by Tim Champlin
“I see…” Ross looked from one to the other. “It’s a long shot, but sounds as if finding one of those inclined tunnels might be our only chance. What do both of you think?”
Angeline shook her head. “I’m totally out of my element here. It’s up to you two. I know nothing about mines.”
“I might be totally wrong, but I think that’s probably our best hope,” Scrivener said. “But we need to find one that goes to the outside, and doesn’t terminate in a vertical shaft. To do that from where we are, I think we’ll have to descend to a lower level. For ventilation and communication, miners dig winzes which connect one level to another. If we can find one of those, it’ll be a quicker way to go deeper in hopes of finding an inclined tunnel.”
“If both of you are agreeable, let’s get to it. We’re wasting candlelight sitting here.”
This time, instead of crawling back through the hole over the collapsed pile, they decided to try the tunnel leading off the opposite side of the vertical shaft. Scrivener’s sense of direction told them it led toward the east side of the mountain. Tracks for ore cars had been laid in this tunnel and soon curved to the right and began to slope gently downward, apparently following some long-gone vein of ore. They walked more than five hundred paces before Ross lost count, and they stopped to rest.
Using the angle of the grade, Ross calculated they’d now descended more than six hundred feet beneath the surface where they’d first entered the mine. The air grew stagnant, the flame smaller. At a brief rest stop, Ross said: “How many matches do you have?”
Scrivener fished the stick matches from his vest pocket. “Seven.”
“Why don’t you give us two each and keep the other three. Then, if something unexpected happens, any of us will have the means to light the candle.”
“Good idea.” Scrivener divided the supply.
They moved on. The candle continued to burn, low and slow. It would now last longer, but all three of them were also having slightly more difficulty breathing, and had to pause more often to rest in the warmer atmosphere.
Down and down they went. “Maybe this is the angled tunnel,” Ross said, breaking into a silence of scuffing feet and harsh breathing. “It does have tracks in it for the giraffes to run on.”
“I…don’t think so,” Scrivener panted. “An angled tunnel would not curve like this…and it would be a little steeper.”
The deeper they went, the hotter the air became, until they had to shed their coats, vests, and shirts. Angeline dropped her cape and left it. Her low-cut, sleeveless dress was tattered and streaked with dirt. Deeper into the earth and closer to Dante’s hell, Ross thought. He’d stopped counting his paces, but they were at least one thousand to twelve hundred feet down and the temperature was over a hundred degrees. Steaming hot water was oozing from crevices in the walls, and the whole atmosphere began to feel like a Turkish bath. Sweat streamed down their faces and necks and chests, soaking their clothing. Their skin, in the yellow light, shone like it was oiled. Breathing became more difficult even though they were on a downgrade. Apparently this led nowhere, and Ross was about to suggest they return, when Scrivener called: “There!”
“What?”
The editor held up the candle. “See…a connecting passage up ahead.”
They moved on through the moist heat of rising vapor.
“An intersecting tunnel,” Scrivener said, moving into it and holding the candle high. “This is one of those angled tunnels!” he exclaimed, sounding more excited than he’d been since their ordeal began.
Ross and Angeline crowded up to look over his shoulder.
“See? It runs along level for a few yards, then angles up.”
“Oh, no!” Ross groaned.
“What’s wrong?”
“That gray mud, or clay, is blocking the way.”
The three crept forward to where the tunnel was overflowed to a depth of more than two feet by what appeared to be molten lava.
“What’s this stuff?” Angeline asked.
“At these depths, the heat and the moisture create a viscous clay that oozes into any open spaces,” the editor said. “When the mine was active, the miners had to keep cutting the stuff away as it continually invaded the tunnels they’d just dug out.”
“It’s stayed hellishly hot,” Ross observed. “Any way we can cross it without burning ourselves?”
“It’s still thick and glutinous underneath, and would take your skin off nearly as quick as live steam,” Scrivener said. “But the surface has cooled a little,” he said, carefully touching the mass with a fingertip.
