by J K Ellem
Shaw stepped out of the bunk house, disappointed. It was bare, looted of any tools or equipment it once held.
He continued on again.
Moments later more structures came into view and he could hear the distinct hum of machinery, the breeze against his face stronger.
Ventilation.
Shaw flipped off his flashlight.
Ahead he could see an entire section of the cavern lit up clear as day. There was a large shipping container, pallets of boxes stacked high, a forklift truck parked to one side. There was a large object, a truck maybe, covered with a heavy canvas tarp. Lights that glowed brightly were strung up along the ceiling. Large silver concertina tubes of industrial ventilation ducting hung by wires from the ceiling, circulating fresh air into the cavern, removing old stale air.
Shaw ducked down and made his way to the object that was hunkered under the large canvas tarp. He squatted behind it in the shadows. Slowly he lifted a corner of the heavy canvas to reveal the metal side of a long vehicle, with bright yellow paintwork, a shade of yellow he had seen many times before. He worked his way around to the left side of the vehicle where he expected the doors to be. He lifted the canvas farther and slipped underneath it.
He found himself in front of a set of folding doors where passengers would get on and get off.
A twist of dread hit him as he ran his hand along the cold metal side of the vehicle, his fingers finally coming to rest on the decals on the side, big black lettering so everyone would take notice of the bright yellow vehicle on the street, paying it the caution it deserved.
School Bus.
52
Cautiously Shaw emerged from under the flap of the tarp.
The first bullet passed two inches shy of Shaw's left temple, before carrying on past where he stood, then slamming into the wall behind him, busting a chunk of concrete free.
He dropped to the dirt, rolled under the tarp again, and dragged himself until he lay under the chassis of the school bus, near the front axle.
Voices became shouts with the sound of heavy feet heading toward where he lay.
Shaw had to move, get out. He dragged himself to the opposite side and emerged from under the tarp between the side of the bus and the wall of the cavern. Logic dictated that he should run back the way he had come. His pursuers would think the same—dumb instinctual reactions of men with guns trying to find a target in the darkness.
Shaw did the opposite and edged toward the commotion, along the wall, the side of the bus shielding him. He ran low in the shadows to a row of pallets, leaving the cover of the bus behind. The voices and shouting had passed him by. They were now behind him, near the covered bus, surrounding it.
Shaw pressed on, moving quietly, stacked crates providing him with valuable cover. Ahead he could see a side tunnel, small and dark.
He paused behind the edge of the crates. On the other side of the cavern sat a portable site building that was used as offices with windows and a set of stairs at the front.
As Shaw watched, the door of the office opened and a man stepped out. He was short, squat with dark curly hair. Shaw moved around the side of the crates to get a better view of him.
The man stood on the stairs, then turned and looked back down the cavern, back to where the bus was parked, a ring of armed men around it now.
Shaw's brain did a backflip as the man's face came fully into view.
Abasi Rasul.
53
It didn’t make sense. Abasi Rasul was dead. Shaw had seen him lying in a pool of his own blood on the bathroom floor in the motel. But here he was, standing on the steps, not thirty feet from where Shaw was crouching.
Shaw heard it first before his brain recognized the sound for what it was; a faint sharp expulsion of air somewhere to his right.
Instinctively, Shaw ducked just as the corner of a crate exploded at head-height in a cloud of splinters and jagged timber.
Hoost was standing a hundred yards away, in the opposite direction from where the group of men with rifles stood in front of the school bus. Hoost held a silenced semi-automatic rifle pointed directly at Shaw. The large Dutchman had guessed correctly, put himself in Shaw’s position. His logic was simple: if you do what your enemy expects, you will die. Like Shaw, Hoost’s strategy would have been to circle around his pursuers, move towards them not away from them, not retreat back into the cavern but get behind them.
Hoost fired again. Shaw sprinted, then dived to the floor, rolled, and came up behind a stack of thick timber pallets, all thoughts of Abasi Rasul gone from his mind. Self-preservation was all that mattered now.
