VIRTUAL SEASONS EPISODES

PROLOGUE

Sounds: confused, confusing sounds.

Darkness; dampness; strange smells.

        The Leaping process was always disorienting to Sam, it often took awhile for him to get his bearings. Sometimes, it was fairly straightforward, and he assumed his new role with relative ease. Other times, like now, he felt like he was being thrown in the deep end, or being bombarded with flying objects without so much as a “heads up” to warn him of their impending impact.

Were it not for his wits still being addled by the Leap-in, Sam would have heard that this was precisely what his newfound colleagues were trying to tell him. He had immediately stopped whatever his host had been doing, waiting for his senses to catch up with the rest of him.

        As it was, before his eyes had focused on his surroundings or his ears had managed to discern a single phrase, the sky had fallen, and buried him under a pile of dust and rubble.

PART ONE

Awareness returned to Sam in patches. Sounds: confusing sounds. They made his head hurt.  He stirred, too woozy to move far as yet and definitely not ready to rise.

Cold: cold and damp. He shuddered. He coughed.  The air was thick with dust still, and he struggled to get enough oxygen into his lungs.  That hurt too.  Hesitantly, reluctantly, he tried opening his eyes.

        For a horrifying moment, Sam thought a blow to his head had rendered him blind.

He moved his left arm with some difficulty, dislodging a heap of pebbles that had gathered over and around him. He began rubbing at his eyes, until he came to appreciate that far from clearing his vision, he was introducing more grit to his eyeballs, putting himself in danger of scratching his cornea and causing permanent injury. So instead he blinked hard, and then squeezed his eyes tight shut, forcing cleansing tears to wash the grime away.

Finally a faint glimmer away off in the distance made him recognize he was somewhere very dark. He blinked a few more times; trying to adjust to the lack of light. He strained his eyes to focus on the distant glow. His head hurt more.

Gradually, the light took form, and he realized it was the feeble beam from a torch attached to somebody’s helmet.

Reaching up, he confirmed that his own helmet had come off and was right by him. Fumbling around, he found the light switch and turned it on.

Dimly, he made out what appeared to be two figures a short distance away from him, both prone and unmoving, much like himself, both partially buried in rocks and dust and rubble.

“H-hello?” he called thinly, his voice hoarse from the choking cloud.  The answering silence was total, and eerie.

Sam stirred some more, trying to raise himself up for a better view.  “Gnnnnn,” a groan escaped his lips. He could feel an intense pressure over his entire frame, pushing him down. ‘This is not good,’ he thought to himself, rather unnecessarily.

Gritting his teeth, he renewed his efforts, attempting to roll onto his side. His upper torso complied to some degree, shrugging off the debris that covered him like a hedgehog coming out of its hibernation.

He still felt a weight on his back, and was alarmed until he found he was wearing a large cumbersome backpack.

Propped up on his right elbow, Sam looked toward his companions once more.

“Can you hear me?” he queried, his voice still faint, but echoing slightly in the vast, acoustically brilliant cavern in which he found himself.

Still no voice but his own returned to his ears.

Sam turned his attention to his legs, invisible under the flotsam and jetsam of the recent cave-in. Concentrating hard, he kicked out with his left leg, and managed to loosen the mound. He wriggled and thrashed until the smaller rocks had rolled away, leaving one fairly large chunk crushing his right leg beneath its bulk.  This was going to be a challenge.

“Hello?” he called again, though with little hope of a response. “Can anyone help me here?”

This time, he was startled to hear a voice, strange and distorted and crackling.

“Hello? Cliff, can you hear us?”

‘Am I Cliff? Guess I must be,’ thought Sam.

“Over here!” He raised his voice a few decibels, though the effort made him cough once more.

“Owwwwwww!” His ribs protested the activity. ‘Damn!’ he cursed under his breath, putting a hand to his right side as he wheezed.

“Professor? Lizzie? Cli...” crackle, splutter, buzz, crackle “…m in, over.”

