MALONE SAW A FLASH, HEARD A TERRIFIED WHIMPER, AND imagined Antrim’s face, a study in horror as he realized what was coming. He dove left and swept Gary and Ian down with him. Together they hit the floor and he shielded both boys from the concussion that poured from the other chamber, intense heat and light surging upward and engulfing the ceiling. The sarcophagus stood between them and the other exit, which blocked much of its effect. Thank goodness those were PEs and not conventional explosives, as the pressure wave would have annihilated both chambers.
But the heat wreaked havoc.
Electrical conduits severed and the lightbulbs burst with a blast of blue sparks. The PEs exhausted themselves in a mere few seconds, like magician’s flash paper, the room plunged into total darkness. He glanced up and caught the bitter waft of spent carbon, the once cool air now midday-warm.
“You okay?” he asked the boys.
Both said they were.
They’d all heard the scream.
“You did what you had to,” he said to Gary.
“He would have killed us,” Ian added.
But Gary remained silent.
A crack broke the silence. Like wood splintering, only louder, more pronounced. Then another. Followed by more. He tensed as a gnawing anticipation grew within him. He knew what was happening. The centuries-old bricks that made up the walls and ceiling of the adjacent chamber had just been subjected to heat intense enough to crack their surface. Couple that with the pressures of holding back tons of earth and it would not take much for all of it to give way.
Something crashed in the other room.
Hard and heavy.
Followed by another thud powerful enough to shake the floor.
Ceiling stone was raining down. Their chamber was okay, for the moment. But they needed to leave.
One problem.
Total darkness surrounded them.
He could not even see his hand in front of his eyes.
No way to know which way to go.
And little time to find out.
KATHLEEN TOSSED THE GUN ONTO THE BRIDGE AND LUNGED for the metal door. She’d planted four rounds into the lock, obliterating it. Risky, considering the ricochets off the metal, but she’d had no choice. The door was equipped with no knob or handle, only the lock that kept it shut, an inserted key the way to ease it open once the tumblers were released.
But she had no key.
Another kick and the panel jarred loose enough from its jamb for her to curl her fingers inside and yank it outward. Two solid tugs and the mutilated lock gave way, the door bursting open.
She immediately noticed the odor. Carbon. Burnt. Just like from Henry VIII’s grave at Windsor. Spent percussion explosives.
Something had happened.
A passage stretched before her, everything in solid darkness. The only light was what leaked in from the river tunnel, which was barely illuminated by overhead grates.
She heard a crash.
A heavy mass slamming downward.
No choice on what to do.
“Ian? Gary? Malone?”
MALONE HEARD KATHLEEN RICHARDS.
She’d made it to them.
Elation and panic mingled within him.
More stone cascading downward drowned out Richards’ pleas. Then something smashed to pieces only a few feet away. The carnage was spreading and a toxic cloud of dust was enveloping them.
Breathing was difficult.
They had to go.
“We’re in here,” he called out. “Keep talking.”
IAN HEARD RICHARDS, TOO, HER VOICE FAR OFF, PROBABLY IN the tunnel that led from the bridge.
“She’s back from where we came,” he said to Malone through the blackness.
More stone cracked to rubble only a few feet away.
“Everyone up,” Malone said. “Hold hands.”
He felt Gary’s grip in his.
“We’re in a chamber,” Malone called out. “Beyond the tunnel where you are.”
“I’ll count out,” Richards said. “Follow the voice.”
GARY HELD HIS FATHER’S AND IAN’S HANDS.
The chamber was collapsing, and the one in which Antrim had died was probably already gone. The air was stifling and all three of them struggled against fits of coughing, but it was next to impossible not to inhale dust.
His dad led the way and they found the steps.
Stone pounded the floor nearby and his father yanked him up the risers. He held on tight and guided Ian up with him.
He could hear a woman counting from a hundred.
Backward.
MALONE FOCUSED ON RICHARDS’ VOICE, CLIMBING THE STEPS. His right hand groped the air ahead, looking for the doorway he recalled seeing, listening to the numbers.
“87. 86. 85.”
He moved right.
The voice grew fainter.
Back to the left. More rock crumbled to dust behind them as centuries-old engineering succumbed to gravity.
“83. 82. 81. 80.”
His hand found the doorway and he led them out.
The air was better here, breathing easier.
And nothing was falling.
“We’re out,” he called to the darkness.
“I’m here,” Richards said.
Directly ahead.
Not far.
He kept moving, each step cautious.
“There’s nothing out here,” Gary said. “It’s an empty room.”
Good to know.
“Keep talking,” he said to Richards.
She started counting again. He kept edging the boys toward the voice, picking through the dark, his right hand finding familiarity at a wall.
His fingers, curved into a claw, led the way.
The chamber they’d just fled seemed to be imploding, the crashes escalating to a crescendo.
His hand found air.
And Richards.
She grabbed hold and drew him into another tunnel, leading them away. Around two bends and he spotted a faint glow. Bluish. Like the pale wash of moonlight.
They stepped through an exit.
He noticed the door, its lock shot through. They stood on a bridge above another portion of the river tunnel he’d ventured through earlier. The pull of the tides had thrown up a wall of water, flooding the passage, raising the Fleet another eight to ten feet. Luckily, the bridge spanned above it with three feet to spare.
He checked on Gary and Ian.