Another bullet sang past Shaw, a high-velocity note that slammed into the wall behind him. Hoost was slowly advancing on him, pinning him down between the solid wall of the tunnel and a tall row of pallets, choosing his shots carefully, not wanting to kill Shaw but to drive him out into the open.
The entrance to the small tunnel was at least fifty feet away, Shaw estimated, but there was no cover, it was fifty feet of no man’s land, an open stretch of killing ground.
Shaw pivoted around and faced the entrance, tensing, ready to spring like a gazelle. He counted down, then anticipated the next shot.
It came.
He exploded, sprinting for the opening of the small tunnel, spurts of dirt kicking up. A line of shots stitched the wall behind him as he ran, Hoost following him with the barrel of the rifle, firing rapidly but with disciplined controlled shots, the worse kind when it’s you they’re meant for.
Thirty feet. Shaw ran at the tunnel hard, the bus just beyond, four men standing there, their backs to him.
Twenty feet. Shaw yelled at the men.
Four heads turned as one, then four rifles came up and aimed at him.
Ten feet. Shaw stepped off his right foot, propelling himself toward the arch of the tunnel.
A hail of gunfire opened up on Shaw from the opposite side as the four men saw him and fired.
Shaw dove into the tunnel opening, the hail of bullets flying past where he was, the sound deafening.
Hoost hit the floor as the rounds slammed all around him from his own men. “Stop fucking shooting, you dumb shits!” he screamed through a mouthful of dirt as he lay on the floor. “He’s got you shooting at me.”
The firing stopped.
Hoost got to his feet and dusted himself off. He slammed the butt of his rifle into the face of the first man who reached him, knocking him out cold. “Dumb ass,” he bellowed. The three remaining men stared blankly at Hoost. “Secure the bus, make sure he hasn’t tampered with it,” he snarled. The three nodded and headed back to the bus.
Hoost wanted Shaw all for himself. Tanner should have allowed him to kill Shaw when he had the chance. Instead, the politician’s ego wanted a more elaborate death. Somehow the man had gotten out of the chamber and had found them.
Hoost looked at the dark opening Shaw had disappeared into and smiled. It was a dead end, Hoost had searched that tunnel months ago and knew exactly where it went. Nowhere.
He slung his rifle and slid out a huge hunting knife. The cold darkness of the tunnel required a certain type of killing; a silent, personal, and brutal one.
Shaw stumbled onward. Looking back, he could see the huge backlit shape of Hoost framed in the tunnel’s arch. The man seemed in no hurry and this worried Shaw, but he pressed on, light fading with every step he took. If he switched on his flashlight, he would be a sitting duck.
The tunnel narrowed then abruptly stopped. Shaw was boxed in at the base of a vertical rectangular shaft that once housed an elevator to the surface. The walls were framed on three sides with a lattice of timber beams that rose into the darkness above. At the base of the shaft sat what was left of the old coal elevator that once carried chunks of coal to the surface. The ruins of the elevator were half submerged in a pool of mud and sludge under a tangle of wires, rusted pulleys, and cog gears.
There was nowhere for Shaw to go but up.
Stepping over broken
timbers and twisted metal, Shaw grabbed the lowest plank and began to pull himself up the timber framework, testing each wooden plank before applying his full weight to it. Water streamed down the side walls, making the timbers greasy and slippery.
The climb was slow but steady, the shaft was filled with the earthy smell of decay and rotting timber. Shaw’s eyes adjusted quickly to the darkness. The inside of the shaft was bathed with a strange ethereal glow from above that gave him the barest glimmer to guide his hands and feet up the timber frame. As he reached up and grabbed the next plank, it collapsed into a soggy paste of rotten wood fibers in his hand. He swung up farther, his fingers clamping on a more solid piece and he pulled himself up, avoiding the rotten timber with his feet.
Another loose plank gave way as he pulled on it, rusted nails shredding through the brittle timber. It tumbled out of his hand before bouncing off the walls as it continued its path to the bottom.
For the briefest of moments Shaw tilted backward into the shaft, both hands flaying in the air, trying not to tumble into the dark abyss below. He regained his balance and just managed to grip another vertical plank of wood. Shaw paused to catch his breath.