A radio! Rescue! Sam’s heart leapt.

If only he could reach it.

“…die….” Spit, buzz, crackle.

“No!” reacted Sam instinctively. ‘I don’t want to die!’

Sudden clarity as the voices at the end of the line discussed among themselves:

“It’s no use. They aren’t going to answer. They’re all dead.”

“NO! I’m NOT dead!” Sam protested loudly, and then sneezed hard as the reverberation of his voice sent clouds of dust showering down upon him. He would have to be more careful. ‘At least not yet,’ he added ruefully to himself.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

        Travis Hunter poured himself a cup of coffee and prepared for a long boring nightshift. He knew the necessity of manning the radio in case of emergencies, but he predicted an uneventful eight hours during which he would have trouble staying awake. Especially since his only proper distraction was an overdue midterm paper for “Interdisciplinary Approaches to Environmental Issues.” He loved his studies, and his professors were great, but term papers still sucked.

        Claire had informed him that Cliff had checked in right on schedule as the ‘away team’ (as Travis liked to call them) had entered the cavern just before dusk. He reported that the weather had turned nasty, and they had all gotten soaked before reaching their goal. As she handed over to her fellow student, Miss French told him that they were nevertheless very excited, and had forayed well into the cave, finding the roosting bats before they awoke for their nocturnal explorations. Cliff told her he was going to maintain radio silence for a while so as not to disturb their quarry. Hence, Travis was convinced his being there on communication duty was going to be a monumental waste of time.

        As she ‘left him to it’, Claire had leaned over and planted a flirtatious kiss on his forehead, letting him breathe in the scent of her, giving him ‘something to think about during the long cold night’.

        He had something to think about all right, and it wasn’t his midterm paper.

        Claire loved to flirt with him, to tease him and lead him on, but she wouldn’t commit to a relationship, and she certainly wouldn’t deliver on her tantalizing promises of intimacy. Damn, but that chick drove him wild with desire.

        He didn’t think even the coffee would dampen the ardor that her simple kiss had aroused in him, and he began to wish he’d brought one of his magazines with him, as he leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on the bench.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

        Suddenly his eyes snapped open, and as his attention was abruptly drawn away from his indulgences, his clumsiness caused him to tilt the chair too far, tipping him onto the floor, cursing colorfully.

By the time he had picked himself up, and responded to the panicked cry, everything had gone quiet.

        He called Cliff repeatedly, for a good ten or fifteen minutes, without hint of response, and began to wonder if he had imagined the SOS, or if one of them had been winding him up, just testing to see if he was awake.

        He had all but persuaded himself it was nothing, and prepared to return to fantasizing about Claire’s knockout body, but a nagging voice at the back of his mind told him there’d be hell to pay if something really was wrong and he’d not reported it.

        Starting to wish the evening had turned out as uneventful as he’d predicted, Travis decided he’d best confer with the other members of the home team. He wouldn’t disturb Professor Lofton yet, it was probably just a joke after all; he’d just get the girls in and see what they thought.

        He reached for his mobile phone, and dialed Jenna first, not telling her what he thought he’d heard, only that he needed her to come to the radio room at once.

        To her credit, she was there in record time; in fact he’d only just had a chance to send for Claire.  Before he had time to tell her anything, however, she had taken in his still open zipper and loosened belt, and jumped to entirely the wrong conclusion regarding his summons. With a grin and a swish of her hips, she sashayed her way across the room, pouting provocatively, and sat herself down on his lap, wriggling to get herself comfortable, and to stir the spirit within.

        “Ohhhh brother!” he breathed as she made it abundantly clear she was more than willing to give him what Claire would not, playfully putting her hand up his shirt and grabbing at his chest. “Lousy timing...” he muttered, as he reluctantly moved to evict her.

        “No kidding!” responded Claire, who stood in the doorway with her hands on her hips and a face like thunder.

