"Bastard!" Hatch cried, smothering the figure with his own large body, battering and pounding through the tarp. "Runt bastard!"
There was a sudden blow to his chin and Hatch felt his teeth grind together. He staggered backward, head suddenly light; Streeter must have butted him with his head. Hatch fell heavily back onto the tarp but Streeter was wiry and strong for his size, and Hatch could feel him begin to twist free. Quickly, he leapt for the fresh canister and flung it far into the darkness. Then he moved toward the flashlight as Streeter jumped to his feet, tearing free of the muddy tarp. Streeter's hand reached toward his own belt and came away with a small automatic weapon. Making an instant decision, Hatch brought his foot down on the light.
Darkness clapped down as a shot rang out. Hatch ran blindly then, zigzagging through the meadow, heading for the central rise of land and the maze of trails beyond. A tongue of lightning illuminated Streeter, a hundred yards below; the man caught sight of him, turned, and approached at a dead run. Hatch dashed toward the main workings, moving first up one path, then another, relying on feel to keep within the borders of yellow tape. Behind, he could hear pounding tread and heavy breathing.
As he topped the rise he saw the glow of Orthanc, lancing through the mists. He started toward it, then shrank away again: even to go near the light, he realized, would give Streeter a clear shot.
Hatch thought quickly. He could head down to the Base Camp, try and lose Streeter in the cluster of buildings. But he could easily be trapped there. Besides, he had to shake Streeter soon.
He realized he wasn't going to do it on the surface of the island.
There was one tunnel, the Boston Shaft, that led down into the earth at a gentle angle. If he remembered correctly, it connected with the Water Pit at a great depth. Neidelman had pointed it out to him on the morning—just a few weeks before, was it possible?—when they'd first located the site of the original Pit.
There was no more time. He glanced up at the glow of Orthanc, oriented himself, then turned down another trail. There it was: a dark hole yawning behind safety tape, fringed with ragged weeds.
He slipped under the tape and stood at the edge of the Boston Shaft. It was very dark, and the wind blew the rain horizontally into his eyes. Gentle angle? In the blackness, the shaft looked like a vertical drop to him. He hesitated, peering downward. Then there was the sound of footsteps clattering over a metal walkway. He grabbed the slender trunk of a chokecherry bush, swung himself over the edge, and scrabbled on the slippery walls of the shaft, trying to find a purchase with his feet. But there was none; the roots came out with a tearing sound and Hatch felt himself falling through empty space.
A short, terrifying drop, and he hit muddy bottom with a jolt. He scrambled to his feet, shaken but unhurt. There was only the faintest square of sky visible above him, a blurred patch that was a lighter shade of black. But he saw, or thought he saw, a shape moving along its edge . . .
There was a deafening roar, accompanied by a brilliant flash of light. A second roar followed almost immediately, and something smacked into the muddy shaft inches from his head.
Hatch twisted out of the shaft and began running down the tunnel. He knew what Streeter was doing: using the muzzle flash from his first shot to aim a second.
The incline of the tunnel floor was steep, and Hatch found himself slipping. He began to lose his balance as he ran, and he fought to keep from plunging, out of control, into absolute darkness. After several terrifying seconds, the incline leveled out enough for him to gain a purchase and come to a stop.
He stood in the humid chill of the tunnel, listening, trying to control his gasping breath. To run blindly ahead was suicide. The tunnel could well be honeycombed with pits or shafts—
There was a wet thump behind him, followed by the sound of footsteps slapping against mud.
Hatch felt for the side of the tunnel. His hand closed over the slimy cribwork and he began descending again as quickly as he dared, trying to stay rational. Streeter would no doubt shoot again. He'd probably try another pair of shots. But Streeter's strategy could also be useful to Hatch: the light from the first shot might give him an idea of what lay ahead.
It was the second shot that would be deadly.
The first shot came almost in answer to his thought, echoing deafeningly within the narrow confines of the tunnel. As Hatch threw himself sideways into the mud, the second shot ripped into the cribbing directly behind him.
In the muzzle flash, he saw that the tunnel continued downward uninterrupted.
Pushing himself to his feet, he ran ahead blindly, arms outstretched, half stumbling, half sliding, as far as he dared and then farther. At last he stopped, felt for the wall again, and listened. Streeter would still be behind him, proceeding more cautiously. If Hatch could lose him somehow in the tunnel, maybe he could reach the point, deep beneath the ground, where the Boston Shaft intersected the Water Pit. Neidelman would be there. He couldn't possibly know what Streeter was up to; Streeter must have suffered a psychotic break, nothing else made sense. If he could just reach the main shaft. . .
Another shot came, much closer than he'd expected. He swung desperately away, the second barely missing him. Ahead, he saw that the tunnel branched, a narrow passage to his left ending in what appeared to be a gaping hole. There was a third shot, then a fourth, and something ripped through his ear with a tearing sting.
He'd been hit. Running now, he grabbed wildly at his face, feeling for the blood that trickled from his torn ear. He ducked down the narrow branch and went as far toward the hole as he dared. Then he flattened himself against the wall and waited in the close blackness, muscles tensed. At the next muzzle flash, he'd spring back, grab Streeter, and toss him down. It was even possible that Streeter, in his haste, might run right into the hole himself.
In the intense, listening dark he heard a faint pattering, barely louder than the pounding of his own heart. It was Streeter, feeling his way along the wall. Hatch waited. Now he could hear the faint rasp of breath. Streeter was being careful with his rounds. No doubt he had a limited supply. Perhaps he would be forced to...
Suddenly, there was the flash and roar of a shot. Hatch lunged, trying desperately to beat the second shot, and as he closed on Streeter there was an immense blow to his head. A stunning light filled his eyes, blotting out thought, blotting out everything.
Chapter 50
Keeping as much as possible to the shelter of the rocks, Bonterre hiked inland from Base Camp to the narrow marked trail that mounted the rise of the island. She began ascending stealthily, pausing every few moments to listen. Away from the lights of the camp it was dark, so dark that at times she had to feel for the lines of yellow tape, broken and fluttering wildly in the gale. The muddy trail rose, then dipped again, following the contour of the island. She was soaked to the skin, rain running in thin rivulets from her chin, elbows, and hands.
The path climbed once again and she topped a rise. The skeletal structure of Orthanc lay several hundred yards ahead, a trio of lights winking atop its superstructure, the windows brilliant squares of light etched against the night. The ATV was there, its bulbous tires slick with rain. Two large, empty metal containers were in tow. Below the tower, the mouth of the Pit was dark. But a ghostly light shimmered up from below, as if from a great depth. She could hear the clank of machinery, the rumble of the air pumps, even over the howl of the storm.