The second MP of his escort turned and jogged back toward the lightning-filled crack in reality, disappearing into it. Francisco's mind reeled. Joey and the remaining MP—the same guard who'd pistol whipped him—shoved Francisco bodily inside. It was warm in the bunker, although very cramped. There were only four small rooms and no doors, only open doorways. One of the four rooms was a bathroom. The air stank of stale cigarette smoke, urine, sweat, and fear.
"Frank!"
He started. And swung around to see Lucille Collins' white face.
"What—?"
They shoved him in the opposite direction. In one of the corner rooms, they'd stacked up a collection of army cots. Janet Firelli sat crouched next to one of them, holding a young black boy's hand. The child was grey with pain. His eyes were shut. At their footsteps, the slim girl turned, a snarl on her lips. At sight of Francisco, she halted. Her eyes widened fractionally.
"Major Valdez! Hurry!"
They unfastened his wrists and shoved him forward. He put aside the questions crowding into his mind and knelt beside Janet.
"I think it's his appendix," she gulped. "This is Zac Hughes. The Third."
Hostages. The abrupt chill in his blood had not a solitary thing to do with the temperature: inside the bunker or outside in the frozen air.
Francisco checked Zac's pulse and pupils, then pressed lightly on his abdomen. When he let go, the boy screamed. Then fainted. Francisco swore. If it hadn't burst already—which would mean massive infection, peritonitis (and the probable death of Zac Hughes III, no matter what Francisco tried under these conditions)—it was very close to bursting, might well go at any moment. Madre Maria, please don't let it have burst yet, he's just a boy—a prisoner. Help me, so this child doesn't die like this, in this terrible place.
Taking a deep breath for courage, he growled, "Give me the medical bag." Someone complied. He tore Zac's shirt open, exposed the child's belly. He rummaged quickly through his woefully meager supplies. This was a helluva place for emergency surgery.
Better than a battlefield, of course... .
He administered anesthesia, then swabbed Zac's stomach and groin with alcohol and used more to wipe his hands. "Janet, tie that mask around my face, then put one on yourself and scrub your hands with those swabs."
She did so efficiently.
He motioned with his head to the gauze sponges and clamps he'd laid aside. "I hope you don't faint at the sight of blood, Janet. When I say 'sponge' reach in and swab up for me."
She gulped and nodded, then obeyed as Francisco made the incision.
She didn't faint. Didn't even make a sound after an initial whimper. She did make a fine nurse, everything considered. Mostly she did exactly as she was told and kept out of his way.
He finished suturing the incision closed, reached for a fresh alcohol wipe, and cleaned the area in and around the stitches. Then he reached for gauze and tape. Janet watched wordlessly and handed him a clean towel from somewhere for him to wipe his hands.
Then she burst into sobs. "I'm sorry—I'm sorry—" He reached out and hugged her.
"You did just fine, Janet. Your mother would be very proud."
That only brought fresh sobs.
"How touching."
Francisco turned to glare at the man in the Hawaiian shirt. He lolled in the doorway. Francisco noticed a pistol stuck casually in the waistband of his jeans. Stupid way to carry a firearm....
"Who are you?"
The man grinned and touched fingertips to brow in a mock salute. "Your jailor, doc. Welcome to cell block Alaska."
"His name is Bill," Janet said in a dull voice. "He works for somebody named Carreras. We're hostages, Major Valdez."
Bill gave him another jaunty mock salute.
"I figured that out," Francisco muttered, "but what for?"
She shook her head. "It has something to do with my mother's work. I'm not sure what. She's very close-mouthed when it comes to classified research. But I do know the general thrust of her work before she began this project. Before she was approached for this project," she added significantly.
"And?"
Janet glared at Bill, who was still grinning down at them.
"We're still in Alaska," she said dully. "But I wouldn't advise trying to escape. It wouldn't do a whole lot of good."
"Why not?" he asked irritably.
"Because we're about thirty-thousand years in the past."
She was serious. Francisco felt strangely disconnected and quite suddenly very, very afraid. Those ice sheets. And brown shapes that had looked vaguely elephantine... Bill began to chuckle.
Janet added, "Not only is there nowhere to go, we're stranded in the middle of the Pleistocene Ice Age. It's twenty below out there, without windchill. Last week, the wooly mammoth herds started migrating south for the winter, through the ice-free corridor. I figure the nearest people live somewhere in the middle of Russia, if Russia had any Cro-Magnons. Or would it be Paleo-Indians? Uh, I'm afraid anthropology isn't my thing."
Her eyes were bleak.
Francisco didn't want to believe her. But he'd seen the... thing... they'd taken him through. And that brown, moving mass he'd seen in the distance... It really had looked like a herd of elephants. Brown ones. With lots and lots of hair. And enough ivory on each beast to put a modern elephant to shame.
"We're treated pretty well, everything considered," Janet said in a low, scared voice. "They need us."
It occurred to Francisco Valdez in that cramped, foul little room, that he had no family to hold hostage. He was entirely superfluous now that Zac Hughes' life was out of danger. And he knew far, far too much about these people—whoever they were—for them to risk letting him get back alive.
Something dull and scared in Janet Firelli's eyes told him she knew it, too. Bill's laughter echoed in his ears.
Chapter Thirteen
Sibyl roused to sounds of panic. Screams, crashes, running footsteps... Above those sounds was an awesome, earthshaking noise. Vesuvius. She tried to move, then groaned, instead. Nothing seemed to be working properly and she was mortally certain she did not want to try moving again.
Sibyl tried to move, anyway. She had to get out of the house before the real eruption started. The steam explosions had already begun. Which meant the main eruption couldn't be more than minutes away. Sibyl rolled over and tried to gain her knees. Pain stabbed through her belly, her groin, her back. She sobbed aloud. She wouldn't have to wait for the volcano to kill her. She felt as though she were bleeding to death where she lay.
She heard Bericus shouting orders to bring out the spare carriage and heavy wagon. Then he vanished from her awareness. She was alone in the peristyle garden under a hot, sunlit sky, with the ground shaking so violently she knew it might be only seconds before the walls started to go.
Sibyl tried again to gain her knees. She cast a frantic glance upward. The sky was still a flawless, burning blue. She twisted to peer at the volcano. Her eyes widened. Vesuvius steamed. Billowing clouds of white vapor, mixed with grey ash and rock, rose majestically from the crater. The sight brought a chill to her spine.
The mountain had barely begun to blow open, after so many years of somnolence. Some poor shepherd or two had probably just died a violent death, along with the flocks which had routinely been driven up there to graze in the old caldera. First to die. But not the last, by a long, long shot.