Battling a horrible, smothering sensation, he pinched his nose closed, tilted his head back as far as he could, planted his feet on the bottom, and pushed himself up. His face was level with his forearm when it broke water. There was not enough room for him to stand straight up, but there was a four- or five-inch space. With his forehead pressed upward against the rock, he took half a dozen grateful breaths of stale, heavy air. Next he lowered himself
until his eyes were just above the water's surface and slowly turned 180 degrees. The darkness behind him was intense and absolute. It was doubtful Nikki and Ellen had already left the bridge, so he concluded that he had either swum farther than he reckoned or that the river had turned sharply. The cold water flowed steadily past his face. He worked his way around again so that the current was behind him, then tilted back so he could breathe once more.
Even pinching his nose shut, with his forehead pressed tightly against the ceiling, water still sloshed into his mouth, making it hard to get air in consistently. Fingers of panic, infinitely colder than the water, squeezed at his throat. He was alive, but nearly immobilized by fear. The oppressive, claustrophobic sensation was worse than he'd expected — much worse. There was absolutely no way he could go on. He had to get back — back to where he could straighten up, back to where there was more space to breathe, back to Nikki. He struggled unsuccessfully to swing around again, but his strength seemed gone.
The current, though not that forceful, kept pushing him downstream, lifting his feet off the stony bottom, and dragging him underwater. With effort, he could wedge himself between the floor and roof of the tunnel, but only for ten seconds at a time before the current won out. Aware of little beyond the hideous impotence of being confined, he floated on. An outcropping of rock struck his hand and forehead with surprising force, dazing him momentarily. The walls of the tube scraped at his arms. The energy it took just to hold himself in place quickly had him gasping.
He simply couldn't take it anymore.
He had to stand up straight.
Damn you, Grimes.
Matt braced himself once more and shut his eyes tightly. Vision was useless here anyhow. He calmed himself down some by imagining that there was a cave just ahead… a vast cavern… unlimited air… space to move… space to turn around and stand… space to think.
Slowly, with his head dragging against the ceiling, he lowered his mouth and nose below the surface and took a controlled step downriver… then another, and still another. He sensed his pulse begin to slow and his thoughts to focus. The icy fingers loosened their grip. Every six or seven steps, he paused long enough to tilt his head back and suck in a few more gulps of air. Emboldened, he actually dropped down beneath the surface and propelled himself forward with several breaststrokes. However, this time when he broke water, he could straighten up even less than before, and the air space had become reduced by half — two inches, maybe three. There was the chance for only a couple of incomplete breaths before the current pushed him ahead. Another few feet and the space disappeared completely. With less than full lungs, he dropped down, leveled off, and began to swim forward again, this time desperately and with all his strength. Twice he tried to break through the surface. Twice he was met by rock.
This was it. This was the end.
The current was increasing now as well, and turbulence was becoming an additional problem. Frantically, he clawed through the churning water, trying to stabilize his body. His lungs were afire once more, and each heartbeat was a shell-burst inside his skull. The walls of the tunnel seemed to be closing together, tearing at him as he tumbled past.
Don't breathe!, Hang on!..
At the instant he had to inhale, his face broke the surface of the water. Coughing and gagging, he struggled to adjust to the now powerful current, trying to keep himself upright as he sucked in some of the dense air from what he sensed might be a small cave or even a cavern. But his weakness and merciless coughing made regaining control impossible.
The river had widened and become shallower. No more than three feet deep, it churned ahead at intense speed through the pitch-black space. Matt tried to scramble to the right-hand bank, but water roiled about him, forcing him under, then flipping him over like a rag doll. Twice he was slammed into rocks protruding from the bottom. Over the years, he had rafted a number of West Virginia's rivers, traversing dozens of rapids either by oar or swimming. The goal either way was to avoid boulders, and the technique when in the water was to navigate feet first, in a near-sitting position, using one's arms as rudders. Constantly being hammered by rocks, he attempted to establish that position. But in the dark, with no visual cues and no warning of an approaching boulder, he had little chance.
Sputtering on aspirated water, he careened helplessly down a steep slope. The swirling, foaming river seemed to be moving closer and closer to vertical, and now he could hear a roar echoing off the rock — the roar of falling water. He tumbled on, slamming against the stony bottom and one boulder after another. His arms, which he was using to protect his head and face, were absorbing a fearsome pounding. His wind was gone, his consciousness was waning, and his lungs were filling with water. Suddenly, what had been a slope became a drop. Weightless and airborne, he hurdled over the precipice. He hit the shallow pool below awkwardly and with great force. Pitching forward, his forehead smacked against a jagged rock. Pain exploded through his brain from the impact. An instant later, there was nothing.
For fifteen minutes, Nikki and Ellen stood silently by the bridge, a lantern fixed on the opening where the river left the cavern.
"I'm frightened for him," Nikki said finally.
"I understand why. That was a very brave thing he did."
"He has claustrophobia. He told me so himself."
"The river has to come out someplace. He can do it."
"You don't know!"
Ellen put her arm around Nikki's shoulders.
"Sorry. I was just trying to sound positive. I know how awful this must be for you. It's terrible for me, too."
"Sorry to have popped off," Nikki said.
"Nikki, what Matt chose to do was right. You and I both know that as things stand, we don't have much of a chance here. I'm going to wait a couple of hours, and if nothing's happened and we can't think of anything else, I'm going to try and make it out of here, maybe going upstream. Are you ready to go back and check on the others?"
Nikki peered toward the narrow slit between the river's surface and the ceiling of the tunnel. The lantern beam sparked off the water, then vanished into the darkness. Reluctantly, she picked up the light and lay her arm around Ellen's shoulders. Her ankle was throbbing with even slight movements, but it really didn't matter. She had always done pretty well with pain.
"You're a very good person," she said as she hobbled and hopped back toward where Colin Morrissey lay.
"As are you," Ellen replied, her arm around Nikki's waist. "As are you."
The girl, her flaxen hair matted and filthy, was sitting beside Morrissey stroking his hand. Nikki cringed at the fibromas that distorted what might have once been a pretty face. Morrissey, whose face was even more disfigured than the girl's, was still unconscious and not moving air at all well. The stridor, a sign that at least there was some airflow, was reduced to barely audible wheezing.
"He's dead," the girl said in a distant, singsong voice that was devoid of emotion.
"No. No, he's not," Nikki replied, kneeling next to her. "My name's Nikki. I'm a doctor. This is Ellen. She teaches school. What's your name?"
"Sara Jane Tinsley. Are ya gonna help him?"
No fear, no anxiety, no questions about what had happened to her or where they were now. Nikki decided not to press the issue unless the girl asked pointedly. Clearly, shock and denial were at work, along with the residual effect of whatever drug she had been given, and maybe even the spongiform disease that was probably eating away at her brain.