IN A BAD WAY
2,150 feet below the surface
It took almost ten hours for the waters to recede. Milo stood silent sentry as the cold mists slowly retreated, the main shaft waterfall transforming once again from a muddy brown to clear, white water. Below, the collected pools slowly shrank along the length of the floodplain, once again revealing the glistening floor. Only one of the six ropes had survived, but there was no way of telling how much damage it had suffered in the vicious flood.
The ledge barely had standing room for the seven cavers. The small alcove behind them was little larger than a hotel bathroom, allowing only two sleepers at a time. The rest of the tiny chamber was stacked floor-to-ceiling with salvaged equipment. Milo supposed the tight quarters were fine; they’d only managed to save a single soggy sleeping bag anyway. One of the guides had fully unzipped it, stretching the bag over plastic sheeting as a makeshift mattress.
The cavers took turns on the ad hoc bed; each was allowed a three-hour shift. Milo hadn’t slept during his; he felt like he’d been up and moving for a hundred years. He finally gave up trying to sleep after about a restless hour.
Duck and Joanne congregated on the ledge beside Milo, whispering in low tones as Logan and Dale joined them. The foursome parted easily to accommodate Milo as well. He did a quick headcount and realized Joanne had left Bridget to sleep in the alcove by herself.
“I’m going in after Isabelle,” said Dale, jutting his chin toward the anthill and the floodwaters still draining within.
“Good,” said Duck. “I’m coming too.”
Dale started to protest but was interrupted.
“This needs to be a fully manned search,” interjected Joanne. “Ropes, whatever medical gear was saved, and as many of our people as possible—or else you’ll be utterly useless should you find her.”
“She’s right,” said Logan with a grunt. “Though I imagine we’re essentially looking for a body at this point.”
“We don’t know that,” Dale snapped.
“Sure we do,” said Logan with lackadaisical certainty. “She probably lasted all of thirty seconds in the rapids. Even in the best-case scenario, she would be well into fatal hypothermia territory by now.”
Milo glanced from the others back to Dale, whose expression was fury tinged with shock. Milo felt only guilt for so easily sharing Logan’s cruel assumption.
“We don’t leave people behind,” said Duck, sharing Dale’s glare. “What if it was you down there?”
“Then I’d be dead,” said Logan with a shrug. “And I wouldn’t give a shit. Because I’d be dead.”
While the anthill was difficult before, it had now transformed into a slick, muddy river. All seven had abandoned virtually everything at the alcove save for lightweight packs that held only what they’d require for the next few hours. Joanne had carefully roped all seven to each other, forming a tight human chain as they traversed down the underground rapids.
Every member of the team fell eventually. It would start with a jolt and a quick yelp as their feet slipped out from beneath them. Plunging into the water, they were picked up by the current and slammed from rock to rock like a pinball until they snagged on something or were stopped short by the rope, the rest of the team straining to hold them.
Second in line, Joanne noticed a smashed Pelican case wedged between clusters of thick stalactites. Yawning open, the case spilled a week’s worth of food across the wall and downstream; rice, dehydrated soups, dry pasta, and dented cans. Just below it sat the remains of the television camera. Though intact, it was wholly ruined, lens broken, casing smashed, dripping water down visible wires and circuit boards. Joanne pursed her lips as she retrieved the memory cards from the destroyed device.
“Want me to grab any of the food?” asked Dale, gesturing to the smashed container.
“We’ll have to come back for it,” said Joanne. “Keep moving.”
Leading, Duck did not pause at a single intersection, instead following the river’s route at each. Milo noticed that half of the chalk marks were now gone, washed away by the flood. He supposed it didn’t matter—the rushing waters marked the only path that mattered.
Scanning the passageway as she walked, Joanne suddenly stopped the group with a wave of her hand, flashlight aimed at a smooth yellow sphere a few meters away. Milo recognized it immediately as the top of Isabelle’s helmet.
The group scrambled down the slope, ignoring the slippery surface beneath their feet. Now closer, Milo could see Isabelle wedged within a breakdown pile, still wearing the yellow helmet, her blue-tinged face barely above the water, open eyes rolled back into her head.
“Be careful!” shouted Logan. “We could trigger a collapse at any moment—watch your step.”
Ignoring Logan, Duck knelt down next to Isabelle and pressed his ear almost to her lips. “She’s breathing,” he announced with astonishment. “Holy shit—she’s actually alive!”
