat bodies or not. They’re either ignorant to it or determined there is no choice, which is correct, so I don’t bring it up. I just focus on descending, which is far easier than I would have guessed.

  The rope grips allow us to push off the wall, descending in great leaps, covering vertical terrain in seconds rather than minutes, and in minutes rather than hours. My forearm is a little sore from holding the device. And my legs ache from pushing, but more from injuries. Otherwise, our journey into the Divide is easier than our trek across the land was.

  Despite dangling from a thin rope held in place by small metal clips, all of it bearing the weight of six adults and even more rope, I feel safer here than I did up above. T
he occasional vibration buzzes through the rope, hinting at a dramatic battle above still being waged by who knows how many Golyats, but a howling wind rising up from below, not to mention the wall of stone we’re climbing down, prevents us from hearing anything.

  With each shove and drop, we leave the Old World horrors behind—I glance down at the huge, black bodies—maybe.

  Hopefully.

  Hope is a strange thing for me. Possibly a new thing. But I’m feeling it now, my thoughts on the future and seeing the good that might be, rather than just on the bad and how to subvert it.

  “Switching,” Dyer says from below.

  I squeeze the grip and come to a stop. Dyer is at a break in the rope, where Shua inserted more cams and started a new line down. When we reach the breaks, we have to lock ourselves into the first rope, switch the grip to the new rope and then leave the first behind. If we ever need to make a return trip, great fiery balloons might not be necessary—for as long as the rope will last while exposed to the elements.

  A chill runs through my body. I’ve just passed out of the sun’s reach and into a layer of mist that glistens on my skin. Despite the chill, I smile. It’s cleansing. All traces of the monsters above have faded. We are unable to hear or feel the Golyats in the depths.

  Moving faster than we could on land, we complete the descent in an hour. Shua catches me as I make the final drop onto a jumble of large stones that slopes away from the vertical wall. After detaching from the line and securing my grip in a belt pouch, I look up. The Divide’s height is dizzying.

  Shua holds me again as I stumble and I don’t yank away like I normally might. I’m happy for the help, and that he’s alive.

  “Look at it,” Salem says, jaw hanging wide, eyes upturned. “All the strata. It’s like looking back through time.”

  “What are strata?” Del asks.

  “See the layers of stone?” Salem points to the large bands running through the valley wall. “The different colors represent different times on Earth, most of it long before there were people, or even life of any kind. It’s not just the history of humanity, but of our planet.”