Pathros Ascending — Prologue

PATHROS ASCENDING

By S. A. Krammer

Prologue

A thousand years’ solitude came to a crashing end.

“Well, by the left cheek of my ex’s rump, whaddawe have here?” Gordon’s vulgar mutterings, already muffled by his respirator mask, were drowned out by the resonating sound of rocks tumbling down even deeper into the aphotic jaws of the chasm.

Jarom peered through the cloud of dirt that had been flung up in the wake of the collapse, just barely making out the silhouette of his fellow worker. Aside from all of the dust in the air, the dim lighting in the Aiex Crack made didn’t make it any easier to see.

I sure hate this job.

“You say somethin’, Gord?” called out Miles, the gruffness of his voice still recognizable through the respirator’s muffling.

Gordon took a moment to respond, so Jarom took a step forward, Miles following suit.

Can’t see a thing down here.

It was always dark in the Cracks. Even if sunlight could penetrate the murk, the Cracks were hundreds of feet deep, and the overhanging shelves of rock prevented even the smallest particle of light from getting by. All they had to go by was their headlamps, and even those had to be very low, so as not to damage the Aiex pools.

“Hey,” came Gordon’s muted voice once again. The dust had settled enough that Jarom could see his co-worker motioning for them to come forward. “you folks had better check this out for yourself.”

“What?” asked O’Hanson, following close behind Jarom and Miles. “Did we open up another cache?”

That would be nice, mused Jarom, then we’d be done and we could get out of this pit.

“Just get over here!”

As Jarom approached Gordon, cautious about his footing on the narrow ledge, he could see that his co-worker was running his hand over something on the rock wall. He couldn’t make out what it was until he got closer.

A pattern?

“What the crap is that?” asked Thompson, in his regular, ticked off tone of voice. He had been following just behind O’Hanson.

“You tell me,” was Miles’ gruff reply.

“Seriously, man, I thought they hadn’t tried expanding in this direction before? Who the crap drew those wacky designs?”

“Thompson, watch the language!” insisted an annoyed O’Hanson.

“Oh come on, ‘crap’ ain’t that bad! Have you heard the words they used to say?” argued Thompson.

“That was then. People have a gained a bit of dignity in the past hundred years.”

“Yeah, well I didn’t!”

“Will you two shut it!” came Gordon’s voice. “Look at this!”

For a moment they all stared at the large, helical pattern on the rock surface. Two thick lines, spiraling inward, meeting around a small circle. It was a big design, probably over six feet in diameter. At first glance, Jarom thought it had been painted on, but as he noticed Gordon’s hand reach in, he realized that is had been etched into the wall.

“So, what the crap?” O’Hanson restrained himself, not hitting Thompson. “It’s just some swirly design. My nephew can draw crap like that on my sister’s walls,”

“I said to shut it, Thompson. This isn’t just some child’s scribblings; this has been carved into the wall.”

“By who?” asked Miles. “Thompson has a point: we were told to expand the Crack in this direction because we hadn’t been here before.”

“Obviously, but what does that say about this design?” asked O’Hanson.

Jarom studied the wall more closely. His gaze drifted around the pattern, observing some additional markings on the perimeter. In the form of a box around the pattern was a deep impression, about an inch wide. He stretched forth his arm, gliding his fingers along the impression, only to find that it was deeper than he thought.

Thats not a part of the pattern.

“This looks old,” commented Gordon. “When do you think it was made?”

“Couldn’t say,” admitted the gruff voiced Miles. “I think this Crack was discovered about forty years ago.”

“Y’know,” started Jarom, finally speaking. “I don’t think this is just a design.” Jarom’s comment was followed by an assortment of “huh’s” from the rest of the crew, and he continued. “Look at this crack, boxing it in. It goes deep. I think this is some kind of a door.”

“Who the crap would put a door at the bottom of this pit?”

“Thompson, we’re far from the bottom,” responded Miles, reminding everyone of their position on the ledge, the abysmal chasm only a few steps behind them.

O’Hanson pointed to one of the markings on the perimeter of the pattern. “Hey, that marking sticks out, rather than sinking in.”

“And so does this one, over here,” added Gordon, pointing to one on the opposite end.

“Hey, maybe their doorbells. Go ahead an push ‘em,” suggested Thompson, continuing to make light of the situation.

Despite the sarcastic nature of Thompson’s remark, Gordon went ahead and pushed on one of them. To their surprise, it went in. Gordon stepped back in shock.

“Crap, man! I wasn’t serious!”

“O’Hanson, push that one in,” ordered Gordon.

“You sure, Gord?”

“Of course. If it’s a door, it’s meant to be opened.”

Hesitantly, O’Hanson pushed in on the other marking. It, too, went in.

An ageless creation came to life, once again.

A moment after the second marking was pushed in, a grinding sound was heard on the other side of the wall. The crew took a step back.

“Great! What did we do?”

“Shut it, Miles!”

The grinding sound got louder, and was soon accompanied by a rhythmic clanking.

What are we doing? I should have kept my mouth shut.

The grinding was almost a roar, as the circle at the center of the pattern sunk into the wall. The rest of the box shape sunk into the wall, and at a nearly invisible, hairline crack that ran down the center, it parted. The now two slabs of sold stone slid back behind the door, revealing a pitch-black passageway.

“Crap, man. Crap.”

Then came the roaring. The grinding sound was almost drowned out completely, as a powerful wind roared out of the passageway. When the force hit him, Jarom was knocked back on his haunches, as was the whole crew, save Gordon. Gordon shouted as he was hurled into the depths of the chasm, but was soon silenced as he impacted with whatever was down there.

For what seemed like hours, Jarom and the rest of the crew clung to the rocky ledge for dear life while the wind blew over them. In reality, the wind lasted only a matter of minutes, and then it lessened enough for them to stand. It still howled as it made its way out of the Crack.

“Gordon!” Miles was already crouched over the ledge, shouting for his lost friend. “Gord!”

O’Hanson placed a hand on Miles’ shoulder, struggling to cover the trembling in his voice. “He’s gone, Miles. People don’t survive when they fall in the Cracks. He’s gone.”

“Thompson, radio J-7,” ordered Jarom. “Let ‘em know what’s happened.”

As Thompson, trembling violently, fumbled with the controls on his radio, Jarom crawled over to the passageway’s entrance. The light from his headlamp hardly illuminated the dark corridor.

“J-7, this is Hugh Thompson, do you copy?”

Miles was pounding the ground with his fist, now, and O’Hanson simply sat by him, shaking his head.

“Listen, we found something down here, but we. . . we lost Gordon. Hank Gordon, he fell in the—”

The grinding began again. This time, it was louder, and seemed to be coming from all around them.

Sounds like the grinding of old gears, Jarom thought, covering his ears.

“What the crap! What the crap!” repeated Thompson, having tossed the radio aside.

Grinding, clanking, banging. The sounds reverberated all around them, almost at a deafening volume.

Then the shaking began. With every clank, the walls of the Crack shuddered. The grinding seemed to send a constant tremor through the stone. The crew looked around in fear, unsure of what was happening.

“Hugh Thompson, do you copy? Hugh Thom—” The static voice from the radio was silenced as a rock from above crushed it, as well as Thompson’s leg.

“Gaaaaaah!”

As the walls continued to shake, rocks, large and small, fell from the walls and ledges above.

It’s over. We’re dead.

As a large ledge from above came loose, Jarom’s thoughts were brought to life.

Pathros was awakening.

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