Nothing felt right the next day, not from the moment we left the flyer. There was the steaming, oppressive heat, everything wet and dripping even though it was no longer raining, and there were strange whimpering noises; a long, haunted caw; incredibly loud clicking sounds; the only signs of animal life in this jungle.
We were all wearing breathers, and we climbed down the vine-choked trees to reach ground level, then made our way slowly toward the star-shaped building near the center of this----what? Town? Settlement? Industrial complex? Memorial? We still didn't know. Maybe when we explored the building we would have a better idea.579Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡXdU1gTSt3m
When we reached the central building, we worked our way to the door we'd identified the day before. It was mostly glass, like the walls. Donald raised his stone burner, but I stopped him before he could fire the weapon.
"Wait," I said, my hand on Donald's arm. I took hold of the metal door handle, pushed, then pushed harder, but nothing happened. Then I pulled instead, and the door swung easily open. After pausing a few moments, I stepped inside.579Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡUAMRyASk6m
Though stale, the air was cooler and lighter, and we no longer needed the breathers. I led the way on a cursory inspection of the star sections. We felt obliged to do so, although all of us were anxious to move on to the central area and the still-functioning machinery. We briefly examined the furniture, the tables and desks, and the hanging, cushioned baskets that seemed like strange, hovering chairs; we stepped over massive cables, some of them no longer connected to anything at either end; we peered into half-filled metal vats, wondering at the composition of the liquid and its purpose; we noted shredded fabric hanging from the ceiling and dried tracks of color smeared on some of the glass walls.579Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡYhLCVGy5ly
At last we came full circle back to the open door. Once again I took the lead, and we moved toward the central section. There was a broken ring of consoles ten meters across, seven equal sections divided by narrow, shallow steps leading down toward a central circular section slightly lower than ground level. Colored lights glowed and flickered on the consoles---tiny amber squares, rotating green spirals, an occasional blinking red circle. But there were no markings, no words or characters or numbers, no dials or toggles or buttons. What purpose could all this serve?
"Is it real?" I wondered aloud.
"What do you mean?" Donald asked. He tapped at one of the consoles with his stone burner, producing a loud ringing. "We're not imagining this.
"He's suggesting it might be a mock-up," Father O'Heron said; I nodded. "Empty metal casings with some lighted displays unconnected to anything."
"Why would anyone do that?"
I shrugged. I pointed at a metal handle attached to a circular cap on the floor, by the bottom step nearest me. "This looks like an airlock handle," I said. "And look." There were six others, one at the bottom of each of the steps.
I walked awkwardly down the steps---they were unnaturally shallow and long, and my club foot didn't help me any. I crouched beside the handle, gripped it, and twisted. It turned easily one quarter revolution, then would go no further.
We waited, looking around, but nothing happened. "Let's give all of them a try," I said.
The others descended the steps and fanned out, each to a handle, I to a second. Four more handles turned one quarter revolution each. Still nothing; Cree and I moved to the last two. Looking at each other, we turned them almost in unison.
The floor opened up, dilating. Fortunately none of us had gone farther than the handles so no one dropped through the hole that was now forming in the middle of the building.
No, it was not exactly a hole, for there was a spiral flight of stairs leading eight or nine meters down to a dimly lit floor.
Father O'Heron was closest to the stairs, so she started down first, and we followed. Our steps echoed with a muffled quality which sounded unnatural. The air was musty, as if it had been trapped for decades.
We gathered at the bottom before the outline of a wide door in the wall. There was a simple, metal handle. Father O'Heron gripped it, pulled upward, and pushed the door. There was resistance at first, then the door swung inward; at the same time there was a sound like a giant breathing in, and a breeze was drawn past us into whatever rooms lay behind the door.
A loud and terrible racket erupted, clattering sounds like dozens of hollowed stone wind chimes, and lights were coming on, spitting and flashing into life, nearly blinding us. Then the stench hit us, working its way against the breeze still blowing inward, not quite overwhelming, but strong and invasive, sticky sweet and rotting and musty and acrid burning all at once, driving its way through our nostrils and into our brains.
