The Devil Colony (Sigma Force 7)

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.

Needing to collect himself and think, he called for a stop in this small cavern. He searched around. Tunnels branched off in three different directions.

Where now?

Painter stared at his mud-coated companions. Hank let the others take turns sipping from his CamelBak water pouch. Kowalski had already drained his, and Painter had lost his pack to that Amazon woman. They kept hearing water but could never find its location. Dehydration, more than anything, threatened them. If the chill didn’t kill them, the lack of water would.

How long could they keep this up?

Hank looked one step away from collapsing as he sat next to his dog. Kowalski fared little better. He sweated like a racehorse, losing pints of water every few minutes. Even Jordan looked hollow-eyed and lost.

Painter knew that what was weighing them all down, making every step harder, was the futility of their situation. He felt doubly crushed. If he closed his eyes, he could still see Kai’s face as she was dragged away, hear her sobbing cries.

Was she even still alive?

That worry plagued another. Jordan had voiced similar questions as they hiked, never straying far from that same fear. The two had apparently grown close.

Jordan leaned his head back against the wall, too tired to move. Painter studied him, suddenly recognizing how truly young he was. Jordan had held up as well as any man, but he was still barely out of boyhood.

As Painter stared, he noted the youth’s small cowlick—really just a few hairs sticking up—bend ever so slightly, quivering. Jordan scratched his head, perhaps feeling it, too.

It took Painter a few extra moments to realize the truth.

That’s the answer . . .

He sprang up, shedding his exhaustion like so much dead skin. “There’s a breeze blowing through here,” he said. “It’s faint, but it’s here.”

Kowalski opened one eye. “So?”

“This is a breathing cavern system. And it’s still breathing.”

Hank’s eyes widened, the dullness fading. He lifted a damp hand, trying to feel that faint breath.

Painter explained. “Just because one blowhole got plugged, that doesn’t mean they all did. By following the direction of this breeze, it should lead us to a way out.”