Lamont heard a scuffling, and then what sounded like a muffled exclamation coming from Carter. Next, he caught a glimpse of his pale face near the tunnel entrance as he hissed through clenched teeth: “Miss Wells, stay—”
But it was too late.
The higher the three explorers climbed through the catacombs of hard rock toward the surface, the more a sense of agitated dread fell over Lamont. As they followed their guide, Rosemary continued to stay close to the captain, and the newspaper spent much of their trek watching the beam of his lamp shine off the reflective surface of Carter’s jacket and the tousled bun of strawberry blond hair that bobbed above it. What would have happened, he wondered, if Rosemary had been less impulsive, had stayed on the surface and waited for backup? Would they know anything of this world besides a primitive structure and a pile of bones? Would the storm have forced them back to Westward, and would they have seen sufficient cause for a second expedition? Would he be leaning against Rex’s piloting console with a cup of coffee tonight, engaging in idle speculations with the wide-eyed young explorer rather than mourning his untimely death and gloomily anticipating a similar fate? His light caught her hazel eyes as she glanced back at him over her shoulder and made a pinching gesture with her hand.
“Oy,” She said. “Take a puff.”
Lamont realized at that moment that his breath had become shallow and ragged. Following her advice, he fished for the oxygen inhaler from his breast pocket and drew in a long breath of life-giving air. After a moment, he was more alert, and with an approving nod, Rosemary turned her eyes forward again. Lamont shook the canister before returning it to his pocket. There was, he guessed, perhaps enough oxygen for one more treatment.
They passed a row of thin columns that looked as if they had been molded from molten rock, and the familiarity of their arrangement told him that they were now entering the tunnel through which he and Francis had originally climbed in their search for Rosemary. The diagonal ridges in the floor were easier to climb down than up, and the tunnel echoed with the sound of their effort as they scrambled awkwardly forward on hands and knees. Beyond Rosemary and Carter, Lamont could see that their speckle-shelled guide had lowered itself into a horizontal position, lending it a disturbingly more bug-like aspect.
And then they stopped. There was a brief moment of silence as the guide ceased the rhythmic ticking sound, which had become so familiar that Lamont no longer noticed it until it was gone. And then he heard a mechanical click and the sliding of stone against stone. They were back at the cave.
Given the size of the corridor, they had no choice but to emerge into the cavern single-file. From what he knew of their disposition, Lamont suspected that the guide would have prefered not to emerge from the tunnel at all. It was difficult to see what was going on at the head of the line. Carter’s lamp quickly seemed to disappear from view, reminding Lamont that, though they had returned to the surface, they were still in a system of caves that was all but pitch black. There was a faint howling of wind and a cold breeze that passed over his face. Lamont heard a scuffling, and then what sounded like a muffled exclamation coming from Carter. Next, he caught a glimpse of his pale face near the tunnel entrance as he hissed through clenched teeth: “Miss Wells, stay—”
But it was too late. The young medic had already emerged into the cavern and, in a sudden rush of movement, pulled an object from the interior of Carter’s jacket.
“Get off of him, you bastards!” He heard her shout, and then the tunnel was filled with the deafening concussion of a discharged automatic.
Next: The Natives
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