The party lapsed into silence, leaving Milo alone to his darkness as he considered his fate. Then he heard the faintest click, a second, a third—more confident now—each echoing throughout the chasm.
“Who is doing that?” demanded Charlie. The clicking didn’t stop; it grew in strange volume and force. Again, Charlie shouted into the void, demanding answers. Nobody responded—until Joanne spoke.
“I am,” she croaked. Milo heard shuffling as she emerged from the sleeping bag. As she stood, she made another click, and then another, each one louder than the one before; and soon they were not just loud but joyful, each one echoing into the oblivion of the massive subterranean chasm.
“Seriously, what are you doing?” said Charlie again.
“Can’t you see?” said Joanne with a laugh. “Can’t you see the beauty around us?”
“What beauty? What the hell are you talking about?”
“I can see the chasm—the suspended rock—everything.” For good measure, Joanne made the noises again, as though more clicks would somehow cut through Charlie’s confusion.
“Is she echolocating?” asked Bridget, disbelief in her voice as the answer dawned on her. In a jolt, Milo realized the idea wasn’t as foreign as it first sounded.
“No way,” said Charlie. “I thought only bats and dolphins could do that.”
“People can too,” said Bridget. “There are blind men and women who use canes, tapping feet, and oral clicks to understand their surroundings. They can navigate streets, hike the wilderness—even mountain bike. But learning the technique takes years of practice.”
Excited, Milo experimentally clicked a few times himself. He heard the echoes, but the sound triggered nothing within his mind.
“Whatever is happening, it’s like a flashbulb to me,” said Joanne. “Every click—it becomes a great rolling wave of light, trailing off in every direction as the echoes fade.”
“Joanne—I need you to think very carefully before you answer this question. Can you lead us to the surface?” asked Bridget.
“I don’t know,” said Joanne, her voice still weak. “I can see—but I can’t walk. I don’t have the strength.”
“What do you see?” asked Milo.
“Beauty—everything—a world of shadows,” said Joanne. “I see a world of shifting winds and mist.”
“Winds and mists are good enough for me,” said Charlie. “If she can lead us out of here . . . hell, I’ll carry her myself.”
The four cavers shuffled through the anthill for hours, Charlie leading with Joanne clinging to his back, every clicking step giving her another flash of vision within the tight, intersecting tunnels. Occasionally a glimpse of the tunnel would leap into Milo’s mind, a familiar footfall triggering his photographic memory. But no matter how hard he listened and concentrated, Joanne’s clicks were only clicks to him.
The cavers saw the distant red flame and heard the waterfall before they reached the massive chamber at the bottom of the great shaft and the muddy plain where they’d once struck camp. Dale’s final flare had burned down to embers, the faint remaining light illuminating the domed, stalactite-thick ceiling a hundred feet above. Long since receded from the flood, the diminished waterfall slammed against loose rocks in a pool, the outflow draining down a deep, narrow crack. Joanne reveled in the overwhelming noise, eyes closed, every echo of the waterfall’s cascade illuminating her misty vision.
Dale Brunsfield lay facedown in the pooling waters at the edge of the waterfall, fifteen hundred feet of severed rope coiled around his body. It didn’t matter how far he’d made it up before the line gave way—fifty feet or five hundred, it had been enough to kill on impact. Gentle waves shifted the corpse with unnatural animation, a cruel imitation of life.
“Look at the flare—it’s still burning. He’s been dead less than an hour,” said Charlie, pointing.
Bridget covered her face in her hands, as though she could simply shut out the gruesome scene and return herself to familiar darkness. “What was he going to do—leave by himself? Abandon us down here?”
“He thought we were dead, or as good as dead. I know this sounds awful, but at least he tested the rope for us. This could have just as easily been the four of us lying at the bottom of the shaft.”
“Some test,” whispered Joanne, slipping from Charlie’s back and standing on her uneasy feet for a moment before slumping to the muddy floor.
Together, Bridget and Milo grasped Dale’s corpse under the armpits, flipping him over and dragging him from the waters. His body was spongy and he was deathly pale, even under the crimson light of the flare.