        “Chill out, sorority sis,” purred Jenna, “there’s enough of him to go around…” as if to emphasize the point, she lowered her hand, and squeezed at his bulging pants.

        Feeling the blood rise to his cheeks, and elsewhere, Travis swallowed hard, and tipped Jenna off his lap with a sigh of regret. His dreams would have this scene play out in a very different way.

        “Much as I am flattered ladies,” he told them, “you’ll have to fight over me later.” He rearranged his clothing to a more appropriate state of dress, though carefully; his tight jeans felt far tighter than normal.

        He then hastily explained the reason he had called them, trying to get their reassurance that it was a fuss about nothing, so that he could pursue the interesting turn of events that had cropped up.

        “Cliff said what???”

        “It was very jumbled; there was a lot of interference. I can’t be sure.”

        “Just tell us, Travis.”

        “He said the bats got spooked, took off. He said the storm sounded loud and I think he said something about lightening. It sounded like he said they feared a cave-in.”

        Unfortunately, they did not share his optimism that it was a wind up, and having made him repeat exactly what he had heard in every minute detail twice more, along with what he had done in response, the girls concurred that they should probably notify Professor Lofton. Their secret may just have to come out.

        “Wait!” Travis pleaded, knowing the consequences of such a revelation. ”You know Professor Cooper could lose his job if this comes out. Not to mention all of us getting booted out on our asses. I don’t know about you two, but my folks would go ape. Besides, this is the best Uni for zoological studies in the whole goddamn country. I’m not about to give up everything I’ve worked for, all hopes of my career, everything, just because Cliff is playing one of his practical jokes.”

        The girls were none too keen to jeopardize their careers either, but their concerns for the safety of the away team played heavy on their minds.

        An argument ensued. Claire was saying for the tenth time that they could trust Professor Lofton, and they had to call him in.

        “Let’s try to get hold of the others again first.” Travis offered as a last delaying tactic to the end of all his dreams.

        So saying, he grabbed the radio mike and began calling once more:  “Hello? Cliff, can you hear us?”

        Nothing. No response. Only silence.

“Professor? Lizzie? Cliff?” he tried again “Somebody come in, over.”

Still nothing.

“Hello, Dai? You there?” Travis was starting to get desperate now – Cliff would not keep up a joke this long - and the girls were closer to panic.

“Why won’t they answer?” queried Jenna.

Travis pushed the button to call again, determined to keep at it till he got a response, convincing himself he would get a response – it was just that they were in a radio blind spot, there had to be a simple explanation like that, they would reply any moment.

Claire contradicted his thoughts with the despondent statement:

"It's no use. They aren't going to answer. They're all dead."

PART TWO

Filled with a sudden determination to correct their erroneous assumption, Dr Beckett took a deep breath, which made his ribs hurt, metaphorically girded his loins, and set about trying to extricate his leg from its trap.

It would have been an easy matter for someone else to do it for him. They could stand above him, and just lift it up, no problem. Well, it would require a bit of strength, a bit of muscle, admittedly, but not exactly Mr. Universe stuff.

Shifting it from his present position was a whole different ball game. He twisted and contorted, trying to reach with his hands. He fidgeted and fretted with his left leg, trying to kick the obstacle aside.

He collapsed, panting and sweating and frustrated.

Sam looked around for something he could use as a fulcrum to give him leverage, but saw nothing remotely helpful in the sphere of his torchlight. He wriggled his way out of the backpack, and examined its contents. There were enough items of practical value to be worth hanging on to, but nothing of immediate usefulness.

Correction, he would take a moment to make use of one article: a water canteen - nearly full by the feel of it. Dust and grit worried at the back of his mouth like sand in an oyster. Were the resulting lump in his throat a black pearl, it would be a priceless one. He carefully unscrewed the cap of the bottle, and raising it to his lips; he took a sip of the cool clean water, rolled it around his mouth and then spat the foul debris on the floor. Next he tilted the canteen again and took a fuller draught of the precious liquid. This he swallowed gratefully.

