How long can someone survive buried like this? I know it’s a long time in a snow avalanche. But this is wet, heavy sand. There are no air pockets in it. How long does it take a person to suffocate? Five minutes? Six minutes? What if I’m digging in the wrong place? Things are happening painfully slowly, but my brain is racing. How long has it been?
The voices from above sound very far away. Then Bill is beside me, shouting, “Get the shovels from the truck.”
My arms are aching already. The middle finger on my left hand hurts. I think I’ve torn the nail off. I don’t stop. I ignore the pain and keep digging. How long can I keep this up? I keep scratching, digging, throwing.
My hand hits something sharp. I have a moment of wild hope. But it is only the broken end of the black wood that Annabel had crouched beside.
“She’s over here,” I yell and move a foot and a half to my right. Bill’s and my hands keep hitting each other, we’re working so close together. I can hear him gasping for breath as he digs feverishly. I realize I am breathless too. My lungs hurt almost as much as my arms do.
My hand gets entangled in some buried seaweed or grass. I yank it angrily. It comes up clutching a bunch of red hair. It takes me a moment to recognize what I have.
“I’ve found her.” I scream it, even though Bill is right beside me. The hair’s all over the place. Bill reaches Annabel’s forehead. We scoop sand away.
She must have looked up when the wall above her collapsed. We soon have her face clear. I almost faint with relief when she gags weakly and spits out a mouthful of sand.
“Here’s the shovels.” I look up and see Kelly standing on the edge. Two shovels slide down and bump to rest beside us.
“Thank you,” Bill shouts. “Do you have any water?”
A one-liter plastic bottle bounces down. I rip the lid off and pour the water over Annabel’s sandy face. I laugh out loud when she complains, “Hey.”
“Are you okay?” I ask. I know it’s a stupid question, but I’m not thinking clearly.
“Do I…look okay?” Annabel replies, gasping for breath.
“Have you broken anything?” Bill’s question is much more sensible than mine.
“I don’t…think so.” Annabel’s taking shallow, short gasps for breath. “Tight…around my…chest…and my leg’s…sore…but okay. No need to… tear my hair out.”
“Sorry,” I gasp.
“Hang in there,” Bill says. “We’ll have you out in no time.”
Bill and I start digging around Annabel. A lot of sand came down, and Bill keeps looking nervously at the bank above us. Once we’ve got dug down a bit, Annabel manages to free her right arm and help. When her chest is free, her breathing becomes easier.
“I’m going to try and haul you out,” Bill says. We’ve dug almost to Annabel’s waist. The sand keeps sliding back into the hole as we dig, and it’s only going to get worse the deeper we go.
“Okay,” Annabel says.
Bill crouches down and grasps Annabel under her armpits. He pauses for second, takes a deep breath and hauls. Nothing happens. I start scraping sand away with my shovel.
“Careful with that,” Annabel says. “I don’t want to survive being buried alive just to have you hack me to bits with a shovel.” She sounds cheerful enough, but I saw her grimace in pain when Bill pulled.
“See how far you can get reciting Pi before we get you out,” I suggest.
“The way you guys are going, I’ll break the world record,” she says, but she begins, “3.141592653589793…”
We dig a bit more and then Bill tries again. This time Annabel moves. I work as hard as I can to scrape sand away. Bill pulls a third time. With a scream, Annabel comes free, and we all fall back against the far wall. Sand cascades around us.
“Come on,” Bill says. “Let’s get out of here.”
Half carrying Annabel between us, we head toward the parking lot, where the gully is shallower. Eventually, we climb out and pull Annabel up after us. We sit gasping beside one of the trucks.
“You didn’t get very far with Pi,” I say.
“You guys are too good for me,” Annabel says with a wry smile. Sucking air through her teeth, she flexes her right leg.
“Is it broken?” Bill asks.
“I don’t think so,” Annabel replies. “It was bent under me with my weight and all that sand on top of it. I think it’s just bruised or strained.”
“That was a stupid thing to do,” Bill says, but his voice has no anger in it.
“I know,” Annabel says with a smile, “but look what I found.” She holds out her left hand. Nestled in the palm is a plain, softball-sized clay pot. “This is what I saw beside the black timber. It looked different, so I went down to get it.”
She hands the pot to Bill, who turns it over and examines it thoughtfully. “It’s old. No doubt about that.” The pot is cracked but looks as if it’s held together by some kind of rust and there’s sand encrusted over much of it. I peer into the mouth, but it’s only more rust and sand.
“Do you think it’s from the Mahogany Ship?” I ask.
“Could be,” Bill says.
“You okay?” We look up to see Kelly heading toward us.
“Yeah, we’re fine,” Bill replies, slipping the pot into his pocket.
“What was it she went tearing down there to find?” Kelly asks.
“That’s the last thing on my mind right now,” Bill replies.
“Anyway, you got out just in time. The walls are collapsing fast. It’ll be awhile before we see the Mahogany Ship again. At least we’ve proved it’s here.”
“Maybe,” Bill says, standing up. “But it’s more important to get Annabel to the hospital.”
I lean on my left hand to stand up and collapse with a cry of pain. My middle fingernail is gone, and the end of the finger is raw and bloody. And there’s a gash on the ball of my thumb where the broken end of the wood has cut me. It doesn’t appear to be bleeding, but that’s probably only because the wound is packed with sand.
“Looks like you need to get to the hospital as well,” Bill says. He helps me up and the three of us stumble toward the truck. “I’m going to call Heritage Victoria and tell them about the find,” Bill shouts back to Kelly. “Don’t do anything dumb while I’m gone.”
Kelly doesn’t reply. Bill loads our bikes into the back of the truck, and we climb into the cab. As we head out of the parking lot, I see Percy and his master in the distance, heading along the path toward town. They must really love walking—it’s a good two or three miles back to the edge of town.
As Bill drives, Annabel leans against my shoulder. “Thank you,” she whispers. I’m filthy, I ache all over, and my hand is torn and bleeding, but I’m happier than I’ve been in months.