“He must have bounced off the rock wall a few times on the way down,” said Bridget, her gaze drifting over him. She took one soft hand and drew it over his face, closing Dale’s eyes for the final time.
“Not to be overly pragmatic, but how the fuck are we going to get out of here?” said Charlie, squinting at the endless shaft above them, fifteen hundred feet of vertical rock face separating them from the upper passages.
“That’s a question for later,” said Bridget, sitting down next to Dale’s body. “First we need to bury our friend.”
The flare had long since died, plunging the four back into suffocating darkness. Milo and Bridget began to build the cairn just feet away from where Dale had fallen, lifting his body into the largest side chamber next to the churning waterfall. The alcove was not much larger than a closet, but it would more than suffice as a natural mausoleum, the grave site protected from any future flooding.
Can’t get buried no deeper for no cheaper, thought Milo, remembering the old caver’s aphorism from one of the books he’d read on the surface. Together, they placed Dale’s body into the pocket below the inscription Milo had discovered at the base of the waterfall a lifetime ago One after another, they selected clean, smooth stones from the pooled waters, slowly walling Dale into the tiny chamber.
Bridget hefted the final stone, preparing to place it at the top of the rock wall. Charlie stopped his work—he’d been sorting through the fifteen hundred feet of rope by touch alone, cutting away the frayed sections while braiding together the remaining good lengths for strength.
“This is the last one,” said Bridget, voice echoing in the void. “Should we say something? I know he abandoned us, but he was still a friend.”
Joanne grunted. “I’m done giving any goddamn eulogies,” she said. “Who will say ours when we die down here?”
“Wait—” said Milo, touching Bridget’s arms. “Don’t seal it up yet.”
Everyone probably expected him to speak, but he didn’t. Instead, he went person to person and pack to pack, gathering up the few digital memory cards and written notes. He added the last of his hand-drawn maps to the tiny pile, binding them together with the tattered remains of a rubber band. Milo slipped the data into the hole. He touched Bridget’s arm again and she placed the final rock.
“Now what?” said Joanne.
“Now we climb,” said Charlie, snapping the last braided rope to test the knot. It cracked in the air.
“Seriously?” said Milo, incredulous.
“Sure,” said Charlie. “This shaft is fifteen hundred vertical feet—a classic big wall climb. I did Zodiac on El Capitan last summer; it’s about the same height. It took sixteen pitches, but we reached the summit.”
“It’s not exactly apples to apples, it is?” Bridget objected. “We’re talking about fifteen hundred feet of wet rock, in the dark.”
“Sure—but we’re not carrying much of anything either. We’ll be able to move faster.”
“You need to be a hundred percent blunt with us. Do you have the endurance to do this?”
Charlie sighed. “I don’t know about you, but I feel like I’ve never known my body better. I feel so connected—so alive. I think we can do it. We won’t have enough rope or anchors to lay the whole route. A two-man team would be best. I’d like to have Bridget, but Joanne needs her more. I’ll lead off, set anchors—I�
�ll show Milo how to ascend right up the sections of rope, and then we’ll break down the system for the next pitch. If our people at the surface opened the cave back up again, we’ll coordinate with them to get Bridget and Joanne. If it’s still closed off, I don’t care if Milo and I have to dig our way out—I’m not dying down here.”
“What’s the catch?” said Joanne, probing.
“Well . . . Zodiac took me three days.”
“Three days?” exclaimed Bridget.
“Yeah,” said Charlie. “So best if we get started soon.”
The pain was even more all-encompassing than the darkness. Every one of Milo’s fingers had split open, every joint ached even more than the empty hunger in the pit of his stomach. Every handhold, every foothold, every inch gained came with a fresh wave of pure misery. In the black of the void, Milo couldn’t tell if he was a foot off the bottom or a thousand. The waterfall churned around him, soaking him to the skin, chilling him to the bone.
If the ancients could do it, so can I, thought Milo. But he only felt wetness and dark and pain.
