Matt put his arms around Nikki and held her close.
'You want me to carry you back to your patients?' he asked.
'Ellen and I will get back to them okay,' she said, sniffing back some tears. 'Matt, I'm frightened. I… I don't want you to go.'
Matt kissed her — at first gently, then with intensity.
'I can think of a few things I'd rather be doing myself,' he whispered. 'But like Ellen said, I'm going to make it because I have to.'
He sensed there wasn't as much conviction in his voice as he had intended. The knot of fear beneath his breastbone was nearing the size of a bowling ball. He stared down again at the river, then over at the slim opening above the surface where it reentered the mountain. In college, a mind game he and his roommates had played from time to time centered around what they would do, what they would feel, if somehow they learned precisely when they were going to die. Now it felt as if he might actually be in a position to know.
Again the questions rattled through his mind.
Was there any other way — any other reasonable possibility of escape for them? If he became wedged, how much time would it take before he lost consciousness? How long could he hold his breath? What did it feel like to drown?
The revolver he had taken from Grimes's massive associate was nestled in the pocket of his sweat pants. The weapon might prove helpful if he ever made it out and then got into trouble. He knew enough about handguns to feel confident it would fire after being submerged for a short time, provided he remembered to empty the water out of the stubby, two-inch barrel before pulling the trigger. If he got trapped, it was doubtful he'd get the chance to use it on himself.
More questions…
Was there anything else that might be useful to take? Better to remove his shoes or leave them on? Hyperventilate or just go for it?
Matt knew that he was stalling. He galvanized himself by imagining the terrible loss of life down the road should their suspicions about Lasaject and spongiform disease be true. Holding that thought, he slipped over the rocky edge and into the chilly water. Nikki leaned down and touched her fingertips to his.
'I'll see you soon,' she said.
He walked chest-deep toward the opening in the rock. Once there, he took several deep breaths and looked back over his shoulder.
'You bet you will,' he said.
With that he took a final, lung-filling draught, ducked below the surface of the ebony river, and pushed off downstream.
CHAPTER 33
The burning in Matt's chest — the first sensation of air hunger — began after just fifteen or twenty seconds of swimming beneath the surface of the chilly, pitch-black water. His awkward swimming became even more uncoordinated. Fearing that if he tried to break the surface he would encounter only the ceiling of his tomb, he pulled himself ahead for another twenty seconds. The fire in his lungs was becoming unbearable. Terrified, he reached overhead. His hands broke water, but then, almost immediately, with his elbows still bent and his feet scraping along the bottom, his fingers touched rock. There was some air space above him, though it was difficult to be certain how much.
Battling a horrible, smothering sensation, he pinched his nose closed, tilted his head back as far as he could, planted his feet on the bottom, and pushed himself up. His face was level with his forearm when it broke water. There was not enough room for him to stand straight up, but there was a four- or five-inch space. With his forehead pressed upward against the rock, he took half a dozen grateful breaths of stale, heavy air. Next he lowered himself
until his eyes were just above the water's surface and slowly turned 180 degrees. The darkness behind him was intense and absolute. It was doubtful Nikki and Ellen had already left the bridge, so he concluded that he had either swum farther than he reckoned or that the river had turned sharply. The cold water flowed steadily past his face. He worked his way around again so that the current was behind him, then tilted back so he could breathe once more.
Even pinching his nose shut, with his forehead pressed tightly against the ceiling, water still sloshed into his mouth, making it hard to get air in consistently. Fingers of panic, infinitely colder than the water, squeezed at his throat. He was alive, but nearly immobilized by fear. The oppressive, claustrophobic sensation was worse than he'd expected — much worse. There was absolutely no way he could go on. He had to get back — back to where he could straighten up, back to where there was more space to breathe, back to Nikki. He struggled unsuccessfully to swing around again, but his strength seemed gone.
The current, though not that forceful, kept pushing him downstream, lifting his feet off the stony bottom, and dragging him underwater. With effort, he could wedge himself between the floor and roof of the tunnel, but only for ten seconds at a time before the current won out. Aware of little beyond the hideous impotence of being confined, he floated on. An outcropping of rock struck his hand and forehead with surprising force, dazing him momentarily. The walls of the tube scraped at his arms. The energy it took just to hold himself in place quickly had him gasping.
He simply couldn't take it anymore.
He had to stand up straight.
Damn you, Grimes.
Matt braced himself once more and shut his eyes tightly. Vision was useless here anyhow. He calmed himself down some by imagining that there was a cave just ahead… a vast cavern… unlimited air… space to move… space to turn around and stand… space to think.
Slowly, with his head dragging against the ceiling, he lowered his mouth and nose below the surface and took a controlled step downriver… then another, and still another. He sensed his pulse begin to slow and his thoughts to focus. The icy fingers loosened their grip. Every six or seven steps, he paused long enough to tilt his head back and suck in a few more gulps of air. Emboldened, he actually dropped down beneath the surface and propelled himself forward with several breaststrokes. However, this time when he broke water, he could straighten up even less than before, and the air space had become reduced by half — two inches, maybe three. There was the chance for only a couple of incomplete breaths before the current pushed him ahead. Another few feet and the space disappeared completely. With less than full lungs, he dropped down, leveled off, and began to swim forward again, this time desperately and with all his strength. Twice he tried to break through the surface. Twice he was met by rock.
This was it. This was the end.
The current was increasing now as well, and turbulence was becoming an additional problem. Frantically, he clawed through the churning water, trying to stabilize his body. His lungs were afire once more, and each heartbeat was a shell-burst inside his skull. The walls of the tunnel seemed to be closing together, tearing at him as he tumbled past.
Don't breathe!, Hang on!..
At the instant he had to inhale, his face broke the surface of the water. Coughing and gagging, he struggled to adjust to the now powerful current, trying to keep himself upright as he sucked in some of the dense air from what he sensed might be a small cave or even a cavern. But his weakness and merciless coughing made regaining control impossible.
The river had widened and become shallower. No more than three feet deep, it churned ahead at intense speed through the pitch-black space. Matt tried to scramble to the right-hand bank, but water roiled about him, forcing him under, then flipping him over like a rag doll. Twice he was slammed into rocks protruding from the bottom. Over the years, he had rafted a number of West Virginia's rivers, traversing dozens of rapids either by oar or swimming. The goal either way was to avoid boulders, and the technique when in the water was to navigate feet first, in a near-sitting position, using one's arms as rudders. Constantly being hammered by rocks, he attempted to establish that position. But in the dark, with no visual cues and no warning of an approaching boulder, he had little
