"You're right," Nikki said, pushing herself up. "We've got to keep trying. You said you're a good swimmer?"
"A fish."
"Let me hop you over. Sara Jane and I'll do fine here."
"I know you will."
Both women were breathing harder from the trip across the cavern than they might have expected. No comment was necessary. The supply of oxygen was definitely dwindling.
Nikki watched as Ellen made her way around the pile of wood and rubble that had once been the second bridge and lowered herself into the water. This was one hell of a woman, she was thinking — courageous, intelligent, resilient, and kind, precisely the sort of person she would like to be in her sixties. The notion of even reaching sixty brought a rueful smile. Several hours had passed since Matt headed off. It was doubtful that he had made it out of the mountain, and now what little remained of their hope for survival rested with a wisp of a woman who was nearly twice his age. Ellen would not only have to find a way out of the mountain swimming upstream, but she would have to avoid Grimes and his gunmen, find people who could and would help, and make it back to the cavern before it became an airless tomb. The chances of her pulling all that off were slim indeed.
But slim wasn't none.
Lantern in hand, Nikki settled down on the bank and waited. Her wait was not a lengthy one. Not five minutes after Ellen had paddled into the pitch-black tunnel, she came floating slowly back, feet first, facedown in the water. Nikki scrambled onto her hands and knees and reached for Ellen's blouse. The fabric slipped from her hand. Ignoring the stunning pain from her ankle, she pushed off the rocky bank in a clumsy dive and wrapped her arms around the older woman's waist just before they reached the second bridge. Holding tightly, Nikki grabbed a fistful of Ellen's hair and pulled her face clear of the water. Then she braced herself against the bridge and managed to set her one good foot on the bottom. The river lapped by just beneath her chin.
Inch by painful inch, drawing on a reserve of strength that surprised her, Nikki pushed Ellen upward until she was sprawled out prone on the bridge, her legs dangling down into the water. Then, crying out in pain, she hauled herself onto the bank and crawled over to where Ellen lay. A single downward thrust on both sides of her back cleared much of the water from Ellen's lungs. A second thrust, and she began breathing on her own, sputtering and coughing reflexively. In less than a minute, she began to come around. For some time she lay that way, her chest heaving.
"Rocks," she said finally. "Tunnel was blocked by rocks." Another minute passed before she spoke again. "I… tried to move them… Foot got caught… Couldn't get free… Water got down my — "
"Easy," Nikki said, cradling her head in her lap. "Easy. You gave it a great try. Just relax and catch your breath. I'm just grateful you made it back here."
It was many minutes before Ellen could push herself up, still violently coughing out river water.
"God, but that was awful," she said. "The rocks collapsed on me. I couldn't get my leg out."
Nikki hauled herself up using the bridge railing. The two women, soaked and shivering, held each other tightly. Then Ellen pulled away.
"Where are you going?" Nikki asked.
"Up on that pile of rock," Ellen replied, gesturing toward what remained of the entrance Nikki and the others had used. "Send Sara Jane up to help me move some of that stuff."
Nikki started to protest, then merely shrugged and nodded.
Dead waiting around helplessly was no different than dead trying.
CHAPTER 34
Matt's first awareness was the smell of motor oil. His second was that he was alive and cold. He was in a large shed of some sort, lying in his sodden clothes on a bed of filthy rags. The walls were creosoted wood. The bare bulb dangling overhead was unlit, but thin, gray light filtered in through a foot-square, screen-covered window near the peak of the ceiling. Piled not far from him were covered plastic buckets of what looked like chemicals, and large, unmarked paper sacks of what might have been seeds or fertilizer. There were gardening tools in one corner of the coarse wood floor, several gas-powered weed whackers hanging on the wall, and a good-sized, partially dissected motor underneath them.
It wasn't until he tried to move that he realized his left wrist was handcuffed to a U-shaped pipe that seemed to have been built through the wall of the shed for precisely that purpose. He peered about again, trying to get a sense of who his captors might be. A pulsating pain encircled his head like a bandanna that had been knotted too tightly. His stomach, reacting to the odors and his dizziness, was sending acrid jets of bile into his throat. His watch
was gone, as was the pistol he had shoved into his pocket. The backs of his hands were scraped raw and coated with clotted blood. There was no traffic noise from outside, but twice over fifteen minutes or so, he heard a motorcycle rumble away — two different ones, he guessed, both Harleys. Bit by painful bit, memories of his devastating trip down the underground river crystallized.
"Help!" he cried out. "Hey, someone help me!"
He waited for a reply, then yelled again. Tentatively, the door across from him opened, and a slightly built woman in her twenties peeked in and put her finger to her lips. She had badly spiked purple hair, dense black eye shadow, and piercings through her nose, brows, and lower lip. Her black leather pants were frayed and dusty, as were her black T and leather vest.
"Quiet!" she whispered urgently. "They'll tend to you when they're ready."
"But I need to get — "
The woman had already pulled away and closed the door behind her. Matt waited a few minutes and then began hollering again. This time, when the woman reappeared, she had a child on her hip — a boy, two years old, filthy and frail, with a sallow complexion, thick greenish mucus draining from both nostrils, and a deep, nasty cough. She tossed Matt a tattered brown army blanket.
"Look, I told you to shut up," she said, still in a pressured whisper. "They ain't much likelihood they ain't gonna kill you. But yellin' like that an' disturbin' the children will take care a what little chance you got."
The woman moved to go, but this time hesitated when he spoke.
"Wait, please, I'm a doctor," he said quickly. "My name's Matt Rutledge. Dr. Matt Rutledge from Belinda. I don't know how I got here or even where I am, but I've got to get away and get some help. My friends are trapped in a mine cave-in and they're going to die."
"You ain't no doctor," she said. "They said you had a gun. Doctors don't carry guns."
"I can explain that. Look, your boy there has a bad sinus infection and probably a throat infection, too. I'll bet he isn't eating or sleeping well. He should be checked over by a doctor, and soon. He needs antibiotics."
"We don't go to no doctors."
"I can take care of him. I can get you the medicine he needs. What's your name?"
The woman's eyes narrowed.
"Becky," she said finally. "This here's Samuel. An' don't go callin' him Sam neither. His daddy gets mighty angry at that."
"Well, I'm a really good doctor, Becky, and I can get Samuel better. Just let me go and get some help for my friends. Then I'll be back to take care of him."
Indecision flickered across Becky's face but then just as swiftly vanished.
"I did that an' they'd never find all the pieces of me," she said. "You jes lay still an' keep quiet. If yer not a doctor, Bass'll kill you quicker'n you kin snap yer fingers. An' if you are, he'll most likely do you anyway. Now shut up!"
"But — "
This time the door slammed shut.