We stood stunned and unmoving, and now, finally, we were starting to make out with blinking and stinging eyes what it was that filled the vast chamber beyond the wide, open doorway.....
Bones.
Hanging bones. Skeletons rattling and clattering in the air currents; tightly woven ropes knotted on large and vicious hooks embedded in the ceiling, then noosed around the nearly fleshless racks of discolored skeletons with skulls grinning and staring at us from shadowed, empty sockets.
Nobody moved. Nobody said a word.
How many were there? How many hanging skeletons in this chamber that seemed to stretch on endlessly in all directions? Too many to distinguish. Too many to count.
Only gradually did more details become apparent---not because they had been hidden, but because it was all too much to take in at once, and only bit by bit could it be processed; maybe not even then; perhaps there would never be enough time to assimilate everything we saw in this chamber. That, after all, might be best.579Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡk0cTmABP6v
The skeletons were not totally stripped clean. On most there still remained dangling strips of leatherlike skin, translucent strings of sinew, the reflection of metallic wrist bands, stray tufts of hair caught in splintered bone.
Looking more closely now, I saw that some of the bones were broken, crushed, particularly the fingers and toes, digits missing or barely hanging on with bits of cartilage or ligament. But there were occasional signs of damage to the larger bones, too, and, more rarely, to a few of the skulls.
The air currents had died down, and the skeletons swung more slowly now; there was less clacking and clattering, quieter now, though just as disturbing. The left wall was fifteen meters and two dozen skeletons away, the right wall the same, but the far wall was beyond view---all we could see were more skeletons, stretching endlessly into the distance----literally hundreds, I guessed. Thousands? It was horribly possible.
Father O'Heron was the first to move, the first to step farther into the chamber. The skeletons were not lined up in rows, and they were so close to one another that there was no way to move among them without grazing the bones. As Father O'Heron worked her way toward the back, she set some of the skeletons swinging and clattering again. I followed, making my own path, making my own terrible music.
There were hundreds of b ones scattered about the floor, strips of decayed flesh, pools and smears of viscous fluid. Just as it was impossible to avoid brushing against the hanging skeletons, so it was impossible to avoid stepping on bone or in thick, sticking liquid as I moved through the room. I pushed through the skeletons in a daze, barely able to maintain my balance, my thoughts frozen in place, my body hardly able to function.
Ragged gouges across a kneecap, more gouges in a cheekbone. Scorch marks on some of the hands and feet, and I could only hope they were postmortem, but I suspected, given everything else I'd seen, that they weren't. A caved-in skull; a large patch of dark leathery skin flapping at a clavicle; an entire chest of cracked and broken ribs.
Father O'Heron had stopped, frozen in place. I made my way to her side, and my breath caught as I saw what she saw: the broken, cracked, damaged, tortured skeletons of children!
Whatever the reasons, this felt so much more terrible, making breathing difficult for me. I opened my mouth, but I couldn't speak. Something should have been said, something should have been asked, but I couldn't imagine what it would be.
After some time----I had no idea how long----Father O'Heron and I pressed on, past the bones of the children.
Glimpses of the far wall could now be seen, which meant, at least, an end to this. If there could be an end, I mean. We pushed through the last of the hanging skeletons, desperate and faster now, although it meant violently rattling the bones.
But we were still not prepared for the final sight. We reached the end of the chamber, emerged form the hanging skeletons, and found ourselves staring in horror.
Impaled on hooks projecting from the back wall of the chamber were the ruined skeletons of twenty-five or thirty infants. Bloodstained hooks protruded from the infants' chests and necks, through shattered ribs and throats. Crushed fingers and toes. Charred flesh and bone. Broken teeth and desiccated eye sockets and wisps of torn and delicate hair.
Babies!
"No," Father O'Heron whispered. She started to cry, shaking her head slowly to and fro, the tears streaming down her cheeks. I could do nothing but stand motionless at her side, unable to move, unable to speak, unable to comfort either her or myself.579Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡH7blcP5T1z
