“You’re going to have to go under now,” Miguel called.
What am I doing here? Michael mumbled a quiet prayer to a god he didn’t believe in before dunking his head under. The shock of the water overtook him completely and he brought his head back up. He wasn’t ready for this—to suffocate to death. The pain would end at some point, no matter what happened. He sucked in the biggest lung-full of air he could muster and submerged his head again. Plunging himself down with urgency he groped around for this rope Miguel spoke of. If Miguel had managed it once, he could too. Rock, rock, more rock, and something thin and coarse. Yes. He clutched the wire and fought against his own buoyancy until there was only rock above him. He pulled hard on the rope to bring himself down and stop his head scraping along the stone above and his ears popped. Worried about pulling the secured line from the cavern floor he instead, opted to use his hand to keep his head protected from the jaggedness of the surface. It was a tight space but he tried not to think about that, which lasted all of five seconds until he thought about what might happen if he got stuck. Bubbles came out of his mouth as the tiny bit of air left in it escaped. It wouldn’t be much longer until his brain would demand that he open his mouth. He had already lasted longer than he ever thought possible. His lungs started to burn as he wondered how much further could it be? The panic took over and he started scrabbling wildly and lost his grip on the safety wire.
Chapter Thirty Three
Michael propelled himself forward, kicking and grabbing onto bits of stone and pulling himself. The wound on his arm burning red hot, the only part of him that was warm.
At the point where he knew he had a few seconds left, without even trying, he started to drift upwards. There was nothing above him anymore and he rose upwards. He tried to propel himself faster by kicking his feet but it felt like an eternity. That moment when the water broke above him he was overjoyed. If he wasn’t so busy gasping he would have been crying. All the fear that had built up inside of him escaped with his ragged breaths, but his elation was short lived when he realized he still had to get out of there.
Even though he struggled to see he got the sense this cavern was smaller than the last. The noises he made did not travel so far before they bounced back to him. He made his way to the nearest wall. This cenote did not have a shallow part for him to escape the water and he stayed afloat, barely. When the light from Miguel’s torch shone into the hole, he breathed a sigh of relief. Although this cenote was much smaller the hole was bigger and it looked like it might be possible to climb up, although he couldn’t imagine doing that in his state. The light revealed the nooks and crannies. His desire to be out of the water overtook his fatigue and he swam to the nearest section of wall he could find while Miguel illuminated the way.
He managed to wedge his foot into a crack and put his weight on it while feeling around for anything he could grab onto. It was still slick, but not as slippery as the last time he tried. The lack of plant-matter attached to it helped. He had only tried rock-climbing once in an indoor place with specially designed hand grips, security harnesses and padded floors. One slip of the hand would be all it took. He may just fall back into the water, or he could end up impaled on a stalagmite.
The thought of making progress, only to have to start again filled him with a heavy feeling of dread in his stomach. He wouldn’t let it happen and forced himself to concentrate more than he ever had before. Not acting too quickly. His core muscles tensed as he tried to keep his balance when climbing and heaved himself up to the next overhanging piece of rock. The tension made a tearing sensation in his side and he was certain he could feel warm blood gush from his injury. He ignored it and forged on, his biceps trembling as he hung on as tight as he could. The closer he got to the top, the more he rushed. He just wanted to be at the top already so he could spread out on the floor and let himself go for a second.
When he got about two-thirds up, he reached the roots that hung down. He was going to have to grab onto them, but had no idea if they would hold his weight—there was no other way around it. His hand gripped onto the rough root and tugged. It seemed secure enough. He avoided using his pinkie finger entirely as if any pressure was placed on it, a stabbing pain made him want to let go. He moved one of his feet higher up, balancing on a small piece of something. As his other hand reached for another root, whatever was keeping his foot in place broke away and his body weight tried to pull him down and he jolted, tightly gripping the root with both hands. The yanking motion sent pain shooting across his various injuries like lightning bolts and he swung gently from side to side, waiting for the pain to subside before finding another foot-hold. After taking a few seconds to
