encircling
them, were two lines. This irregular double circle undulated out and then in again,
almost like the hem of a skirt. Beyond this “hem” were faint indicators of further
“waves,” as of some force emanating from a central body that had left a mark. It resembled
most closely the lines left in sand as the surf recedes during low tide. Except that
something had blurred the lines and made them fuzzy, like charcoal drawings.
This discovery fascinated me. I could not stop staring at the trail, the cilia marks.
I imagined such a creature might correct for the slant of the stairs much like a geo-stabilizing
camera would correct for bumps in a track.
“Have you ever seen anything like that?” the surveyor asked.
“No,” I replied. With an effort, I bit back a more caustic response. “No, I never
have.” Certain trilobites, snails, and worms left trails simple by comparison but
vaguely similar. I was confident no one back in the world had ever seen a trail this
complex or this large.
“What about that ?” The surveyor indicated a step a little farther up.
I trained a light on it and saw a suggestion of a boot print in the residue. “Just
one of our own boots.” So mundane in comparison. So boring.
The light on her helmet shuddered from side to side as she shook her head. “No. See.”
She pointed out my boot prints and hers. This imprint was from a third set, and headed
back up the steps.
“You’re right,” I said. “That’s another person, down here not long ago.”
The surveyor started cursing.
At the time, we didn’t think to look for more sets of boot prints.
* * *
According to the records we had been shown, the first expedition reported nothing
unusual in Area X, just pristine, empty wilderness. After the second and third expeditions
did not return, and their fate became known, the expeditions were shut down for a
time. When they began again, it was using carefully chosen volunteers who might at
least know a measure of the full risk. Since then, some expeditions had been more
successful than others.
The eleventh expedition in particular had been difficult—and personally difficult
for me with regard to a fact about which I have not been entirely honest thus far.
My husband was on the eleventh expedition as a medic. He had never wanted to be a
doctor, had always wanted to be in first response or working in trauma. “A triage
nurse in the field,” as he put it. He had been recruited for Area X by a friend, who
remembered him from when they had both worked for the navy, before he switched over
to ambulance service. At first he hadn’t said yes, had been unsure, but over time
they convinced him. It caused a lot of strife between us, although we already had
many difficulties.
I know this information might not be hard for anyone to find out, but I have hoped
that in reading this account, you might find me a credible, objective witness. Not
someone who volunteered for Area X because of some other event unconnected to the
purpose of the expeditions. And, in a sense, this is still true, and my husband’s
status as a member of an expedition is in many ways irrelevant to why I signed up.
But how could I not be affected by Area X, if only through him? One night, about a
year after he had headed for the border, as I lay alone in bed, I heard someone in
the kitchen. Armed with a baseball bat, I left the bedroom and turned on all the lights
in the house. I found my husband next to the refrigerator, still dressed in his expedition
clothes, drinking milk until it flowed down his chin and neck. Eating leftovers furiously.
I was speechless. I could only stare at him as if he were a mirage and if I moved
or said anything he would dissipate into nothing, or less than nothing.
We sat in the living room, him on the sofa and me in a chair opposite. I needed some
distance from this sudden apparition. He did not remember how
them, were two lines. This irregular double circle undulated out and then in again,
almost like the hem of a skirt. Beyond this “hem” were faint indicators of further
“waves,” as of some force emanating from a central body that had left a mark. It resembled
most closely the lines left in sand as the surf recedes during low tide. Except that
something had blurred the lines and made them fuzzy, like charcoal drawings.
This discovery fascinated me. I could not stop staring at the trail, the cilia marks.
I imagined such a creature might correct for the slant of the stairs much like a geo-stabilizing
camera would correct for bumps in a track.
“Have you ever seen anything like that?” the surveyor asked.
“No,” I replied. With an effort, I bit back a more caustic response. “No, I never
have.” Certain trilobites, snails, and worms left trails simple by comparison but
vaguely similar. I was confident no one back in the world had ever seen a trail this
complex or this large.
“What about that ?” The surveyor indicated a step a little farther up.
I trained a light on it and saw a suggestion of a boot print in the residue. “Just
one of our own boots.” So mundane in comparison. So boring.
The light on her helmet shuddered from side to side as she shook her head. “No. See.”
She pointed out my boot prints and hers. This imprint was from a third set, and headed
back up the steps.
“You’re right,” I said. “That’s another person, down here not long ago.”
The surveyor started cursing.
At the time, we didn’t think to look for more sets of boot prints.
* * *
According to the records we had been shown, the first expedition reported nothing
unusual in Area X, just pristine, empty wilderness. After the second and third expeditions
did not return, and their fate became known, the expeditions were shut down for a
time. When they began again, it was using carefully chosen volunteers who might at
least know a measure of the full risk. Since then, some expeditions had been more
successful than others.
The eleventh expedition in particular had been difficult—and personally difficult
for me with regard to a fact about which I have not been entirely honest thus far.
My husband was on the eleventh expedition as a medic. He had never wanted to be a
doctor, had always wanted to be in first response or working in trauma. “A triage
nurse in the field,” as he put it. He had been recruited for Area X by a friend, who
remembered him from when they had both worked for the navy, before he switched over
to ambulance service. At first he hadn’t said yes, had been unsure, but over time
they convinced him. It caused a lot of strife between us, although we already had
many difficulties.
I know this information might not be hard for anyone to find out, but I have hoped
that in reading this account, you might find me a credible, objective witness. Not
someone who volunteered for Area X because of some other event unconnected to the
purpose of the expeditions. And, in a sense, this is still true, and my husband’s
status as a member of an expedition is in many ways irrelevant to why I signed up.
But how could I not be affected by Area X, if only through him? One night, about a
year after he had headed for the border, as I lay alone in bed, I heard someone in
the kitchen. Armed with a baseball bat, I left the bedroom and turned on all the lights
in the house. I found my husband next to the refrigerator, still dressed in his expedition
clothes, drinking milk until it flowed down his chin and neck. Eating leftovers furiously.
I was speechless. I could only stare at him as if he were a mirage and if I moved
or said anything he would dissipate into nothing, or less than nothing.
We sat in the living room, him on the sofa and me in a chair opposite. I needed some
distance from this sudden apparition. He did not remember how
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