Nearby, the girl and Colin Morrissey had begun moaning loudly.
"Whatever they used on you all must be wearing off," Nikki said. "Matt, we ought to check that cabinet."
"Don't leave me," Sid cried. "I can't move my legs."
"We'll be back."
Nikki set him back down and took Matt's arm as they made their way around the mass of barrels, many of which had spilled their oily contents onto the stone floor. Surprisingly, a number of them, mostly those at the bottom of the pyramid, remained secure.
"Why do you suppose Grimes knocked them out with an injection and not a bullet in the head?" Nikki asked.
"I suspect he was hedging his bets against the remote possibility that anyone ever dug in here and found us. There would be no evidence we were all murdered. A tour group, maybe, or else some environmentalists unfortunate enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Hell, mines and explosions are like Thanksgiving and turkey — especially this mine."
The river, about ten feet wide, flowed from their left to right with a modest current, its surface a foot or so below the floor of the cave. Two flat bridges with rustic wooden railings had been built across it, but one of those had been destroyed by several enormous chunks of rock. The river was already having difficulty negotiating the obstruction, and some water behind the new dam had begun splashing over the stone bank onto the cavern floor. The second bridge looked passable.
"If this place begins to fill with water," Matt said, "which do you think will happen first? We suffocate, or we drown?"
"We're going to find a way out of here, Dr. Rutledge," she replied firmly. "Any more negative thinking on your part will be dealt with most severely."
"Well, let me ask you this way: Do you think we should be focusing our energies and oxygen on getting out of here or on stabilizing everyone who's injured?"
"Could you just ignore them?"
"Probably not."
"Then why did you ask?"
"I was hoping you'd talk me into it."
The cabinet, made of hard, gray, molded plastic was where Sid had described. Fixed to the rock wall, it was seven feet high, at least that wide, and a foot and a half deep. It contained four powerful battery-run lanterns, three gas masks, surgical masks, tools of all kinds, rope, duct tape, what appeared to be an exposure suit, and a large, fairly well-stocked first-aid kit.
"We're in business," Matt said, pulling a surgical mask over his face and handing one to Nikki. "You ready to play doctor?"
"Let's."
They tested the lanterns, all of which worked, and carried them to the others along with the first-aid kit. On the way they got a better sense of the condition of the cavern. The two entrances, perhaps a hundred feet apart, were completely sealed by massive amounts of rubble. Most of the drums of toxic waste, though no longer piled in a neat pyramid, were still in the center of the cave. The ceiling, twenty-five feet up, was holding, leaving them with a good amount of air, albeit air heavily tainted with fumes.
"No telling what this stuff is doing to our lungs," Matt said.
"Probably not the greatest of our worries right now. Where do you want to start?"
"Colin Morrissey's throat trauma looks like potential trouble to me, but I suggest we make sure there aren't any people we don't know about lying around, and take another look for Hal, Vinny, and Fred at the same time. Then we can move everyone to one area, triage, and do what we can."
The dust and silt were settling, but each of their steps sent plumes of it floating back into the air. The cries of pain had increased, and with them the sense of urgency. Matt and Nikki set the equipment down next to the young girl, who was beginning some purposeless movements. Then, each carrying a lantern, they began picking their way around the cave, scanning the rocks for bodies.
"Over there!" Matt exclaimed after they had covered just a few yards.
Fred Carabetta lay semiconscious on his belly, face turned to one side, pinned under a mound of rock that extended from his mid-back to beyond his feet. There was blood trickling out of his left ear, and what they could see of his face looked like a battered prizefighter's.
"Help… me… Help… me," he was moaning over and over.
"Fred, it's Matt. Can you hear me?"
"Hear… you… Help… me."
"Should we try and get him out now or check around for others?" Nikki asked.
"We need more hands."
"Matt, we can only do what we can do."
"Then let's try to free him up. Fred, we're going to get these rocks off of you."
The pile holding Carabetta down was considerably smaller and easier to move than the one that had covered the paralyzed guard. Still, by the time they had removed enough to free him, both were perspiring heavily and working at sucking in air.
Carabetta cried out in pain as they rolled him over. The two of them winced at what they saw. His black sweat pants and shirt were sodden with blood, most of it oozing steadily from a wound to the right of his groin.
"With all these rocks, there isn't even enough space to kneel down here," Matt said. "Let's try to haul him over near the others and work on him there."
"I'll do my best."
"Fred, we're going to pull you over to where we have enough room to help you out."
Moving the man was no small feat. Ultimately, success involved Nikki and Matt each seizing a wrist and dragging him a foot or so at a time, past the girl, who was now randomly moving all her extremities, to the area where the security guard and the man with the Belinda syndrome lay. Exhausted from the effort and from breathing through the surgical masks, they stood for nearly a minute, hands on knees, gasping for breath.
"No more sundaes for Fred," Matt panted.
At that moment, with a bansheelike screech, a figure flew from the darkness, off a tall pile of rubble, onto Nikki, sending her hurtling backward, shattering one of the lanterns.
Nikki cried out in pain as the attacker — a stocky woman — quickly set upon her, hands around her throat. From the remaining illuminated light, Matt could easily discern the dense growth of neurofibromas virtually covering the woman's face. He dove at her, hitting her shoulder-to-shoulder, and tackling her onto the cave floor. Growling and spitting, she flailed at his face and arms, landing several effective blows. Matt hit her in the face, first with an open hand, then full force with his fist. It was the first time he had ever punched someone that way in his life. Stunned, the woman sagged backward. Matt set his knee across her throat, tore off her cotton work shirt, and used one sleeve to tie her hands tightly together and the other to bind them to her ankles. Then he used adhesive tape from the first-aid kit to immobilize her more effectively.
"You okay?" he asked, turning to Nikki.
"My left ankle," she groaned, in obvious pain. "It went over when she hit me."
"Are you hurt anyplace else?"
"Not badly."
He knelt by her and examined the injury. Swelling had already begun across the outside of the ankle. In addition, there was impressive tenderness over the lateral malleolus — the bony prominence. If the end of her fibula hadn't broken, ligaments had surely torn. Either way, her mobility was, to all intents, gone. Nikki moaned softly as Matt wrapped the ankle with gauze. Then he activated a bag of chemical ice and secured it against the joint with an Ace bandage. A second Ace completed the bulky splint.
With great effort, Nikki rolled onto her hands and knees.
"Let's get to work on Fred," she said. "I don't know how much longer he can stay alive."
"You can do this?"
"I can try," she replied, wincing.
"I'm going to get that duct tape and do the other two while you check Fred out. I don't want a repeat of Tarzana, here, when they wake up. Jesus, what a mess we're in."
Moving slowly and painfully on her hands and knees, Nikki propped two lanterns on piles of rock, took two pairs of rubber gloves from an as yet unopened box, and set to work. Using a bandage scissors and her hands, she cut and tore away Carabetta's clothing. If he wasn't in shock yet, he was close — filthy, pale, bloodied, and sweating, with a pulse that was ominously rapid and faint. There were four or five lacerations over his fleshy body and tree-trunk legs, which were still oozing crimson, but the real trouble was a deep, three-inch rent in his groin, where dark blood was flowing freely.