Keeping his back and feet pressed firmly against the interior, he crab-walks his way up the wall of the shaft, inch by painful inch, like a mountain climber ascending a sheer, vertical crawl space. For every five feet he rises, he slips back a foot, falling and groaning until the sweat is wiped clear from his palms and his scorched flesh can reestablish a grip on the slippery, metallic surface.

It takes him twenty minutes to ascend eighty-five feet to the top. Awaiting him at the pitch-dark summit—a dead end.

Mick slams his head back against the wall and groans through his regulator in desperation. His leg muscles, weary from the climb, begin shaking, threatening to send him plunging from his perch. Feeling himself slip, he lunges outward with both hands, dropping the flashlight in the process.

Shit …

Surrounded by darkness, he listens to it clatter down the shaft, cracking open as it strikes the surface below.

You’re next if you’re not careful.

With excruciatingly slow movements, he removes the butane lighter and one of the flares tucked inside his wet suit. Dripping with sweat, he wastes the next five minutes futilely attempting to light the flare.

Mick stares at the butane lighter, which is full of fuel but refuses to ignite. Dummy, you can’t start a fire without oxygen.

Taking a deep breath, he removes the regulator from his mouth and presses the purge button, releasing a gust of air toward the lighter. An orange flame ignites, allowing him to light the flare.

The sizzling pink light reveals what appears to be two small hoses connected to a hydraulic hinge. Using his knife, he severs both hoses, which leak a hot, dark blue fluid onto his wetsuit. He returns the regulator to his mouth, then presses the crown of his head against the lid.

The hatch yields a half inch.

Maneuvering as close to the lid as he dares, Mick pushes open the alien manhole a crack and shoves his fingers in the gap. In one motion he rolls, dangling in the darkness before managing to pull himself out of the shaft onto what appears to be a metallic grid. He collapses on all fours, his body shaking from exhaustion, as the searing heat from his new surroundings causes his face mask to fog up and blind him.

Mick removes the mask, but finds his mouth too dry to spit. He wipes the tears from his red-hot face and looks up.

Oh, sweet Jesus …

He sits up, bedazzled, his quivering limbs no longer his to control. His eyes widen, his mind racing so fast that he cannot form a single cohesive thought. Sweat pours off his face and body from the furnacelike heat, causing pools to form in his wet suit. His heart is pounding so hard that it feels like it is weighing him down, pressing him to the scorching metal grating beneath his wet suit.

I’m in hell …