Abandon, стр. 50
“And no more light,” Lawrence said.
“Exactly. I mean, all the residents of Abandon couldn’t break through that door. We have no chance.”
“Then what’s the alternative?” June asked.
Lawrence said, “Looks to me like this is a mine that, as the men were blasting and expanding it, encroached into a natural cave. I’m sure that door is not the only exit from this mountain. I know we’re tired, but I think we have to get up right now, while we still have a little strength and food and water, and try to find another way out.”
June said, “You’re suggesting we wander blindly through a cave?”
“You see another viable option?”
“What if we get lost?”
“We’re already lost. Pretend that door isn’t there, that it’s solid rock. Might as well be.”
Abigail said, “It scares me to death, but yeah, I agree that’s our only option at this point.”
“Should we split up?” June asked. “That would increase our chances of finding a way out.”
“Actually, it wouldn’t. Because we’re on the clock here in terms of light, we can only spend as much time looking for another exit as our batteries allow. If we split up, we’ll be burning through our headlamps twice or three times as fast.”
June said, “If anyone had ever made it out of this mine alive, you’d have heard about it. Right, Lawrence?”
He turned on his headlamp, and the others blinked in the sudden light.
“More than likely.”
1893
SIXTY-ONE
I
t took eight miners to hoist the boulder—seven hundred pounds of solid granite that ignited back cracking and groans. They started in the chamber, fifteen yards back, freighting it slowly over the rock, carefully accelerating to jog as they neared the iron door.
The collision was tremendous. The front third of the boulder shivered off and broke the feet of three men.
The surface of the door had barely caved.
The Godsend’s cager grabbed a hammer shotgun leaning against the wall, sited up the door, fired a shell of buckshot.
As the metal sparked, other men drew their revolvers and rifles, hammers squeezing back, levers cocking, the mine exploding in a cacophony of gun-fire and filling with an acrid haze.
When the shooting stopped, the door stood defiant, the metal covered in silver chinks but no real damage done, except for the young man who lay quivering on the floor, a hole through his cheek, blood frothing out of his mouth onto the rock in a pink geyser.
Voices rose up, growing louder, competing to be heard.
Stetler held up two shadowgees and hollered for silence, but no one listened in the swarm of shouting men.
“We’re all gonna peg out now.”
“Better save the lump oil.”
“Keep chargin the door.”
“Used to could go that way, but the shoot’s caved in.”
“No food, no water.”
“Preacher left us in the soup!”
“Gonna run out a light!”
“Hobble your lips!”
“Don’t know your ass from a hole in the ground.”
“Shut the fuck up!”
Meanwhile, Bessie McCabe stood in the center of the chamber, screaming for Harriet again, screaming until she couldn’t breathe, until she felt like she was suffocating on choke damp, the chaos only stoking the hysteria in her head.
She overloaded, spotted the small boulder, fell to her knees, and crawled toward it.
She heard the miners shooting again, babies screaming, someone praying nearby.
Bessie got up on her knees, found two handholds in the rock, and, with every ounce of strength and zero hesitation, slammed her head down into the boulder. She heard the crack before she felt it, and blood ran between her eyes. When she came to, the cavern was inverted and spinning. She struggled back onto her knees, located the handholds, and managed two more blows before losing consciousness again. The next time she came around, she knew she’d done the job. A crowd of revolving, blurry faces surrounded her, and their voices and the gunshots and weeping and shouting all blended into a steady rush like the noise of a waterfall.
Her head lay in a warm, expanding pool, and she knew it was her blood and hoped it meant the end, thinking only of her daughter now, praying the injuns hadn’t gotten her, and that wherever she awoke, Harriet would be there, too.
As her brain seized, she went back almost ten months, to a February morning on the plains of west Kansas, she and Harriet aboard a Union Pacific train chugging to Denver.
Staring off in the distance, she’d seen them lifting out of the horizon like a bank of clouds, thought they were coming into weather until she overheard another passenger say to his companion, “Have a look at the Snowy Range.”
And as she died on the floor of that mine on Christmas night, she relived with a sort of bewildered nostalgia all the excitement she’d felt, watching the Front Range rise and rise as the train steamed west, a dream and a dare at once.
She’d pulled Harriet into her lap and pointed out the window. “That’s where Daddy is and where we’re goin. That’s our future, sweet pea.”
And she’d believed it, too.
With all her heart.
2009
SIXTY-TWO
S
tarting out proved simple enough. They took the only passage that branched off from the chamber, Lawrence leading with the headlamp, followed by Abigail and June.
They hadn’t walked thirty feet before Lawrence stopped, said, “Well, guys, here we are. First choice of many.” The main tunnel continued on, at least as far as his headlamp shone, but there was also an opening in the rock nearby. Lawrence knelt down, looked through the hole. “A snug fit, but it definitely goes somewhere.”
“Don’t you think we should stick with the larger passageways?” Abigail asked.
“I honestly don’t—” He gasped. “There’s a skeleton in here and a pair of wrist irons. This might have been a prisoner. Yeah, let’s stick with the main passage for now.”
So they continued on, soon leaving all signs of mining activity—holes drilled in the rock for dynamite, rusted cans of black blasting powder, empty carbide kegs, strips of railroad track, drill steels, support timbers—and emerged into a natural cave, ceasing to follow the path of any particular tunnel, moving instead from room to room, some smaller than a closet, others larger than that first cavern, and the rock formations becoming more alien the deeper they ventured. Stalactites hung down from the roof, spilling their corrosive solutions into drip holes on the floor. Abigail ran her hands over walls of breccia—fragments of rock, fossils of bone and prehistoric crustaceans cemented together in sandstone.
An hour in, they came upon a richly decorated grotto. Lawrence’s head-lamp shone up at the ceiling, where stalactites bunched together, row upon row, like sharks’ teeth. In the center, they’d melded into a strange conglomerate that reminded Abigail of a chandelier. Against the nearest wall, they resembled a pipe organ. In a far corner, the long tentacles of jellyfish.
They wandered into a smooth-walled tube, the ceiling just a foot above Lawrence’s head. As they progressed through the elliptical passage, the walls grew farther apart and the ceiling lowered. Soon they had to walk hunched over, then squatting, then crawling on their knees, and finally their bellies, dragging themselves through the flattener on their forearms, just sixteen inches between the ceiling and the floor.
They’d been moving along this way for five minutes when Abigail yelled, “I’m getting claustrophobic!” She couldn’t see Lawrence’s light, felt trapped in total darkness, the warmth of her own breath blowing back into her face when she exhaled against the rock.