Chapter 10 #2
Noah tested the first handhold and pulled himself up. The rock was wet from rain seeping down through the cracks. Every grip was precarious. He climbed slowly and methodically. His muscles burned as he worked his way up the steep angle.
Ten feet up, there was a side shaft with a wide opening that angled down into complete darkness. He had to be careful of that descending.
Twenty feet. Thirty.
The shaft narrowed slightly and forced him to wedge his body between the walls. He used opposing pressure to keep from sliding back down.
Forty feet.
His arms were shaking now. His fingers were cramping. But the opening above was brighter, the gray light stronger. He could smell fresh air mixed with rain.
Fifty feet. Nearly there.
The rock seemed to smooth out with no handhold in sight. And he could climb no farther with his muscles giving out.
But he could see sky now—gray and heavy with storm clouds. But sky, nonetheless. Freedom.
Maybe thirty feet more. So close.
Noah found a secure position where he wouldn’t slide.
He pulled the flare from his pack, his hands trembling with fatigue.
One shot.
That’s all he had.
He pulled the cap, aimed toward the gray patch above, and yanked the trigger hard. The flare shot with a hiss and a spray of red sparks. It trailed smoke that stung his eyes.
Noah watched it arc up and out and break free of the shaft opening. For three seconds, maybe four, it hung in the air—a brilliant red star against the gray sky. Then it dropped from view and disappeared into the rain and mist.
Had anyone seen it?
Noah had no way to know.
He started working his way back down, his body protesting and exhaustion making every movement clumsy. About fifteen feet from the bottom, his boots slipped on a wet ledge.
He scrambled for purchase. His fingers scraped rock but found nothing.
His foot shot out from under him. Noah fell and slid down the shaft uncontrolled.
His hands clawed at the walls for a lip or an edge—anything—as he slid toward the dark offshoot, but they came up empty and he slid down into darkness.
The new tunnel took a sharp turn, and he slammed into a narrow section where the shaft kinked slightly left.
His leg wedged between two rocks with a sickening crunch.
Pain exploded through his shin, white-hot and blinding.
Noah gasped. His vision grayed at the edges.
He was stuck. His right leg was trapped between the rocks at an angle that made his knee scream. His foot twisted beneath him.
Noah’s headlamp had slid off and come to a stop a few feet away, shining just enough for him to see it wasn’t the path he’d come in on. The light flickered—the battery was running low. And he’d left his backup flashlight with Meg. The panic he’d been holding at bay crashed over him like a wave.
He was trapped in a shaft, alone, with his leg possibly broken and his light failing.
And somewhere in the darkness, Meg waited for him to come back.
Meg, who was counting on him.
Meg, who he’d promised he would return to.
He forced himself to breathe slowly and fight panic, to think through the pain.
He had to get free.
Had to. No choice.
Because if he didn’t, if he died here alone in the dark, that meant he’d just sentenced Meg to die alone in the dark too, with the water rising around her.
Noah braced his hands against the walls and pulled with everything he had. The pain shot through his body like lightning.
But the leg didn’t budge.
He tried twisting, pushing down instead of up. Anything to shift the angle, to create space.
Nothing worked.
His headlamp flickered again, the beam weak. Dimmer now. Almost gone.
Then it went out. He looked up, but the kink in the shaft stole any light he’d been able to see from the surface earlier.
He was in absolute darkness.
Meg checked her watch for the fifth time in five minutes. The LED display glowed green against her wrist—a small circle of certainty in the oppressive darkness.
Forty-seven minutes since Noah had disappeared into the blackness.
What if he’d fallen? What if he’d come across another flooded cavern?
She shifted position and tried to find relief from the cold seeping through her pants. The limestone beneath her was unforgiving, with each ridge and depression mapped against her spine.
Her headlamp beam swept across the chamber again. She cataloged the same empty shadows, the same tunnel opening where she’d last seen him—black maws that swallowed light and offered nothing back. The same unconscious kid lying too still on Noah’s jacket.
Except—
Alex’s eyelids fluttered.
Meg scrambled forward, her knees scraping against grit and loose pebbles. Her medical training snapped into focus. “Alex? Can you hear me?”
His eyes opened slowly—unfocused and confused. His pupils were still slightly dilated but reactive.
Good sign.
He blinked several times, his gaze bouncing around, not really focusing on anything before finally settling on her face.
“Who…Where…” His voice came out as a croak. He tried to sit up.