Then, regretfully, he replaced the lid. He did not know how long it might be before they were rescued, nor if the others had their own supply. He may have to share these meager rations. He stowed it safely back in the rucksack.

Sam wished heartily that somebody would wake up and help him, but he knew it was unlikely. The nature of Leaping meant that he was the one expected to provide the help, not to be on the receiving end of it. It would do no good to lie back and wait for somebody to assist him – he was on his own. Might as well get on with it.

He could just hear his Daddy’s voice:

“If you’re looking for a helping hand, son, you’ll find there are two perfectly good ones at the end of your own arms!”

“G-g-g-ggnnn-nnn-nn-aaaaaaaahh!” Sam grunted with renewed effort. The color rose in his cheeks as he strained against the offending obstacle; his facial muscles taut with grim determination as he concentrated on shifting the rock which was impeding his ability to reach the radio and summon assistance for them all.

Over and over again he resolutely struggled to budge the seemingly immovable object, pausing from time to time to pant, or cough or wipe the sweat from his brow, and dig deeper into his rapidly dwindling reserves of both energy and resolve.

He ached all over, his body a mass of bruises from his temporary entombment. He was fast reaching a state of exhaustion.

“Cliff? Professor Cooper...?” the radio spat into life again, as those friends at the other end sought some sign that all were not lost.

‘Wish I knew who I was,’ thought Sam. Logic told him that since they mostly called Cliff first, he was probably the one with the radio. ‘I hope I’m the Prof and not Lizzie,’ Sam reflected fleetingly, then brought himself up sharply, ashamed of himself for the sexist assumption that the Professor would naturally be a man.

The attempt at contact spurred in him a new sense of purpose, and he resumed his efforts with added fervor, pressing his lips together to keep himself from crying out, concentrating every ounce of his fading strength into a last ditch effort.

Finally, the stone teetered, and gradually rolled away.

“Phew! Thank heaven for that!” sighed Sam; relieved his trials were finally over. 

Little did he know it, but they were only just beginning.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Travis let go the button without having renewed his call, and rounded on the fair Claire.

“Don’t say that. I don’t wanna hear they’re dead. They can’t be dead!”

He half rose in his chair, and for a second Jenna thought he was going to hit Claire.

“Calm down.” She put a restraining, soothing hand on his shoulder and sat him back in his seat.

“We aren’t helping them or ourselves carrying on like this.”

“We need to think.” Seeing the coffee Travis had made himself, what seemed like days ago now, she rustled up a couple more cups and poured them all one. This could very well be an extremely long night. Had already been a long night.

Finally, reluctant to involve anybody “official”, Jenna called her boyfriend for advice. Matt Roebuck was completing his training at Fort Leonard Wood army base, which was not too far, as the crow flies, from the Missouri bat caves.

Meantime, Travis and Claire continued trying to raise the party on the radio.

        “Cliff? Professor Cooper...?”

        Over and over they called, taking turns at the radio, shouting ‘til they were hoarse, as if sheer volume would achieve what persistence hadn’t.

        Every couple of minutes they paused, and just listened, in case it was just bad reception that kept them from hearing the response.

        “What if it’s just a busted radio?” Travis offered. He was clutching at straws and he knew it, but he clutched tight all the same.

        “Maybe there was a cave in, but it just broke the radio. They might all be fine, and we wouldn’t know it.”

        “Or maybe they are hurt, and the radio is bust, and so we don’t know they need help!” the thought struck Claire with horror.

        She snatched the radio from Travis and began calling frantically again.

“Please give us some sign you are still alive. Professor, Lizzie, Dai, anyone…?”

        Still there was no reply.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

At last unfettered, Sam moved to make his way over to the radio.

“Ggnnnnnnaaaarrrrrrrgggggghhhhhhhhhhh!” his head shot back and he howled.

