42
THEY CAREENED ALONG the track, unable to see anything. A stale cave-wind whistled past Gideon’s head as he crouched in terror, groping for a better handhold, bracing for the inevitable crash.
“A brake!” yelled Alida. “This thing’s got to have a brake!”
“Why didn’t I think of that?”
He flicked on the lighter, and—in the brief spark before it went out—made out an old iron foot pedal on the side of the car, between the sets of wheels. Desperately, he jammed down on it with his foot. There was an earsplitting screech, an explosion of sparks burst around and behind them, and they were thrown forward as the cart decelerated, vibrating wildly, threatening to jump the tracks. He quickly eased up and applied the brake more evenly, slowly increasing the pressure. The cart wailed and groaned and finally came to a shuddering halt.
“Nice work, Casey Jones.”
Gingerly Gideon got off, then flicked the lighter. The tunnel stretched on ahead, making what looked like the beginning of a long curve. Not far ahead, however, a large pile of rocks lay across the tracks, apparently having fallen from the ceiling. The tunnel was blocked across its entire width.
“Jesus,” muttered Alida. “You stopped us just in time.”
Gideon could still make out, far away, the distorted, echoing voices of the NEST team. They had only gained a few minutes.
“Come on,” he said, taking her hand.
He jogged forward to the rock pile and they began to climb it, Gideon flicking on the lighter every few seconds in order to orient themselves. He could hear the sound of distant running.
“I don’t need hand-holding,” said Alida, trying to shake free of his hand.
“I do.”
At last they reached the top of the pile and clambered down the other side. They made their way on down the tunnel as quickly as they could, climbing over two additional cave-ins, until at last they reached one that blocked the tunnel completely.
“Damn,” said Alida, staring up at the rock pile. “Did we pass any side tunnels back there?”
“None,” said Gideon, staring at the pile of loose rocks. He held the lighter up. The ceiling was rotten, but there was no opening or way through. It was a dead end.
“We’d better figure out something quick.”
“Like I said, we didn’t pass any side tunnels. But we did pass some blasting supplies.”
“No. Oh no.”
“You stay here.”
Gideon picked his way back. The voices were getting louder, and he thought he could see the faint flicker of light in the dusty air. Their pursuers were coming on fast.
He reached the supplies—stacks of blasting mats, boxes of wadding, old drill bits, cord. There was a cache of wooden boxes in a far corner, and he ripped the rotten lid off one: blasting caps. He tried to lift the box but it collapsed, the caps spilling all over. Everything was rotten.
Now flashlight beams were flicking about, piercing the rising columns of dust. “Hey! Over there!” came a shout, followed by a shot.
Gideon extinguished the lighter, dropping into a crouch. If a bullet hit these blasting caps…
Another shot, the light beams playing about, looking for him. They were too close; there was no time to jury-rig a bomb. Only one thing to do. Crouching, he ran back down the dark tunnel for a few hundred feet, then turned and knelt. Aiming the live handgun with one hand, he flicked the lighter with the other. It cast just enough illumination for him to take aim at the heap of blasting caps. Beyond, a crowd of flashlight beams danced in the murk.
“There!” came a voice.
A volley of shots rang out as he squeezed off his own shot. There was a violent explosion, then a roar that punched him backward, knocking the wind from him, followed by a shuddering crash as the ceiling collapsed.