Catching Hell Part One: Journey

by Marc Watson

  “I’ll be sure to speak to my superiors about it.”

  They finished rummaging through the buildings, grabbing canned foods and travel supplies like unburned blankets and metal cooking pots. Johan even found some books to bring. Nothing he was very keen on, but he hadn’t had a good read in a while. He just hoped the trip would be uneventful enough to get the chance to do so.

  When the carts and Turtle were fully loaded, the Brigade and their civilian charges set off for the Thunder Run and the mysteries of the Paieleh Valley.

  Esgona had already been taken aside, much to the dismay of Johan, and shown the basic controls of the Turtle. The man in charge, Chief Rider Samson Wyndam, had done so after he noted the young man (or old boy) and his willingness to work hard, despite his obvious handicap.

  Chief Rider Wyndam was keen on the work ethic. He was not as aged as some in his position, his short dark hair and goatee only starting to show signs of graying, but his body had seen a dozen lifetimes’ worth of hard work. A life serving the Riders and the wars they fought had made him a very rugged man. His hands were tough from the years of riding, his gray eyes sharp and watchful. Even his armor, the same maroon-red tinge the others wore, was so badly damaged from its dutiful service that it was hardly recognizable. It was dented, wrecked, patched, welded, and fixed so often (due to his refusal for any replacement) that it looked as though it could fall apart at any time. His skin was likely tough enough to stop a bullet anyway.

  He led them all north to the bend that would take them to the Thunder Run. Johan was getting anxious to see the mighty waterfall. The rumors of its majesty were known far and wide.

  As they left Huan behind and turned the final corner leading into the last stretch, he could see even from this distance that he was not to be disappointed.

  In the thousands of years since the Second Fall of Man, the world of old had changed unimaginably.

  Huge underground explosions had caused many tectonic plates to become erratic, at times tearing the ground apart with the pace of movement it set. Other times, the massive volcanic upheavals had created plateaus of mountain regions in sizes and heights never before seen.

  Here at the tip of the Great Range, the large mountains that were around them everywhere were suddenly dwarfed by the titanic Hymleahs farther north. No man could ever enter those peaks. The climb and the thinness of the air was too much for any but the great Stalkers that had adapted to the high ground.

  Here, though, the Hymleah headwall ended abruptly in the form of a gigantic cliff face. It was not altogether wide, eventually giving way to more sloping climbs on either side. It was, however, monumentally tall. In its center cascaded the monstrous sight called the Uhluktahn by the Ruskan Stalkers of the area but known more simply as the Thunder Run by the men and women who had traveled this way over the centuries. The Thunder Run was caused by the higher mountains above giving way to a valley that, due to the recent and massive tectonic shift, kept the base layer of rock warm to the touch. The snow and glacial feeds it passed through for untold miles north of where the party stood was the source of its amazingly bountiful water supply.

  Many from the area, human and Stalker alike, regarded the formation and its unimaginable beauty as something closer to a spiritual entity, like a church formed from the earth itself. For the two from Tan Torna Qu-ay, one of which had only really seen Tortria Den and its paltry volume to compare this with, it was as if the whole planet gave way to a massive and unbelievably loud wall of water pouring down from the sky.

  The huge formation came to a rest at the base of the cliff face in a huge lake called Thunder Head. The deep lake was so turbulent from the waterfall that very little could survive within it. Mostly plants and very small fish that could withstand the massive mini-tides at its shores were all one could find of any kind of life. If someone went swimming in it, they were instantly at risk of being sucked into one of the pressure swells and carried off to be pummeled to death by the crushing downpour, or simply drowned in a never-ending ballet of deep cyclonic surges that simply came and went, up and down, never to be released.

  “Impressive, isn’t it,” Stroan said, pulling his horse up beside Johan. “I reacted the same way when I first laid eyes on it. We will travel the road that winds to the west of it, around Thunder Head, and into the heart of the river valley.”