“It’s like hot quicksand, then,” Angeline said. “It won’t hold our weight, and, if we sink down, we’ll be scalded.”
“It’s only about ten feet wide,” Scrivener said. “See if you can find a plank to lay across it.”
A quick search proved fruitless.
“Here’s a twelve-by-twelve upright that’s partially rotted,” Ross said. “If we can kick it down, that might work.”
They pushed and pulled and kicked at it, desperation lending strength to their efforts. All the while, the candle continued to burn, dwindling like an hourglass, shrinking like their hopes.
“Damned thing’s wedged tighter than it looks!” Ross gasped, sweat stinging his eyes.
“Yeah, they really cleaned up in this mine when they quit,” Scrivener said. “No broken picks or shovels left behind to use as tools. Wish we could wrench up one of these iron rails to use as a pry bar.”
A vicious kick finally dislodged the post and it toppled over, followed by several cubic yards of the ceiling that collapsed in a billowing heap. The men leaped back just in time to keep from being crushed.
“Guess that post was holding up more than I thought.”
Ross and Scrivener hoisted each end of the heavy timber, lugged it a few feet, and stood it on end at the edge of the amorphous mass of steaming clay. They let it fall across the crusted ooze. It sank a few inches, then stopped.
“I’ll try it first,” Ross volunteered. “If it’ll hold my weight, it’ll hold yours.”
He hopped up onto the end of the beam and lightly cat-walked his way to the other end and dropped off. “It’s good,” he said, “Wide enough to keep your balance, too.”
“Angeline, rip a foot of material off the bottom of that dress,” Scrivener said, “so you won’t step on it. Use your arms for balance.”
She sat on the floor and managed to tear a ragged strip off the bottom of the long dress.
“Whew, that’s cooler, too,” she said, standing up in her high-buttoned shoes with thick, elevated heels. She scampered across with no trouble. “Just like crossing a creek on a log when I was a girl.” She laughed.
Her lilting voice was the happiest thing Ross had heard since they were forced into this trap.
Scrivener made it only after he’d nearly overbalanced, but managed to leap off at the other end, Ross catching him.
They looked up the slope of tunnel. “Well, it’s this or nothing,” Ross said, taking the candle from Angeline. “I’d guess we have no more than five hours of light. No time to go back, even if we wanted to. At least, we’re headed in the right direction…up.”
He fastened his eyes on the outer edge of the circle of light and started forward, leading them. The inclined plane made walking tiring. Their breathing in the fetid air became more labored. Ross’s legs began to ache. Finally he paused. “How long we been down here, Martin?”
Scrivener consulted his watch. “Hmmm…my watch stopped. Must’ve banged it on something.”
“I’m thirsty and hungry,” Angeline said, slumping to the floor.
Ross hunkered next to her, afraid if he sat down, he’d have trouble getting up.
The editor leaned against the wall. “We might find some water up above,” he said. “Water will take away the hunger pangs for a while. And we can live a lot longer without food than we can without water.”
Ross pulled Angeline to her feet and
they plodded on.
After a time, Ross fell into a dull routine where he thought of nothing beyond placing one foot ahead of the other—no vision of the future or the past, focused on one goal only, and that was to reach the end of this tunnel, and hopefully the real world above.
“Seems a lot farther up than it was down,” Ross panted.
“You forget we might be already past the level of the bottom of that hoisting shaft where we started,” Scrivener said. “And we’re walking uphill now. We could be angling toward another exit on the flank or shoulder of the mountain.”
Ross had no way of knowing how long they’d walked, but they finally all reached the point of exhaustion, their candle burning dangerously low.
“Let’s stop and rest for a while,” Scrivener said, panting. “I just want to lie down and close my eyes for a bit.”
“Then we should douse our light to save the candle,” Ross said. He knew their fatigue was brought on, in part, by the bad air.
“We’ll sleep for a few hours, then go on,” Scrivener added.
