The Last Hunter - Descent - Jeremy Robinson [41]
Unable to see behind me, I move my feet from side to side, bending them as close to my body as I can. Once I find purchase, they will provide the force I need to squeeze through. I find a good sized rise on the floor for my right foot and a crack in the wall big enough to slip my toes inside.
I breathe faster, hoping to increase the amount of oxygen in my system. It will soon be starved, but the effort simply taxes my body, so I stop. And rather than suck in a deep breath, I push it out. I force the air from my lungs, shrinking them down and reducing the pressure on my ribs. I know its time to move when I feel my back come away from the tight ceiling.
I push.
I slip forward.
The skin of my bare chest clings to the rough stone, slowing my progress. Each rib compresses as I move through the tiny space, bending near to breaking before popping through. If not for the stone grit gripping my skin, I would already be through.
I push harder.
A different kind of pain flashes into my mind. It’s not dull like the constant pressure. It’s sharp. And wet. The stone has opened a wound. The sudden pain causes me to suck in a breath.
It’s a mistake.
My chest expands quickly. The ribs currently in the stone’s grip bend, and then snap. This deeper welling of pain brings a scream from my mouth. Not of anguish, but of anger. I shove hard with my feet while the scream carries the air from my lungs. My body slips forward, the movement lubricated by my blood.
With a final pop of rib over stone, I launch from the stone orifice and land on my side. Despite the pain in my chest from both internal and external wounds, I laugh, which of course increases the pain. But this doesn’t bother me, because I’m moving again.
I choose my path more deliberately, backtrack when things get too tight and try multiple handhold arrangements before committing myself. I make remarkable time, slipping through the bowels of the South Pole like some kind of worm.
After rounding a tight corner, I stop when a breeze tickles my face. It’s wet and fresh. I ignore my learned caution and rush through the final stretch of tunnel. Then I’m free.
I’m in a cavern, perhaps forty feet across and twice as tall as it is wide. A waterfall pours down from the upper right, pooling in the middle and then disappearing down a hole on the left. A kind of tunnel vision overcomes me and I run for the swirling pool. Had I heeded the lessons learned in the cave—caution, patience, observation—I would have noted the cooling embers of a fire. I would have seen the packs of supplies. The tools. The meat hung to dry. More than that, I would have seen him.
Of course, he makes himself impossible to ignore. He allows me to reach the water, to cup it in my hands and raise it to my lips. Then he strikes. His arm goes around my throat and squeezes. The water flies from my hands as I reach up and take hold of his arm. My climbing claws stab into his flesh, creating six neat puncture wounds. But he shows no reaction. He simply squeezes tighter.
He drags me away from the water and tosses me away like I’m a bag of something vile.
The stone floor is unforgiving when I land on my broken ribs. I roll to ease the pain in my chest, but in doing so lay my back onto the still hot embers. I feel a sharp sting, and the sound of my sizzling skin is quickly drowned out by my scream. I roll off the fire, and still feeling the heat, I make for the water once more.
He strikes again. This time with both fists. He strikes my chest, knocking the air from my lungs and sending me flying over the extinguished fire. My back slaps against the smooth stone wall, pushing a stuck-on ember further in. The pain clouds my mind, but his message gets through—the water is off limits.
I brush the back of my hand over my back, freeing the hot ember and reducing the pain. As I catch my breath, I look at my foe, who has emerged from the shadows.
He is a man, and for that I am grateful. But he is unlike any man I have seen before. He’s hunched forward, concealing his height, which I