Kneeling next to Duck, Milo surveyed the badly injured producer. Isabelle’s right leg was twisted grotesquely under a large boulder. Only one half of her chest rose and fell, and she seemed totally unresponsive to the flurry of light and noise around her.
“Incredible!” exclaimed Joanne. “She’s a tough cookie.”
“If she made it this long, she’s got a chance,” added Duck.
“Get the rock off her!” ordered Bridget.
Before the group could rally, Charlie braced himself under the rock, teeth gritted and veins bulging as he slowly hefted the oblong boulder from underneath. It shifted with a low rumble, rolling free of her leg.
There was no hesitation from Bridget, no indecision. She issued a rapid-fire list of instructions, asking for pulse, spare webbing, bandages, tape, backboard, and blankets, ordering the team to ready any other medical supplies and cut Isabelle free of her clothes.
Milo was startled by how cold Isabelle’s skin felt to the touch; she was freezing but not shivering. Then he remembered what Logan had said about hypothermia, the hours she’d spent in the water. It was nothing short of miraculous that she was still alive.
Duck flicked open a knife and ran the blade from Isabelle’s pant cuff up through the thick canvas thigh and beltline as Bridget did the same with her fleece pullover. There was no consideration for privacy as he exposed her bruised, blackened chest and abdomen, her bloody, sliced-up hips and legs.
“She’s bleeding internally,” said Bridget, using the end of the knife to point where dark blood had pooled under the skin beneath the worst of her injuries. Within seconds, she’d rendered the producer virtually naked. Milo forced himself to not avert his eyes.
Without prompting, Duck rolled out a collapsible backboard, setting the thin plastic sled up beside Isabelle’s twisted form.
“Helmet?” asked Joanne.
“Cut it off,” ordered Bridget, flipping the knife around in her palm to pass it to her.
Joanne grabbed the handle of the sharp instrument and carefully slipped it through each of the four helmet straps, leaving only the loose shell on top of Isabelle’s head.
“Need cervical stabilization,” Joanne announced. Dale and Duck joined their hands behind the producer’s neck, holding it in place as Joanne carefully slipped the helmet free of Isabelle’s bleeding scalp and wet, stringy hair.
“Holy fuck,” Duck exlaimed, examining the helmet as Joanne passed it in front of him. Milo caught sight of the damage—a baseball-sized circle on the side had been neatly punched in by a rock. The helmet had done its job, saved her from a collapsed skull, but she’d still likely suffered a concussion, maybe even a fracture.
“Get ready to lift her onto the backboard,” said Bridget. “I want everyone around her in a circle—on three, gently but firmly lift her up and over. We don’t want to exacerbate any spinal injuries or internal bleeding. Remember: slow is smooth, smooth is fast.”
The team scrambled around the producer, waiting for the order. Bridget counted off to three and everyone awkwardly lifted, pulling Isabelle’s body free of the rocks. The foot of her broken leg remained wedged, leaving the team holding her body in a dangerous limbo until Dale, swearing, cut her boot free.
Within seconds of cradling Isabelle in the collapsible backboard, Duck and Joanne were busy tying her down. Joanne paid the most attention to her skull and neck, padding it with her ruined clothing as Duck and Dale ran the webbing back and forth over her form, firmly strapping her forehead down last. The resulting contraption almost resembled an open-topped kayak, at least until Dale and Joanne covered every inch of the producer in synthetic fleece blankets, followed by a second round of webbing and straps, wrapping her up like a mummy.
Dale reached under the blankets and started rubbing warmth back into the freezing hands.
“Don’t do that!” snapped Bridget, slapping Dale’s hand away. “You’ll send freezing blood right to her heart—it could kill her.”
“Really?” said Dale, confused as he looked to Duck.
“Better listen to the doc,” said Duck, shrugging.
“Is Isabelle going to make it?” asked Charlie, almost pleading.
“She’s in a bad way,” said Joanne. “But statistically speaking, she’s already survived the hour after her initial accident—if we can get her out of here fast enough, there’s every reason to believe she’ll live.”
“Thank God!” exclaimed Charlie with profound relief. Smiles broke out across the group—except from Joanne.
“There’s no way we’ll be able to get her back up to base camp,” she said, dropping her head in resignation. “We can’t fight the current and the tight squeeze, not with her on the backboard. We’re sitting ducks if we get hit by another flood in these twisting passages. Besides, we’re stuck on the wrong side of the main shaft until the surface teams rig up a new rope system. We have to go deeper and find a place to hold out—it’s Isabelle’s only chance.”