  The winds from the large valley they were to follow allowed them a respite from the giant plume of mist that emanated from the lake like a cloud, drifting the opposite of the way they intended to go. When the winds died and it carried more spray to the west, travel was nearly impossible. The rocks of the road became slick with water, the vapor soaking into everything, causing a damp chill that cut right down to the bone. For a valley with such fleeting sunlight to dry things and keep warm, that was not a pleasant prospect.

  Chief Rider Wyndam called the party to a halt and summoned his Riders to him. The rest of the carts and people waited as the meeting took place. Most of them were content enough to wait and continue to admire the site sight ahead of them.

  The Riders returned to their posts and each conferred with the cart drivers. Stroan pulled up beside Johan and did the same. “The Chief says that we’re to pick up the pace to get past the Thunder Run and farther down the valley before nightfall. When we’re a decent enough distance away, we’ll see if we can set the first camp.”

  Johan nodded his understanding, but asked why the need to discuss it now while they were still so far from the waterfall. “Because,” responded Stroan, “once we get a bit closer, the noise will be too much for clear communication. We want to make sure everyone knows what’s going on and why before we reach that point.”

  The rest of the people they traveled with who were on foot began climbing onto whatever cart was closest to them and found what spot they could. The horses and folmes pulling the carts were cinched in tighter and prepared for the double duty they were about to undertake. Another Rider began asking the carts ahead to move aside while the Turtle took up point. It was the slowest of the caravan, so it would lead to ensure it and its valuable cargo wasn’t left behind or swept into the Thunder Head.

  “The road we take passes right next to the lake,” the Rider said. “At times the drop off is right beside us. We keep the Turtle in front to set the pace and help if it runs into trouble.”

  The Turtle and its noisy engine rumbled up beside them. Esgona yielded the command to another Rider; however, he did remain next to him as a passenger and the Rider and Esgona looked to be deep into their own conversation.

  Stroan had known there was no love between the two young men from Tan Torna Qu-ay. The details of their history weren’t discussed, but the mutual feelings were blatantly obvious. Johan knew he could never explain the torment and terror Esgona filled him with as they grew. It was more than simple bullying. Sure, there was the name-calling and dustups as youths, but it grew steadily worse as they aged. Once, in their early teens, Esgona had tricked Johan into going to the pools that peppered the rocks beneath Tortria Den by sending him a letter signed by a girl he’d had an obvious crush on. Once he arrived, Johan found he had been tricked, and was led into a trap by a waiting Esgona and Hogope. After laughing mercilessly at his trick, Esgona shoved Johan into one of the deep pools.

  Johan, at that point in his life, couldn’t swim.

  As he thrashed and fought for breath, Esgona and Hogope laughed harder. Eventually, when it became clear that Johan was in serious risk, he could see Hogope falter and ask Esgona to get him out. Esgona just stood there smiling. Were it not for Aryu’s intervention, Johan still believed that Esgona likely would have let him drown.

  Aryu had been in town, seen the girl, knew she was certainly not at the pools, and knew instantly what had happened. He had just begun to master his wings and flew out as quickly as he could. Esgona and Hogope ran once they saw him approach and haul out his terrified friend. Despite the anger felt by the two, no retribution was even devised. Although their hatred f
or Esgona and his actions was great, they feared his mother and the power over their families that she possessed.

  And that was just one thing he’d done to the two. Granted, it was on the severe side of his actions, but it was not an isolated incident.

  Stroan had no issue with the boy and had found him just as helpful as Johan despite his ailment. He did not have their history, however. History makes all the difference.

  -----------------------

  By the time the sun began to pass its apogee and began the fall towards sunset, the group was deep into the astonishing noise created by the Thunder Run. The torrent of water from far above crashed into Thunder Head, and given the geography of the valley itself, the landscape created a natural echo chamber. Stroan was right; words were useless even spoken side by side. The travelers found whatever means necessary to shut it out. Ad hoc earplugs were passed out between some while others took to muffling the sound with wraps and other clothing tied tightly to their heads.

