“It’s a slip fault,” Painter said. “We’ll have to jump. It’s not that far. With a running start, we should be able to dive into that other tunnel.”
“Are you mad?” Hank asked.
“It looks worse than it is.”
Kowalski sided with Hank. “Bullshit. My eyesight’s not that bad.”
“I can do it,” Jordan said, and waved everyone back. “I’ll go first.”
“Jordan . . .” Hank cautioned.
“It’s not like we have any choice,” the young man reminded him.
No one could argue with that.
They backed up the tunnel and gave him enough room for a running start.
“Careful,” Hank said, patting Jordan on the shoulder.
He gave them a thumbs-up—then ran low, splashing in the growing stream, and leaped headlong across the gap. Like a young muscular arrow, he shot straight through the air and dove cleanly into the far opening, sliding on his belly across the icy bottom of the next tube. He vanished for a bit—then popped back.
“It’s really not that bad,” he said, panting, wearing a huge smile.
Easy for him to say . . .
“I’ll go next,” Painter said. “Once I’m there, Kowalski, you throw me the dog.”
Kowalski looked at Kawtch; the dog looked at the big man.
Neither looked happy about that idea.
After a bit of maneuvering, Painter ran and made the leap as smoothly as Jordan.
Kowalski then picked up Kawtch, slinging him between his legs. The dog wiggled until Hank got him to calm down with a pat and whispered reassurances.
“Sheesh, Doc. What are you feeding this guy?”
“Just be careful,” Hank said, holding a hand to his throat.
Kowalski stepped to the edge of the drop-off, bent deep at the waist—then heaved upward. Kawtch yelped in surprise, legs splaying out like a flying squirrel. Painter leaned out and caught the dog cleanly. They both fell back into the tunnel amid a rout of barking protest.
Hank choked out his relief—until Kowalski turned to him.
“That means you’re next.”
He swallowed and shook his head. “I don’t know if I can.”
“It’s that or I throw you across like your dog. Your pick, Doc.”
Hank couldn’t decide which was worse.
Painter called from the other side. “I’ll be here if you need me.”
“Okay, let’s do this,” Hank said, forcing as much bravado into those words as he could.
He backed up the tunnel alongside Kowalski.
“I can push you . . . give you a running start,” the large man offered.
Before he could answer, a low sighing gasp made them both turn. Kowalski pointed his flashlight up the lava tube. The beam ended at a wall of mud about twenty feet away. It had crept up on them silently, like some skilled assassin, oozing down the tube. As they watched, the sludge wall melted open and hot mud began to run out of its center, extending its reach.
“Now or never, Doc.”
A low rumble alerted them to trouble.
The flowing mud suddenly exploded toward them. Hot sludge pelted their bodies, burning skin, stinking of sulfur. Bubbling mud followed in its wake, pouring down at them.
“Run!” Kowalski said.
Hank took off, Kowalski at his heels.
Crouched over, Hank ran as fast as he could, but as he reached the end, the water-slick ice betrayed him. His legs went out from under him and he toppled crookedly over the edge.
“Got you, Doc!” A beefy arm scooped him around the waist—then carried him in a hurdling tackle across the dark chasm.
Hank wanted to close his eyes, but that scared him more.
They failed to hit the tunnel as smoothly as the other two. Kowalski clipped his shoulder, sending them tumbling in a tangle of limbs down the throat of the icy tunnel. They crashed into Painter, who could not get out of the way in time.
But eventually they came to a halt. After a bit of figuring whose limbs belonged to whom, they gained their feet. Jordan had returned to the tunnel’s mouth, staring across the gap.
Hank joined him, bruised in odd places.
A new mud waterfall had been born. From the far tube, they could see sludge gushing in a flowing, sulfurous stream. As Hank watched, he caught a flash of a blackened leg poke out of the flow. It was one of the Anasazi bodies, washed from its icy tomb.
The corpse, now buried in mud, vanished below.
Hank said a silent prayer for the lost soul, for all of them—then turned back.
Kowalski expressed what all of them were thinking. “Now what?”
7:28 P.M.
They all sorely needed the rest break.
“We’ll stop here,” Painter said, and sank to his butt, exhausted.
After escaping the mud, he had led them to the end of the lava tube. It had dumped them into a growing maze of tunnels, chutes, rock falls, and blind alleys. For the past half hour, Painter kept trying to climb upward, hoping for the best, but each time, they were eventually driven back deeper.