My reflexes are above average, so I managed to flail in a semi-coordinated manner and catch another rung. Sadly, brackets tore free with a ping of unseated bolts and it was slick from dripping water anyway. This time I toppled backward and downward.

Yes, I screamed. A cartoon caption bubble would’ve spelled Aaaeeeiii!

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

A sudden drop of three feet can maim or kill. Your spine snaps as easily as that rung had. I fell a solid two stories; farther than twenty feet, but less than thirty. Plenty far to constitute a dangerous, possibly fatal impact against solid ground. Whiro, or Satan, or whoever watches over guys like me, stepped in to save my bacon; I was in a semi-chair position when I landed in a pool of drainage water. The impact stole my air and momentarily stunned me as surely as if I’d gotten slugged in the kidneys with a baseball bat; the shock of cold water shooting up my nose brought me around again. I lightly touched the side of the pit and rebounded to the surface by straightening.

Water sloshed against the sides of the tunnel as I clambered to my feet. It was much deeper at the center where workers dug a foundational trench for the vacuum tube and guiding magnets. Near the wall, water came to my ankles. I’d been extremely fortunate to have pitched away from the ladder, else I would’ve broken a few bones.

Soaked and shivering, I bent double and coughed until my lungs were raw. Dull throbbing in my legs and lower back promised a world of pain once the adrenaline subsided. I caught my breath and shined the light around; grateful it survived the ordeal. Weatherproof and water resistant to one hundred and twenty meters. Thank you, German engineering.

An arched tunnel of exposed rock was shored by girders that curved like a giant’s rib cage; the passage traveled beyond my light. New York State isn’t renowned for seismic activity, yet a recent earthquake had severely damaged the tunnel and its foundations. A fissure cracked through the rock ceiling, split the wall, and disappeared into the hardpack floor beneath the veil of water. More cracks extended in both directions. This explained the dire condition of the ladder. What if it had come unmoored nearer the apex of the shaft? The tunnel had shifted and separated and sections were uneven. Chunks of loose stone jutted like fangs. There was no estimating how far the crevices descended into the earth; I’d have to step lightly or else discover the answer firsthand.

X marked the spot where Sean Pruitt went splat, to put it indelicately. The ME’s report was ambivalent as to whether he’d fallen down the middle, which meant a jump or a push into the shaft proper, or slipped while climbing the ladder and caromed like a pinball. Unfortunate soul; no mud puddle to save him and it wouldn’t have mattered since he plunged from a much greater height.

The cell phone was bricked. The two-way made it, more or less, although the connection sounded patchy when Lionel called. He’d heard me scream and was reluctantly prepping to scale the shaft. I described the situation. After some back-and-forth, we agreed he’d roll to Shaft 41 and wait for me make the hike. While we conversed, I unloaded the .357, dried it and the bullets as best as possible with a wrung-out corner of my sleeve, reloaded, and holstered the gun. Somewhere in the middle of that operation, the radio screeched and gave up the ghost. I was on my lonesome. Of course, when a man is carrying his faithful sidearm, a sharp knife, and the image of true love in his heart, he’s never alone.