Tunnels 02, Deeper

steadily toward him from the sides. The flames made no difference -- indeed, quite the opposite: They appeared to be attracted by the fire, speeding up appreciably.
    In desperation, he slung the bough with all his might at a large dust mite. It bounced harmlessly off its carapace and didn't slow the creature even a little.
    Holy smokes holy smokes holy smokes NO!
    In an absolute panic, he spun around and tried to scramble up the center panel of the triptych. But he slipped and slid against the dusty face of the carving; he couldn't get a grip. "COME ON, YOU IDIOT!" he yelled at himself, his voice all but drowned out by the clacking of the dust mites -- louder and faster now, as if they were aroused by the spectacle of their human food stick trying to make good its escape.
    Then his fingers got a hold on the sides of the panel and, with the most immense effort, he lifted himself off the top of the altar. Panting and grunting, his hands and arms strained to their very limits, he held himself aloft, his feet scrabbling ineffectually under him.
    "Please, please, please," he begged as his arms began to give out. Miraculously his toes found some sort of foothold in the carving. It was enough. He quickly ran his hands a little farther up, and then, hanging on just by his arms again, he found another foothold. By employing this alternating caterpillar-like locomotion -- hands, toes, hands, toes -- up he went, climbing for dear life.
    He drew on the last of his hysterical strength to reach the top of the panel. Once there, he lodged his right foot in the carving of the huge hole. With this, and his fingers crooked over the top of the panel, he quickly took stock of his situation.
    He was in an extremely precarious position, and one that he couldn't hold for much longer; his arms and legs were already exhausted form the effort of climbing. And there was no point in deceiving himself that the dust mites wouldn't be able to swarm up the wall below him -- he'd seen them climbing across the sides of the temple. What could he do to defend himself? The only thing that occurred to him was that by kicking out with his heel, he might at least be able to impede the onslaught.
    He peered around, frantically trying to formulate his next move. He felt the sweat soaking his brow and streaming down his back as, taking deep breaths to try to calm himself, he clung on with grim determination. Then he stiffly twisted his head around to look down at the bugs. As he moved, the orb hanging around his neck slipped out from under his jacket so that its light fell on their massed ranks. This caused quite a stir among them and they bobbed up and down, their mandibles clattering even louder, as if building to a frenzied crescendo of expectation.
    Dr. Burrows thought of chopsticks, many gigantic chopsticks, tearing his body apart, rending him limb from limb.
    "Shoo! Go away! Shoo! Be off with you!" he screamed over his shoulder, the same words he'd often used to scare off the neighbor's cat from the back lawn in Highfield. His hands were sopping with perspiration and cramping horribly. What could he do? He glanced up to make sure there wasn't anything he could grab on to and hoist himself higher. As he did so, across the ceiling of the temple he saw a fluxing collage of serrated arachnid body parts, massed and overlapping silhouettes thrown up by the flickering light of the fire on the altar below. They were close now. It was the stuff of horror movies.
    "Help!" he exhaled in sheer desperation.
    He felt his left hand begin to slither off the ledge as the dust on top of it absorbed his sweat and turned to a slippery paste. He slid his fingers to a fresh position, simultaneously trying to heave himself a little farther up.
    Something began to happen.
    A low rumble shook his whole body.
    Holy smokes holy smokes holy smokes!
    He looked around frantically, his light swinging freely from his neck.
    "Oh no! What now!" he screamed, an even deeper wave of dread sweeping through him.
    He had the strangest sensation that he was moving. But his hands, now almost completely numb, still retained some measure of grip, and his foot was still securely anchored. No, he wasn't sliding down the panel to the ravenous arachnids below.
    The juddering stopped, and he again attempted to hoist himself farther up the panel.
    Immediately the rumbling resumed, more violently this time.
    His first thought was that it was an underground tremor, some type of subterranean earthquake.