He couldn’t help it.

The pain was excruciating. Now that his leg was no longer numbed by the weight of the boulder, the full feeling of bones broken in two places hit him with the force of a lightening bolt.

Small stones skittered down the walls around him in response to his vocalization.

Shock sent a wave of nausea that threatened to engulf him. His head swam. His eyes dimmed. He passed out.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“Ooooooooooowwww, m-my l-leeeeeggg!” complained Sam when he came to a few minutes later, struggling to keep his volume setting to minimum, though his instinct was to scream the place down. Had he given in to his natural urge to yell, he could well have done just that. Instead, he screwed up his eyes, and bit his lip.

Self-pity rapidly gave way to anger.

“What have I done to deserve this? What do you want from me?” he challenged the ether.

“…some sign you are still alive…” spit, buzz, crackle, “…Lizzie, Di, anyone…?” (ital)

“Okay, okay.” Sam took the radio to be his cue. He had to make contact. Since Al had not yet shown up to tell him any different, for now he would assume that his mission was to ensure that the voices at the end of the radio summoned help, a rescue team to get them all safely out of this dismal place.

“Here goes!”

It wasn’t that far after all - maybe ten feet, a dozen at most. He could make that, surely. But how? He certainly couldn’t stand up and stroll over.

Rolling onto his back, he propped himself up on both elbows, closed his eyes while his pounding head stopped spinning, and then hiked himself into a sitting position. His ribs ached with the strain of movement, and he took a few hitching breaths. Studying his throbbing leg, he was relieved to see that no bones protruded through his flesh; there was no sign of blood leaking through his dusty, faded blue jeans.  Simple fractures then, nothing jagged or complicated. Didn’t make them hurt any less though.

Though he didn’t relish the prospect in the least, Sam knew he could not put off the inevitable journey any longer. Gritting his teeth, he bent his left leg, bringing his foot up to his hip level, and pushed off with it and both hands, dragging his useless leg backwards until his good leg was straight once more.

“Grn-argh!” he had gained maybe a foot of ground, but at a cost. He lay back down, panting, whilst he waited for the sheer unadulterated agony to ratchet down a few notches to the level of mere indescribable pain.

Sam suddenly remembered the backpack, and grabbed for it before it got beyond his reach. He certainly didn’t want to have to go back for it.

Sliding it around beyond his head, he swept it to and fro, to clear some of the debris, which littered his path. Then he pushed it as far ahead of him as he could reach.

With a sigh of resignation, he repeated his previous ritual – sit up, bend knee, launch off, straighten, scream silently, collapse and catch breath.

Since he was essentially moving backwards, he had little sense of perspective regarding the distance covered and that yet to go. He twisted his head to look, but was discouraged by the vast gulf which still seemed to stretch between his body and his goal. A sob caught in his throat.

“Enough of that!” he told himself sternly. “Just get on with it.”

He reached up and extinguished the light on his helmet. It wasn’t helping him any and he may have greater need of it later. He had no way of knowing how long the batteries would last, and there weren’t any spares in his backpack.

The totality of the darkness was depressing, and thoughts of graves and being buried alive beset him. He considered singing to lift his spirits, but decided the risk of rock-fall and the pull on his ribs outweighed the benefits.

Instead, he settled for a whispered prayer:  ‘Oh God, give me strength!’

Once more he forced his body through the grueling routine.

Then again.  And again.  And yet again.

Three times, he almost quit, exhausted by the pain, but then the radio would spit into life, seeking answers, and he would be spurred on to renew his labors once more.

Senses distorted by excessive suffering, he began to imagine how much easier it would be if he could only unscrew his damaged leg and carry it under his arm, or tuck it neatly into the backpack, where it would be clean and safe.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

After eight or nine repetitions, each time pushing the backpack ahead of him to clear his path, he encountered an obstacle, which wouldn’t be swept aside. Having gotten into some semblance of a rhythm, he did not want to break it by twisting round to look. Assuming it to be a larger than average rock, he decided he would just have to go over it.

