Tunnels 02, Deeper

had thin cords attached to them, so that Rebecca could let them dangle from her hands.
    "Something important?" Sarah inquired.
    Rebecca was distant, her eyes glazed with a kind of dreamy euphoria as she contemplated the phials.
    "Something to do with the Ultra Bug in the newspapers?" Sarah ventured further.
    The smallest glimmer of a smile played on the Styx girl's lips.
    "Could be," she teased. "Our prayers are about to be answered."
    "So you're going to use another germ against the Topsoilers?"
    "Not just another germ. We were only warming up with the Ultra Bug, as they chose to call it. This" -- she shook the phials -- "is the real McCoy, as they say." Rebecca beamed.
    Before Sarah could respond, the Styx girl had whirled around and was striding away.
    Sarah didn't know what to think. She had no love for Topsoilers, but it didn't take a great leap of the imagination to figure out that the Styx were brewing up something terrible for them. She knew that the Styx wouldn't think twice before spreading death and destruction if it meant achieving their aims. But she wasn't going to let any of this distract her -- there was only one thing she had to do and that was catch up with Will Burrows. She was going to find out if he was to blame for Tam's death. It was family business, and she couldn't let anything get in the way of it.
    "We're up. Get moving," one of the Limiters snapped at Sarah's back, making her start. It was the first time any of them had spoken a word directly to her.
    "Um... did... did you say we ?" she stammered, taking a step away from the four Limiters. As she did so, she heard a scrabbling by her feet and looked down.
    "Bartleby!"
    The cat had appeared from nowhere. Twitching his whiskers, he gave a low, uncertain meow, then lowered his muzzle to the ground and sniffed deeply, several times. He pulled up his broad head sharply, his nose coated with the fine black dust that seemed to be everywhere. He obviously didn't like the dust because he rubbed his face with his paw, making loud snuffling noises. All of a sudden he gave an enormous sneeze.
    "Bless you," Sarah said before she could stop herself. She was delighted to have him back. It was as though she now had the company of an old friend on her quest -- somebody she could trust.
    "Get going!" another of the Limiters scowled, jabbing his thin finger toward the far area of the chamber beyond the stationary engine, which was puffing out copious clouds of steam. "Now!"
    Sarah hesitated for a moment, the dead eyes of the four soldiers on her. Then she nodded and took a reluctant step in the direction they had indicated. Well... if you sell your soul to the devil ... she thought wryly. She had chosen her path, and she had to stick to it.
    So, with the shadowy figures following behind, Sarah resigned herself to her lot and began to walk more briskly, the cat at her heels.
    Besides, what alternative did she have, with these ghouls breathing down her neck?

     

31

    The hours passed. Will's forehead and the small of his back were sopping with a sticky sweat, from both the heat around him and the unrelenting waves of fear that he fought so hard to stave off. His throat was parched; he could feel the dust sticking to his tongue but couldn't summon up enough saliva to wet it.
    The dizziness returned, and he was forced to stop as the floor yawned under his feet. He sagged against the wall, opening and closing his mouth like a drowning man, mumbling to himself. With an immense effort, he straightened up and rubbed his eyes hard with his knuckles, the pressure bringing vague bursts of brilliance that helped to ease his nerves. But it was only a brief respite. The darkness immediately flooded back.
    Then, as he'd done so many times before, he squatted down and began to check the contents of his pants pockets. It was an exercise in pure futility, a ritual that would achieve nothing, because he knew by heart precisely what was contained in them -- though he kept praying he'd missed something he could use, however insignificant.
    First he tugged out his handkerchief and spread it flat on the ground before him. Then he took out the other items and laid them by touch on the cloth square. He arranged his pocketknife, a pencil stub, a button, a piece of string, and some other useless oddments, and, lastly, the dead flashlight. There in the dark, he handled each item, feeling it with his fingertips as if by some miracle it might suddenly prove to be his salvation. He gave