Chapter Twenty-Four

One by one, the twelve explorers descended a third stone stairway down to Level Four. Sergeant Dan Vickers felt sick to his stomach. Every passage and staircase seemed to be closing tighter and tighter around him. His right hand shook. He squeezed it into a fist.

Quig noticed. “You okay, mate?”

“Just dandy,” Vickers joked, trying to hide his discomfort.

At the bottom of the stairs, the group gathered into a cramped chamber with three square holes carved into the walls. Each led in a different direction. Tight, horizontal stone passageways, the size of air vents, disappeared into cold blackness.

Dyfan stepped to the square at the back wall. “It’s this one.”

“Are you sure?” Trummel shined his light into the mouth of the passageway.

The blind man nodded. “Aye, the pull is strong from this one.”

Vickers’s heart seized at the sight of the narrow crawlspace. He hated tight places – a remnant of the torture he’d endured in childhood at the hands of Cyril, his vicious older brother. Sons of a mortician, they had grown up in a funeral home. Little Danny Vickers had often felt paralyzed with fear by dark, enclosed places. He remembered being trapped inside a casket, his massive brother sitting on top. He could hear Cyril’s demanding voice. “Stop crying like a little milksop. Grow some bollocks, Danny, or I’m gonna bury you in this.”

The other explorers climbed into the tunnel, crawling forward flat on their stomachs.

Vickers whispered to Quig, “I can’t go in there.”

“Sure you can. I’ll be right in front of you. Just keep your light on me.”

The two soldiers were the last to start into the tunnel. Light from Quig’s headlamp somehow made the space seem smaller. “Nothing to it.” Quig grinned, flashing his gold teeth. Then he climbed into the tunnel. “Reminds me of the sewer pipes I used to explore back home.”

Soon Vickers stood alone in the box-shaped chamber. He had the urge to run back up the stairs and get the hell out of this cave. But his sense of duty to Captain Gosswick and the opportunity to earn a big bonus motivated Vickers to suffer the tight passage. He drew a deep breath and clambered into the tunnel. He had the sensation he was entering a long coffin that stretched to infinity. The walls hugged his shoulders. The low ceiling scraped his helmet. He pushed his pack and miner’s pick ahead of him. It was slow going, every inch was torture. All he could see was a channel of stone and the soles of Quig’s boots several yards ahead. His mate was inching away, moving at a faster pace.

Vickers struggled to breathe in the dusty air, his throat so dry he could barely swallow. He stopped and leaned his helmet against the wall and clamped his eyes closed.

Fear is only in your head, you spineless sod. More of Cyril’s taunting. In his mind, Vickers was again a helpless boy stuffed inside a casket and fighting for breath.

“Let me out!” he had screamed, hitting his fists against the coffin’s lid. “Cyril, please let me out!”

Vickers drew several deep breaths and fought the panic rising in him. When he opened his eyes, the stone walls seemed to have narrowed further. A couple of times, his elbows got stuck. The ceiling too was pressing down. The light from Quig’s helmet danced in the tunnel far ahead, the black gulf between them growing fast.

“Quig, wait!”

His mate stopped twenty feet ahead. “What’s wrong?”

“I can’t do this.”

“Sure you can. We’re almost to the other end. The others are already out.”

From the far end of the tunnel, Gosswick yelled, “Quig, Vickers, what’s the holdup?”

“Be right there, Captain!” Quig yelled. “Vick, you gotta keep moving. I can’t turn round.”

A scratching sound issued behind Vickers. “Did you hear that?” He looked back over his shoulder, aiming the beam of his helmet past his legs. From where the tunnel swallowed his light came hollow scraping sounds.

“Danny…”

The voice sounded like Cyril’s.

Impossible. His brother was dead. Vickers had killed the bastard on a hunting trip, made it look like an accident. He could still hear the sound of the shotgun blast echoing off the lake. A flock of ducks took flight as Cyril fell to the ground.

Now Cyril’s angry voice taunted him from the darkness. “I’m coming for you, Milksop. And this time I ain’t playing.”

It’s just my mind playing tricks. There’s nothing there.

The stone vibrated beneath Vickers. Behind him, something heavy was moving toward him through the dark.

An ungodly shriek pierced his ears.

“What the hell was that?” Quig yelled.

Vickers pissed himself. “Someone’s in the tunnel with us.”

Behind him the darkness growled with animal rage.

“Hurry, Vick!” Quig took off, crawling fast.

Vickers pushed his pack and scrambled forward.

The scraping sounds behind him drew closer. A rotten smell filled his nostrils.

As he turned to look back, his light shone on cadaver hands. They gripped the backs of his ankles. Vickers kicked at them. Panned the light upward.

The thing behind him wore Cyril’s face, the right side torn away by the shotgun’s blast.

* * *

When Teddy Quig heard the animal shriek, a primal terror took over. His mind and body answered the survival instinct of prey fleeing a predator. He clawed his way to the end of the tunnel. It was only after Gosswick and Sykes pulled him out that Quig thought of his mate.

Vickers was still midway down the tunnel. He screamed. Then his body shot backward, the light of his headlamp growing smaller and smaller, as if some unseen force pulled him down the tunnel. His howls retreated, and then abruptly cut off.

“Vick!” Quig started back into the tunnel, but the others grabbed him and held him by the arms. “Vick!” Quig yelled again.

Only silence answered back.