Pushing up even harder with arms that were by now trembling from the tension, he heaved his aching body backward once more. Moments later, eyes wide with shock, he almost shrieked in horror - “Aaach!”  - as a human head appeared between his legs, his good knee strangling her neck.

A hasty and clumsy move freed him from the entanglement, though it sent shock waves throbbing through his severed bones. “Gnnnnnnnnnmmmmmmmmmm!” he pressed his lips tightly together to stop his cry of pain from burying them in a fresh avalanche.

“I’m s-sorry, I’m uh, so sorry!” he panted to his companion, who failed to react, either to the assault or to the apology.

The young woman lay still and silent; her light brown hair caked with dust, her face too, like she was sleeping while a mudpack worked its wonders with her complexion.

Her hardhat had been knocked off, and it was the light from that, some little way off, that had focused his attention earlier, and now bathed her in an eerie glow.

“Lizzie…?” he hazarded.

Still nothing.

“Cliff, anyone, can you…” spit, crackle, buzz, “…please answer…”

Sam rolled to his side, and hauled himself up onto his good knee, grunting from the strain it placed on both his leg and his ribs. Shaking the dizziness from his head, he looked around until he spotted the handset of the radio, just out of arms reach to the side.  So near and yet so far. With a sigh of resignation, he edged his way closer, until he could stretch out and snatch it from where it had fallen.

“H-hello?” he stammered, and then realized he hadn’t depressed the ‘talk’ button.  “H-hello?” he tried again, his voice a hoarse rasp.

“Yess!” he heard from the relieved operator at the other end, and he could almost see the high five his feeble word had elicited from the team.

“P-please... help us,” breathed Sam.

“Di? Is that you?” came the anxious query.

By now, Sam couldn’t have cared less that it sounded like he was a woman once more. Ignorant of the voracity of this identity however, he chose neither to confirm nor deny the assumption.

“G-get us out of here! P-please,” he pleaded.

“You okay, Di? Are you hurt?”

“My l-leg is ah b-broken, at least two places. Feels like uh, like I have s-several cracked ribs, maybe slight concussion…”

He heard a mumbling as this information was relayed to others in the room.

“Sit tight, Di, help is on the way,” another voice had taken hold of the radio.

Sam allowed himself a sigh of relief.

“It could take some time,” came the bad news to follow the good. “The chopper won’t… spit crackle buzz... the storm dies down …crackle spit… buzz, spit… base camp …buzz, crackle spit… woodland. The rescue …spit, buzz… hike up …crackle, spit, crackle buzz… Sorry, Di …spit, buzz… several hours before they reach you.”

“Oh boy! Why am I not surprised?” Sam mumbled to himself.

“Where are …buzz…others… spit… gone for help…crackle…ey okay?” the first voice cross-examined him.

Sam relit his helmet torch and did a quick reconnoiter of his immediate environment. The two figures lying near him both looked young. Cliff and Lizzie, he deduced.  Of the Professor there was no sign.

He told the outside world as much, expressing his concern for his fallen comrades.

“Stand by,” he instructed, “I’m gonna check on them.”

“Be careful,” they warned him.

He crawled back closer to Lizzie, and reached out tentatively to touch her cheek.

Cold; her flesh was icy cold beneath his fingertips. Not that his hands were that warm. Still, the chill that crept through him now had little to do with the ambient temperature.

Reaching further, Sam felt her neck, desperately seeking the pulse his heart told him he wasn’t going to find.

Nothing.

“Dear God, no!” he whispered, feeling around, trying to convince himself he had just missed the spot.

Still nothing.

Edging further forward, forcing his left knee to support his full body weight, he frantically began pushing the debris from off her body, grunting with the effort, wheezing as the dust rose up and tried to choke him anew. Undeterred, he continued throwing objects away like a toddler having a tantrum with its toys until her body was clear of obstruction.