Charlie’s self-mastery was astounding. He knew exactly how strong he was—when to push, when to rest, easily moving up the sheer face. Strong as he had become in the depths, Milo couldn’t keep up. The braided rope between them yanked taut again and again; smacking Milo in the face. He was holding Charlie back.
Milo reached up, feeling for a wet, loose handhold. And then it happened: his hand slipped from the rock, plunging Milo downward. One of his flailing arms snagged a gap between slick stones, catching him fast before his harness snapped tight. His entire shoulder popped from its socket, ripping muscle and tendon into shreds.
The pain shattered him. Jolts of green electricity split his nonexistent vision, blasting through his refuge in Gaston Hall, lighting the savanna of his mind ablaze. Milo screamed into the darkness.
Within moments, Charlie was hanging beside him, holding him, yanking his useless hand from between the rocks and lowering him until the rope went taut. Milo tried to move his dislocated arm, but couldn’t even wriggle a single finger, much less attempt another handhold.
“Cut me free,” gasped Milo, shivering. “Cut the rope—let me drop. My arm is fucked. I’m done for, and you need the line.”
“Please, Milo!” begged Charlie. “Just—just try to make it a little further!”
“Cut it!” screamed Milo, agony in his voice. He used his good arm to pull a small folding knife from his pocket, pressing it into Charlie’s open palm.
Even over the din of the waterfall, Milo could soon hear the sound of knife slicing through a first rope, a second. A flood of relief washed over him; it’d all be over within seconds. He clutched his good arm to his chest, leaning back in his harness, waiting for the final thread to snap, consigning him to ten seconds of weightless falling—and then the release of nothingness, finally free of his pain.
Snap.
Milo opened his eyes, confused. He was still tied to a wall anchor, his rope intact. Charlie had sliced through the line at his own harness, and now clung to the wall with nothing more than his own strength.
“I’ll be back for you,” promised Charlie.
“Don’t do it,” begged Milo. “You can’t free-ascend the shaft—you’re fucking crazy!”
“I’ll be back,” repeated Charlie in a whisper. “Milo, I’ll be back for you. I swear I will. Just hold on for a little longer.”
Milo drifted through time, lost in his mind, lost to his pain. Visions of past and future selves appeared and disappeared before him: the arrogant young upstart; the chastened, heartbroken academic; the pain-wracked, stranded castaway; the man he could have someday become; the children he would never have. For a moment, he thought he heard DeWar’s gently mocking voice drifting up from the depths, questioning his foolish decision to leave the great chamber.
The idea of Charlie free-climbing the shaft was impossible, suicidal. One tiny slip and Milo wouldn’t even hear his twisting body as it whistled by, slamming into the rocks a thousand feet below.
Milo’s useless arm hung by his side. He’d given away the knife, couldn’t even cut himself free. With only one working hand, the rope and harness knots could not be untied. He wondered how many days it’d take before he died of exposure, the powerful waterfall pounding against him, tearing him apart piece by microscopic piece. The same forces that carved the cave over a hundred and fifty million years ago would ultimately reduce his body to nothing, not even leaving a shattered skeleton underneath a crude rock cairn to mark his life.
A single orb of light descended from above, breaking through Milo’s delirium. The light became brighter and brighter, illuminating the seemingly endless shaft and waterfall. And then he saw it—a man-sized metal basket lowered by steel cable, disappearing into the depths below. Even from a thousand feet above, Milo could hear Joanne and Bridget’s echoing cheers.
Lost to pain, exhaustion and relief, Milo passed out, still hanging from the wall.
Milo didn’t remember the basket coming for him. Once minute he was tied to the wall, the next he was in the metal cage as it rocketed up the shaft. Slumped against the aluminum bars, he could only experience the world in blinks and whispers.
A sensation—human hands reached to grasp him as he slid from the basket and onto plastic sheeting at the top of the shaft.
Charlie’s voice cut through confusion of sound and lights—“Yeah, he’s the last one.”