Once they were settled more or less comfortably on the floor, Ross said: “Here goes the light.” He snuffed the candle and nearly caught his breath at the sooty blackness that seemed to smother them. He took several deep breaths just to assure himself they were surrounded by air. Then he rolled up the shirt and jacket he’d been carrying and made a pillow for Angeline to keep her head off the rocky floor.
Ross’s fatigue and lack of proper oxygen drugged him into a sleep within a few minutes. But, in that few minutes before oblivion overtook him, he heard an eerie creaking in the distance. Except that he was stationary, he could have been hearing the creaking and groaning of a ship’s timbers as it wallowed in a windless seaway. That sound was etched in his memory from the months-long voyage around Cape Horn on his way West. Ross attached no significance to the sound as he slid into an exhausted, dreamless sleep.
A piercing scream wrenched him awake. He jerked upright, instantly alert. “Angeline! What’s wrong?” Had she lapsed into madness?
“Light the candle! Something alive just ran over my face!”
“Martin!”
“I’m here. You have the candle.”
Ross pulled out a match and struck it on the wall, but it didn’t light. “Damn!” He felt of the match. The head was soft and crumbly.
“Oh, my God, there it is again,” she whimpered, hysteria in her voice.
“Martin, see if you have a dry match.”
While the editor fumbled for a light, Ross heard tiny squeaks and scratchings and felt something brush past his pants legs.
“Rats!” he said, a shiver going up his back. “Don’t worry, Angeline. Stand over here by me. They won’t hurt you.” He reached out in the blackness and pulled her close between himself and the wall.
Scrivener muttered a curse under his breath. “All three of mine are too damp to light. Must’ve been that steamy heat back yonder.”
They tried one of Angeline’s matches with the same result. “Be careful not to rub the head off the one or two we have left. Maybe they’ll dry out later.”
Even in total darkness, it was good to have company, knowing two friends were close by, sharing the fear.
Once again came the sound of timbers creaking and groaning, this time louder than before. A loud crack startled them. Was someone else down here? Maybe searchers trying to signal them?
“Was that a gunshot?” Angeline asked.
“The mountain is settling, stressing the support timbers,” Ross replied. “Nothing to get alarmed about. But that loud popping worries me. That was one of those big timbers breaking.”
“Oh.”
Every few seconds, the timbers shrieked and groaned as they were squeezed and bent by the overpowering earth.
“Gil!” Scrivener said in a low, urgent voice.
“What?”
“Those rats are all running in the same direction…uphill. They can sense a cave-in. Let’s go with them!”
“I’ll lead,” Ross said. “Single file. Angeline, hang onto my belt. Martin, you bring up the rear and grip her hand so we stay together. Run as fast as you can. If you have to stop…then yell.”
She grabbed his belt with one hand.
“Ready, Martin?”
“Go!”
Ross sprinted ahead. For the first few steps, until they got into rhythm, they stumbled on each other’s heels. Then Ross settled into guessing where the ore car rails were, and tried to step between them. The warm, foul air filled with a chorus of high-pitched squeaking. Hundreds of tiny nails skittered along the floor as swarms of unseen rodents darted past them.
“Oh!” Angeline shrieked. “One of those rats clawed my bare leg!”
“Keep running!” Ross panted.
Now and then his own foot came down on a soft body and his ankle rolled, nearly throwing him against the wall. The rats were in a panic and would bite at anything, but he ignored them and concentrated on running. Angeline’s drag on his belt, and the added strain of Martin holding onto her, made Ross feel he was pulling a train all by himself. Like running in a nightmare, he couldn’t seem to move his legs fast enough. His lungs began to burn; his breath whistled between his teeth.
Somewhere behind, timbers screeched in their death agony. A hollow boom, like distant artillery, echoed up the passageway. Then began a low growl that grew louder by the second until it was a long, continuous ripping thunder. The tunnel was collapsing on itself. A rush of heated wind swept over them—the hot breath of a pursuing hell they couldn’t outrun.
