Chapter 43 - The Granite Tomb Collapses
Victoria Sterling’s head tilted back against the cold granite, her expression settling into an unsettling mask of eternal defiance.
Clara lingered for only a second, closing her mother's unseeing eyes before standing up with renewed, deadly resolve.
"We don't have time to mourn a woman who traded our lives away," Clara said, her eyes burning through the falling dust.
Above us, the ceiling groaned in a terrifying, continuous screech as millions of tons of alpine rock shifted downward.
Arthur’s secondary charges had destabilized the structural integrity of the entire subterranean complex.
"The blast doors are sealed shut," Marcus said, limping toward the massive steel bulkhead that Arthur had closed. "We’re trapped."
"Not yet," I said, pointing toward a thick ventilation shaft near the ceiling that had been sheared open by the blast.
Cool, thin mountain air was rushing through the jagged aperture, carrying the faint scent of fresh snow and pine.
"That shaft leads to the old funicular rail system," Clara observed, adjusting the baby’s sling securely against her chest.
Marcus shook his head grimly, leaning heavily against the battered wall as plaster fell around his boots.
"You two go," Marcus grunted, chambering another heavy shell into his shotgun with a grimace of agony. "I’ll slow you down."
"Shut up, Marcus," Clara snapped, grabbing his uninjured arm and throwing it over her shoulder. "Nobody else dies for this family today."
I led the way, climbing up the twisted server racks until I reached the lip of the severed aluminum ductwork.
Reaching down, I hoisted the baby carrier first, settling our daughter gently against my chest before pulling Clara up.
Together, Clara and I hauled Marcus through the opening just as a massive granite slab crushed the high-backed wheelchair below into scrap metal.
The roar of the collapse was deafening, the air pressure popping our ears as the main vault was entirely obliterated behind us.
We scrambled through the narrow horizontal shaft on our bellies, the jagged metal edges tearing through our winter coats.
The baby whimpered softly, frightened by the tremors vibrating through the mountain, but Clara hummed a low, steady lullaby.
After twenty yards of claustrophobic crawling, the metal shaft gave way to a dark, vaulted cavern cut from raw rock.
A single set of rusty, narrow-gauge train tracks disappeared into the pitch-black void of a four-hundred-foot incline.
At the bottom of the incline, sitting on a rusted iron turntable, was an open maintenance cart with a manual brake lever.
"Arthur took the main passenger car to the summit terminal," Clara said, shining her tactical light up the endless slope.
"Then we take the work cart," I replied, helping Marcus down into the battered iron chassis.
As soon as Clara stepped aboard, the ceiling above the funicular tracks cracked open with a sound like a splitting glacier.
A boulder the size of a minivan slammed onto the rails thirty yards above us, bouncing down the gradient with terrifying speed.
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"Hang on!" I roared, slamming my boot against the mechanical brake release.
The iron cart lurched forward into the blackness, accelerating straight down into the mountain's frozen gut.