Milo was loaded onto a collapsible stretcher, thick webbing strapping him into place. Men surrounded him, alien-like in their makeshift biohazard suits, masked faces, duct-taped rubber yellow gloves, and blinding headlamps. He stared up at the featureless ceiling of the white plastic tunnel as it passed.
The bodies at the entrance were gone, the metal hatch unburied and removed. Wind roared through the now-open passageway, howling like a hurricane. Still strapped to the gurney, Milo went out of the mouth and into the dark, starlit savanna, as though the eternal void of the cave had followed him into the world.
With no particular ceremony or discussion, Milo was bundled into the back of a plastic-lined military truck. The last thing he saw before the rear doors closed was a single rusted bulldozer slowly clanking toward the cavern entrance, its blade pushing a thick mound of dirt and rock over the open mouth.
EPILOGUE:
EXODUS
In the day ye eate thereof the tree of life,
then your eyes shal bee opened:
and yee shall bee as Gods, knowing good and euill.
Eve tooke of the fruit thereof,
and did eate,
and gaue also vnto her husband with her.
And the eyes of them both were opened,
and they knew that they were naked.
—GENESIS 3:5–7 (KJV, 1611 ABRIDGED)
One year later
Kennedy Center of Performing Arts
Washington, DC
23 feet above sea level
Milo Luttrell leaned back in the plush third-row seat, adjusting the jacket of his English-cut suit. He patted the ticket pocket, feeling the two VIP entrance passes within the soft gray fabric. Bridget sat to his left, absentmindedly touching the string of pearls around her neck as she watched the screen onstage, across which splashed a beautiful montage of Tanzanian savanna and oasis. She wore a shimmering yellow dress of a golden hue not unlike the glow they’d discovered deep within the earth.
The crowd murmured, beginning to clap as the conference keynote speaker entered from the wings. The lights dipped as the music swelled, a single spotlight drawing Charlie Garza to the center of the stage. He wore a tight athletic turtleneck that showed his broad shoulders and muscled arms. Behind him, the slide flicked over to a scene of ruin: a single rusty bulldozer idling before the collapsed entrance of the cave. It next showed the destroyed surface camp, the still-smoldering tents, trailers, and cremated bodies scattered across the grasslands. Charlie’s profile stood tall in the foreground, arms crossed, a look of stee
ly determination in his eyes—a hero.
“This is a story of courage,” began Charlie, voice booming from hidden speakers as he scanned across the two thousand seats, every one of them filled. “This is a story of perseverance. Of sacrifice. When disaster struck my expedition into an uncharted Tanzanian supercave, my team of eight men and women were stranded nearly three thousand feet below the surface of the earth, with no hope of rescue. We soon learned the caverns had already claimed other explorers—in 1901, Lord Riley DeWar and nearly twenty men entered what is now known as Brunsfield’s Cave, never to return. In following their footsteps, our lives nearly ended in the same dark tunnels.”
The crowd murmured as Charlie paused for effect.
“But what I learned in those depths enabled me to save myself and three of my comrades,” he continued. “These lessons in leadership and the capacity of the human spirit changed my life—and it can change yours as well.”
Milo shot Bridget his best well-what-did-you-expect look. She just scowled, already irritated and ready to leave. Charlie continued the self-serving speech, but Milo had stopped listening.
He and Bridget had been hounded by the press for months since their emergence from the earth, journalists of all stripes demanding answers to the disappearance of a renowned Wall Street pharma magnate, the brief flare-up of an ancient virus, and the illegal nature of the expedition itself. Charlie soon appointed himself the survivors’ spokesman and adopted the mantle with great gusto, to the profound relief of the other three. He got his television deal—and a book deal—and a long-term outdoor apparel deal, meaning the rest were more or less left alone.
Bridget quit her job not long after her homecoming; concentrating her efforts instead into NeuroGenysis, her burgeoning Maryland-based biotech startup. Just months in, the industry was already buzzing about her cognitive mapping initiative, a project equal in scope and ambition to the first sequencing of the human genome. The potential medical implications were groundbreaking, to say nothing of the expected benefit to artificial intelligence research and the science of human potential.
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