Fall; or, Dodge in Hell - Neal Stephenson Page 0,102

the hypothesis didn’t totally add up. But she’d been too preoccupied with breaking events to pay much attention.

As they came out of a stand of big oaks and maples and broke out into windswept prairie near the brow of the hill, she saw the truth, which was that people had actually been nailed to those crosses and left to die. The lumpy silhouettes she’d seen against the western sky were what remained of those people after bugs, birds, and bacteria had been at them for a while. Bones and synthetic clothing held up pretty well; cotton blue jeans rotted but spandex underwear lasted forever.

Something like a dozen of these things were spaced at intervals along the road as it wound up to the top of the hill. Sophia went into shock after the first one and didn’t return to full awareness until they were pulling into the broken asphalt parking lot at the scenic overlook that topped the hill. Three crosses had been erected here in what was either a meaningless coincidence or a shout-out to the biblical Calvary. Loose bones and skulls were strewn about, commingled with empty beer cans and shell casings. Evidently these crosses were of special significance and so there was a waiting list or something. They were not single-use; space occasionally had to be made for new occupants. All three looked to have been built at the same time (maybe a year or two ago?) by the same work crew. They’d used sturdy glulam beams and joined them at the literal crux with galvanized nail-on brackets, just like framing a suburban home. The one in the middle, and the one to its right, had been occupied for a while and there was not much left of the people who’d been nailed up. They were both men. One was dressed in a black polyester suit that had stood up well to the elements. Nailed to his right hand was a Bible. A clerical collar dangled from one lapel, fluttering in the wind. The corpse to his right was in a formerly white shirt. To his hand was nailed a Book of Mormon.

The third cross was occupied by a living human. As Sophia got out of the SUV and looked up at him, she experienced a moment of déjà vu. Earlier, Joseph’s crew had sent Pete a video of this guy as proof that he was still alive. Shot from below, it had put Sophia in mind of a picture she’d seen in an art history class. Now, standing in the same place, finally she was able to place it: Lamentation of Christ, a study in perspective and foreshortening by an Italian Renaissance painter.

The victim watched curiously as Pete’s men went to work removing the ladders from the SUV’s roof rack.

No one had spoken to him yet. Pete was busy texting a sitrep to Uncle Jake. Sophia said, “Hello. Jake sent us. We have worked out a deal to take you out of here.”

The victim’s breathing was ragged and laborious. He contracted his arms, pulling himself up a few inches, and expanded his chest enough to croak out: “The ladder. Under my feet please.”

“He wants something under his feet!” Sophia exclaimed to the guys who were taking the ladders down. The victim’s feet were at about the altitude of her face and she forced herself to look at them, expecting the worst, but they hadn’t been nailed, they were just dangling. The men slammed a ladder against the vertical and then raised it up from beneath until the victim could get his feet on it. He then stood up and took a deep breath and let out a great sigh of relief.

“Initiate Nail Removal Immediately,” he said. “Sorry. Old joke.”

“On it!” said Cousin Eric, exhibiting a brand-new crowbar, painted bright yellow and encrusted with safety warnings and legal explication.

“There are all these details and nuances connected with crucifixion that I suppose no one knows about anymore, until they reinstate the practice and relearn how it works. It turns out that it’s asphyxiation that kills you,” said the victim.

“Is that right!? You don’t say!” Pete remarked, seeming genuinely fascinated.

“I do say,” the victim returned. He had some hard-to-place accent in which “say” came out like “sigh.” “So if they nail your feet, you actually die slower.”

“Because you have something to push off against?” Sophia guessed.

“Top marks,” said the victim. “You’re the one who’s at Princeton. Jake talks about you.”

“And they didn’t nail your feet because they wanted—” Pete