  Even the animals were granted some form of protection, usually by heavy blankets tied around their ears.

  Johan, riding on the back of a cart, had fashioned earplugs from soft dough used in making miscellaneous fireside pastries. They did the job well enough, but the power of the waterfall still made it through and buzzed his ears, which were still sensitive from the Ark 1 explosion. He could swear he felt the pressure of that much falling water hit the lake below, like the Thunder Run did more than stir the water of Thunder Head. It was so massive it vibrated the air around him.

  The Turtle kept a steady pace along the lakeshore. Many looked at the sudden drop off of the water in fear, knowing what entering it was likely to do. Johan was simply awe-inspired by the view.

  Above them was nothing but headwall as far up as they could see. It cast an unnatural darkness on everything, the sun sitting well behind its mass by this point in the day. The lake was the largest most of them had ever seen coming from a place so dry and arid. The shore didn’t gradually fade into the depths. It was a solid drop into abyss from the moment the crystal-clear water hit the edges. With the depth, and the lack of sunlight, the lake was simply black.

  The animals, even the large pure horses of the Riders, were clearly uneasy being so close to the noise and the power that created it. They stayed the course but were twitchy and nervous. The road was wide even as it passed directly beside the drop offs, and most of the animals kept as far away as they could. It would still be another few hours before they were past the shores of Thunder Head and beginning their trip up the valley.

  Johan noticed a folme having issues. It wasn’t pulling a cart, just walking along the side of one being driven by a mustached gentleman and a young girl he surmised to be his daughter, a pretty, dark-skinned brunette in a soft blue dress with lace trim, currently sporting a small blanket wrapped around her short-cut hair to block out the noise. He’d noticed the daughter a few times up to this point in the trip, and he had taken small bits of enjoyment from the fact that she seemed to be noticing him as well.

  The animal was rocking its large head back and forth rhythmically. It was then he saw the folme’s rag-tied headwear slipping off its left ear.

  Johan was up at once, waving to the cart driver, desperate to get his attention. From where they were sitting, the driver took no notice of him. He had moved to the side of the cart and was ready to hop down when he ran out of time.

  The big animal lost the headgear in one of its head-rocking motions, casting the old blanket to the ground.

  It immediately had a very pained expression on its face, its mouth open in what Johan could only assume was a cry of fear and discomfort. It thrashed back and forth, ramming its head against the cart and then away, pulling its rope taut repeatedly.

  The motions finally got the attention of the driver and his daughter. They were trying to figure out the best plan of action when the folme gave a huge yank on its rope, snapping it.

  It fell back and listed to one side, hitting another cart that was traveling behind the one it had been tied to. The cart was thrown off to the left of the road at the jolt and began sliding down a small embankment the road rested on. The driver tried in vain to steer back, and had managed to get the right wheels back on the road when the beleaguered folme hit again, ramming its head against the cart once more in an attempt to shut out the horrible noise. With the last hit, the cart tumbled, throwing the driver, passengers, and all cargo it carried down the hill.

  By this point most of the caravan had been alerted to the peril by rear-flanking Riders. The carts were all being brought to a stop and many curious and horrified travelers looked back to see what had happened.

  The pained folme was battering the cart it had been tied to and had smashed it closer to the edge of the road and toward the Thunder Head. It reared back and was in the midst of charging with all of its considerable might when the mustached driver gave a powerful whip to the reigns, causing the team tied to the cart to wrench forward with a burst of speed. The action caused the folme to miss and stagger across the remainder of the road to the edge of the lake, where it had no choice but to succumb to its mass and heave over the edge and into the tumultuous water below with a silent splash.

  The driver’s quick thinking had unexpected consequences. The sudden rush forward caused the young girl at his side to tumble backwards, over the boxes and bags of supplies they carried, and on to the lip of the cart. No one rode with them, so no one was there to stop her as she twirled like a dancer on the edge, a look of terror on her face for a moment as she looked about for help that wasn’t there, then off and into the lake not far from where the folme who had led the way was now thrashing madly to escape its fate.