Chapter Nineteen
“Run!” Ross shouted. One last desperate dash for life was all that remained. They let go of each other and sprinted for their lives. In the blackness, Ross had been conscious of tripping or turning an ankle on the rails in the floor. Now, he ran flat out, knowing only that he must outdistance the horror behind him. They knew what that ripping thunder meant, and it had to stop caving before it reached them or they’d be buried like three ants.
Long seconds dragged by and Ross increased his lung-straining effort, aware of the other two close on his heels. Angeline screamed. Ross heard it above the thunder and slowed to help. He fumbled for her in the dark where she’d fallen, and dragged her to her feet. Scrivener collided with them and went down.
“Grab her arm!” Ross yelled.
The men seized her from either side and propelled her forward, dragging her faster than she could run in the high-heeled button shoes. No longer could Ross hear the squealing rats above the ground-shaking thunder closing on them. He ricocheted off one of the vertical timbers in the narrow tunnel, and tried to move a little ahead of Angeline to miss the next obstruction.
“We can’t…make it!” she wailed.
“Run!”
Sobbing for air, she wind-milled her legs ever faster to keep up with her body.
Ross’s eyes were wide open, but saw nothing but blackness. The dusty, smothering presence grew closer and louder, crashing and thundering, preparing to swallow them. His lungs burned and he began to see spots before his eyes. He blinked and they went out. He looked and saw it was really there—one spot, bouncing in his vision, making it look like two or three. A gray spot of light some distance ahead.
“Look!” he shouted, with no breath for more words.
Adrenaline gave him a surge of energy and his feet flew over the ground, lightening Angeline’s weight. He smelled no freshness; air was being forced out of the mine. Could the spot be a mirage, some apparition created by his panicked brain? He had to reach that spot or die, and they had only seconds.
The spot increased in size until it was at least five feet square. It was real!
The roar drowned his senses. With one hand on Angeline’s arm, he lunged the last few feet to the opening. They burst out into daylight and went rolling down the steep hill, barely missing the remains of a wooden platform. Scrivener came tumbling out a second later, sliding down a pile of loose rocks.
Like a
roaring cannon, a cloud of dust mushroomed from the mouth of the tunnel and they were sprayed with rock fragments. Then the rumbling slowly settled into silence, and the chirping of small sparrows in the nearby brush met his ears.
Ross lay on his back, gasping for several seconds, unable to suck enough air into his lungs. He thought for a moment he might still die if his heart burst from the exertion. He must concentrate on living, and to that end he lay still and breathed as best he could for another long minute or two. Gradually his breathing began to steady, and he could gather enough strength to say: “Angeline? Martin?”
He heard them groan and mumble. It was enough. They were alive. It was the best sound he’d heard in two days.
He rolled over onto one elbow. It was either dawn or dusk. The sky was clear, but the sun wasn’t up. He crawled on hands and knees to Angeline. She lay with her eyes wide open, gasping, appearing utterly spent.
Scrivener was sitting up, wiping a hand across his grimy face, looking stunned. Small rodents darted here and there and rustled out of sight into the sagebrush, as the escaped rats sought shelter.
A layer of dust coated the membranes in Ross’s nose, but the desert air was still the sweetest fragrance ever. He inhaled deeply, thinking that he’d never take his life for granted again.
“Escaped, by God,” Scrivener breathed. “By the thickness of a sheet of my newspaper.”
“If it hadn’t been daylight, I never would’ve seen that opening,” Ross said. “And we probably wouldn’t have made it.”
“Blind luck or Divine Providence?” Scrivener said.
“Depends on what you believe.”
Angeline rolled over and sat up. She was scratched and bleeding from several small cuts, blue dress ripped and hanging down, revealing one breast, dirt streaking her bare shoulders and arms. She brushed her dusty brown hair from her eyes. “I’ve never heard a symphony at the opera house that sounded as good as those sparrows chirping,” she said in an exhausted, reverent tone.