It was a treacherous journey up the shaft. He calculated that he was maybe a hundred feet from the base. If he fell, his body would be smashed on the rusted metal wreckage of the coal elevator below.
Then he heard something else.
Shaw stopped climbing and held his breath.
It was the sound of footsteps, coming fast, echoing up from below, closing in on where Shaw was clinging on to rotting wood.
Shaw began climbing again, faster, purposeful motions, still cautious but more determined. Onward he climbed, wondering when he would see a side tunnel or reach the next level. Perhaps there wasn’t one. Maybe this shaft carried the coal all the way to the surface. There could be hundreds of feet left to climb.
Hoost was climbing up like an ape in a torrent of fury and malice. Like Shaw, Hoost didn’t risk revealing himself by using his flashlight. He rose stealthily, like a wraith, his sole focus on catching Shaw then hurling him into the abyss below.
Shaw felt a sharp sting as a protruding nail pierced his hand, but he ignored the pain. Soon he could feel a warm wetness in both palms, unaware that he was leaving a trail of blood-stained prints on each plank he touched.
The steps were getting louder from below, closer. Shaw spurred himself on faster, more reckless now, lunging and grabbing.
Then a pause from below. No sound, just Shaw’s breath, ragged and heaving.
Something had changed.
No sound was bad. Something was wrong.
He only had seconds. Shaw let go with one hand and took one foot off the framework. He pivoted and swung his body flat against the adjacent wall. There was a groove in the rock face, where part of the framework had come away from the wall; he could feel it. He pressed farther in, burrowing himself into the groove, trying to push most of his body into it.
Then it came, a deafening roar from below, amplified in the tight space. Then flashes, strobe-like, as Hoost opened up with his rifle pointing upward, raking the sides of the shaft with gun fire.
Wood shattered, sparks cascaded off the rocky walls. Shaw glanced down. He could see a dark shape, lit by the muzzle flash, thirty, maybe forty feet below, hugging the framework, shooting one-handed.
Shaw looked up. On the opposite side, twenty feet above, was a square outline in the fascia. Then Shaw heard what he had been waiting for: the sound of the rifle’s bolt locking back after firing the last round. Hoost would take precious seconds to reload and reset in the dark.
Shaw didn’t hesitate, he moved fast, swung back, gripped the rungs and scampered up toward the small ventilation shaft he had seen.
Reaching it, he pulled himself into the opening. He found himself in a tight crawlspace, too small to stand but with enough headroom to kneel. Darkness smothered everything.
Shaw turned to face the opening, slowing his breath, every sound he made would be exaggerated and telegraphed to Hoost below. There was no place to hide, the crawl space was too small. Groping in the darkness, he searched the ground. His fingers found a piece of discarded timber, split diagonally. He felt its shape, jagged and splintered.
It would have to do. He crawled slowly to the mouth of the opening then stopped just inside the lip and waited. There was no sound from below but Hoost was there, lurking in the darkness, Shaw could feel him, a change in the atmosphere, a predator creeping stealthily toward him.
The darkness near the opening moved. It was subtle, almost undetectable to the human eye, but Shaw was watching for it. He knew what to look for. The blackness shifted over itself, a slight distortion in the shade of nothingness. A menacing shape tilted into the opening, Shaw just inches from it.
The shape paused but Shaw didn’t. With the split of timber in both hands, he aimed for the head and thrust it forward, hard and fast.
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The tight confines of the crawlspace and shaft dictated the tactics they would employ. There would be no swinging arms, no wayward kicks, no lunging movements. Just tight-fisted blows, elbows, arm locks, grappling, and the odd head butt. The soft tissue areas of the throat and eyes were preferred for inflicting pain and even killing.
The split of timber didn’t just graze Hoost’s head. It tore directly into the temporalis—the broad, fan-shaped muscle that runs from the edge of the eye socket back along the side of the skull—before puncturing through the skin again along the side of Hoost’s head.