  Johan watched the whole scene as if it played in slow motion. Helplessly he watched the folme topple headlong into the Thunder Head, then the girl and her picturesque movements followed moments before she turned and met his eyes as she went backwards.

  The driver was back at once, and he looked over the side of the supplies into the lake. When Johan saw the man begin pulling off his boots and shirt, his paralysis was broken instantly. The man was going to go in after her, a trip guaranteed to bring his own death in the dark water. A heroic death, but a death all the same. That could not happen.

  Johan looked around, spying a piece of spare rope. He bent down and grabbed it by the matched ends, got back up, and turned to Stroan.

  His sudden movements had gotten Stroan’s attention. By the time Stroan had begun his shout of “No!” at the top of his lungs (a useless action, even so close) Johan was already moving forward, bounding like a cat from his own cart to the one beside him. In a blur, his hand whipped back, tossing a free end of the rope to Stroan while he catapulted himself off the other side, wrapping the end he carried around his wrist twice and into his hand before he hit the water feet-first.

  It would barely be a perceivable moment that could measure the time it took for Johan to go from hero to fool in his own mind. He hit with such a force that he went right past his intended target and beyond, to the deep abyss below.

  The forces at work in the lake were amazing. It grabbed a hold of him at once and tossed him about with no rhyme or reason. Johan had no concept of up or down, and the blurry images his brain could process did nothing to help the matter. He was lost in such a short period of time that he could only feel helplessness; all heroism he had possessed a moment before on the cart was gone like a candle getting snuffed out.

  The first tug on his arm hit, threatening to pull away the safety line he’d nearly forgotten about in the muddle of fear and confusion. Instinct caused him to clamp his hand down, grabbing the rope as it pulled back again. Had he not grabbed when he did, it easily would have been lost.

  Soon his body jackknifed upwards, and with another tug he broke the surface, gasping for the air the fear had pushed out of him.

  The pain hit him like he’d been shot. At first, he thought a powerful blow had struck him in the head, and his free hand
reached up to see if he was alright. It was then he noticed his doughy earplugs had been either popped out or dissolved in the water. Either way he was now at the mercy of the waterfall in more ways than one. Each moment seemed to make this plan worse and worse.

  The difference between heroes and normal people is nothing more than how one thinks in situations such as these. True, it would take an act of heroism to bound across the carts and after the girl, but heroism is not the strict domain of heroes. It can encompass anyone at any time, given the proper circumstances. Heroes are the ones that don’t let the heroism pass. More to the point, they don’t even know it’s there when it happens. To them, it’s just the way things are. It’s that clarity of view that allows them to see past the rush of the heroic actions and adrenalin, past the terror and the pain, and think about the next move not just as someone trying to survive, but as someone going beyond that and continuing the mission they set out on.

  It is that difference that allowed Johan to block out the pain of the noise and the fear of his fight to the water surface. He ignored the truth of the situation and looked around just in time to see the blue-clothed arm of the girl below the surface dip down and out of sight. With one quick tug back on the rope for whatever slack he could convince the unseen people above to give, he pulled himself back down below the water (not that it was hard, the action being what the water wished to happen anyway) and reached out for the quickly disappearing form of the girl below him.

  His hand met her wrist with the soft embrace of a lover, followed quickly by her clamping down on his own wrist in the death grip that it was. Johan hauled up his arm and the girl attached to it with a feat of strength he’d never have thought possible, using his other hand to pull them both back to the surface and take another lifesaving breath.

  Heroes are rarely given such an easy time of it. That is the best explanation anyone could think of for why, after all that bravery and effort to save the girl, the rope snapped from the repeated rocking motion against the sharp edge of the road, and the two below were once more tossed back into the Thunder Head.