Meg forced down his shoulders. His skin was cool to the touch. Too cool.
“Don’t move. Lay still.” She kept her voice calm and authoritative. “You hit your head. You’re going to be okay, but I need you to stay still.”
“Hurts.” He reached toward the bandage on his temple.
Meg caught it gently, her fingers finding his pulse point—racing and thready. “I know it does. You have a laceration and probably a concussion. Do you remember what happened?”
Alex’s eyes widened suddenly. His breathing picked up speed, each exhale visible in the headlamp’s beam as condensation in the cave’s fifty-degree air. He looked around the chamber and took in the darkness, the rock walls that pressed in from all sides, and the strange woman holding his shoulders.
“Where are my friends? What—” His voice rose with panic bleeding into every word. The sound bounced off the limestone. He tried to sit up again and was stronger this time.
Meg had to use more pressure to keep him down. “Alex, listen to me—”
“Let me go!” He was thrashing now. His hands pushed at her. One caught her headlamp and sent the beam spinning wildly across the ceiling.
“Alex, stop!” Meg’s voice was sharp now. “You need to stay still. You’re injured—”
But he wasn’t listening. His movements were becoming more violent. His breathing was ragged. The smell of fear—sharp and acrid—cut through the cave’s musty dampness.
Meg grabbed his face between her hands and forced him to look at her. Her palms pressed against his stubbled cheeks.
For a moment she saw her mother’s hands doing the same thing the night Meg had awakened screaming from a nightmare about her brother.
You’re in your bedroom. I’m here. You’re safe. Her mother had repeated it over and over.
Because the scariest thing was not knowing.
“Alex.” Meg kept her voice firm but gentle. “Look at me. Look right at me. You’re in a cave on the North Rim of the Grand Canyon. My name is Dr. Meg Lewis and I’m a doctor. You hit your head, but you’re going to be okay. Do you understand?”
He was still breathing hard. But his eyes locked onto hers—brown eyes, dilated wide with fear but focusing.
“You’re not alone,” she continued and channeled every ounce of calm she didn’t feel. “I’m a doctor and I’m here with you. A ranger named Noah is here too—he’s scouting ahead to find us a way out. But right now, I need you to breathe with me. Can you do that?”
She could see him trying to process, his confusion battling with the authority in her voice.
Noah’s words from earlier echoed in her mind. Deep, slow breath. The words he’d used to calm her down when her own panic had threatened to take over.
“Breathe in.” Meg demonstrated, with her hands still framing his face. “Slow. That’s it. Now out.”
Alex’s breathing started to slow and match hers. The cave seemed to quiet around them. His hands, which had been pushing at her arms, gradually stilled.
“Good. That’s really good, Alex.” She eased back slightly and gave him space but kept her hands on his shoulders. “I know you’re scared. I know this is confusing. But I need you to stay calm and stay still. Can you do that for me?”
He nodded weakly. His eyes still darted around the chamber but were no longer panicked. “My friends?”
Meg’s stomach tightened. “They got out and are safe. And we are going to get you out. I promise.”
It was the second promise made in this chamber that might be a lie.
But what else could she say?
“I’m thirsty.” Alex’s voice was small now.
“Okay. I can help with that.” Meg reached for the water bottle and supported his head as she helped him take small sips. “Not too much. Just a little at a time.”
He drank, then let his head fall back against the wadded jacket. “Everything hurts.”
“I know. Where does it hurt the most?”
“Head. And my leg.” He winced. His hand reached down. “My right leg really hurts.”
Meg’s medical instincts sharpened. She’d been so focused on his head injury—the visible wound, the obvious concern—that she hadn’t done a thorough assessment of the rest of him.
“Don’t move it. Let me look.” She shifted position and shone her headlamp down Alex’s body. The beam caught dust motes floating in the still air.
His jeans were torn at the right knee and covered in dirt. She carefully cut away the fabric with her trauma shears and exposed his lower leg.
Her stomach dropped.
The leg was swollen—massively swollen from midcalf down to the ankle.
The skin was tight and shiny. Mottled with dark purple bruising that spread like spilled ink across the tissue.
This was the type of damage that happened when something was crushed.
She remembered the rock that had pinned his pant leg. It must have had a solid hit.
Meg’s mind raced through differential diagnoses.
Closed tibial fracture, definitely.
But the degree of swelling, the rate at which it seemed to be increasing even as she watched, the mottled discoloration that spoke of compromised circulation—
This wasn’t normal post-fracture edema.