Hoost screamed and let go of his rifle. It tumbled and clattered back down the shaft behind him. He fumbled for his knife but Shaw twisted the jagged piece of wood, parting a large flap of skin from the side of Hoost’s head, exposing the temporal bone.
Blood poured down the side of Hoost’s face. He lashed out, almost breaking Shaw’s wrist, battering the wood out of his hand. The pain was excruciating, but Hoost barged into the crawlspace, tearing at Shaw with his meaty hands.
Rolling onto his back, Shaw brought his knees up, fending off Hoost who tried to smother him. They wrestled in the darkness, Hoost struggling to get his bulk on top, fingers clawing at Shaw’s eyes and throat, hands trying to lock around then break joints.
Hoost balled his fist and pulled his arm back, but his head and elbow crunched into the ceiling preventing the delivery of a vicious punch.
In the tight space, Shaw was at a distinct advantage. He was a small monkey in a small cage with a frustrated gorilla who couldn’t move.
Shaw slipped one hand through Hoost’s guard and gouged his eyes, clawing as best he could. Then he reversed his hand and drove the heel of his palm up into where he believed the nose was. He was rewarded with the wet sound of cartilage and bone breaking then the warm spray of blood. Hoost thrashed on top of him, and Shaw used his knees to control the man’s hips, pushing him up and against the rocky ceiling.
Hands and elbows moved at a frantic pace, blows being traded, blocked, and countered. A stray elbow smacked Shaw in the side of the head and the darkness turned to light. Hoost sank down, clamped his hands around Shaw’s throat, and began to squeeze.
Shaw tried to pull Hoost’s fingers off his throat, but they were clamped tight. He punched Hoost repeatedly in the face, short rapid blows, turning the man’s nose into a bloody mush. But Hoost didn’t relent. Instead he pressed harder, bringing his weight farther down onto Shaw, driving him into the floor.
Shaw’s hand fumbled and searched. It found a slit between his thigh and Hoost’s hip. His fingers slithered inward, like the head of a snake, between the gap.
He found what he needed. Shaw took hold, squeezed his fingers with all his might, then twisted his wrist, wrenching Hoost. It was a strange sensation for Shaw, like squashing two over-ripe plums in his hand. Shaw felt something burst between his fingers and squeezed harder.
Hoost roared like a mad bull, his groin on fire, and his fingers around Shaw’s throat relaxed slightly. Shaw swung a short
inside elbow that glanced Hoost’s jaw, dislocating it. Hoost slumped back into a seated position as Shaw brought his knees to his chest then drove out with both feet, catching Hoost full in the face with his heels.
Hoost tumbled backward over the edge of the crawlspace into the shaft.
As Shaw lay on his back, gasping for breath, a long unbroken scream echoed up from below, slowly fading then finally ending abruptly.
55
In the distance Shaw could hear water. Not a trickle, more like a steady torrent, long and deep. He edged forward on his hands and knees along the crawlspace, the flashlight dancing ahead of him. Occasionally, he turned around, but he was certain no one was following him. Hoost would be at the bottom of the elevator shaft, his body smashed and broken.
The outline of an opening appeared ahead and the sound of water became louder. Then the crawlspace opened into a large circular pit.
Shaw stepped out onto a steel plate platform and shone the flashlight around. A gantry ran around the circumference of the pit with a ladder bolted to the opposite wall that ran up to another platform. A large rusted water pipe came out of the rock wall above, a constant gush of water arced out from the pipe over the pit like a waterfall before plummeting into a green murky pool of water below. Shaw felt like he was standing inside a large grain silo, with curved steel walls and rusted seams laced with large rivet heads. It was some kind of slurry pit. Trapped surface water was leaching through from above and draining into the pit through the pipe.
Shaw looked at the ladder, glad that it went up and not down. He needed to keep going upward.
The top of the ladder opened into another dark tunnel but at least it was high enough for him to stand rather than crawl through. Leaving the drone of the waterfall behind, he set out along the tunnel. It was bare, the sides smooth concrete, his shoes crunched on the dirt.
Moments later a shape loomed out of the darkness, squat and rumpled.