Trembling with repressed emotion, he leaned down and rested his head on her chest, listening for even the weakest heartbeat.

Silence.

Switching to autopilot, he cleared her airway, and then he felt for two ribs down from the sternum and slightly left with a balled fist and his little finger on the underside he thumped hard to that spot, before checking for a heartbeat again.

Nothing.

So he professionally administered mouth-to-mouth and attempted CPR.

“Come on, Lizzie,” Dr Beckett urged her. “Breathe.” Pump. “Please…” Pump. “Breathe.”

Back and forth he went, alternately pushing on her chest, and breathing into her mouth, counting out the moves in the prescribed fashion - five pumps to the chest, one breath in the mouth -urgently seeking a reaction.

“You can’t die,” he admonished as he pressed down on her chest. “Oh, God, you can’t let her die!”

On and on, over and over, panting with the effort, trembling with the strain of supporting his aching body, heedless to the calls from the radio demanding his attention. Tears ran down his face, leaving streaks of pale pink beneath the gray veneer of dust.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“Give it up, Sam, she’s dead.” Al’s voice seemed to echo gloomily in the stillness and silence, though he had spoken softly, startling Sam and making him twitch.

He was filled with a cocktail of emotions at the sound; once the initial shock had passed, he was at once annoyed at the lack of warning that his friend had finally arrived, and overwhelmingly relieved that he was no longer alone in this dreadful tomb. In addition, he was horrified at his friend’s pronouncement, unwilling and unable to accept the truth of it.

“She can’t be, Al! She just c-can’t. I leaped in to…to save her, d-didn’t I? I m-must have. So how…how can she b-be dead? I got… to her… as f-fast as I could.” All the time he spoke he continued with his rhythmic pumping, his breathing ragged with stress and emotion, and the pain of cracked ribs.

“She’s gone, Sam, I’m sorry.” Al wanted to reach out and gently draw his friend away, torn up by the sight of him working so hard and in vain. He wanted to wrap him in a comforting hug. He wanted to be able to tell him that things weren’t the way they were.

“You aren’t here for her, Sam.” He had to content himself with declaring, though he knew it would be of no comfort to his boy-scout buddy.

Sam paused for a moment to look at Al, though the sight of his garish daffodil colored suit with leaf green lapels and trimmings, outlandish even by the Observer’s normal standards, was enough to make Sam’s battered head spin. The reality finally started to sink in that he was not going to revive the young woman. His thoughts then took the next logical step, looking round till he found the face of the young man, Cliff. If not the girl, then surely Sam was here to save him. He should have checked his status sooner.

Painfully, yet with a speed that belied his injuries, he scrambled over to the erstwhile keeper of the radio. At once he repeated the procedure he had applied to Lizzie, searching for a pulse, clearing the obstructions, applying CPR and mouth to mouth, with the same negative results.

“Save your energy, Sam, you’re gonna need it.” It was all Al could do to keep his voice steady and his eyes dry. He cursed his helplessness, and the injustice of the situation, even as Sam strove to perform a miracle.

        Finally, after what seemed an eternity, Dr Beckett was forced to concede defeat, collapsing exhausted to the floor, sobbing his heart out.

Al Calavicci knelt beside the prostrate figure of his best friend, Samuel John Beckett, and wished there was something he could do or say to take away his pain. Naturally concerned for Sam’s physical welfare, he wanted to be able to whisk him away to the hospital to have his broken bones set and his injuries tended. Yet above and beyond that, it was Sam’s emotional well being that concerned him most. Nothing he could offer would ease Sam’s angst at his failure to preserve the two young lives snatched so suddenly from the world.

He offered anyway:  “They both died instantly, Sam. They didn’t suffer. It wasn’t your fault. There was nothing you could have done.”

“I c-could h-have… g-got h-h-here…s-so-sooner!” Panted Sam; between sobs of harsh self-recrimination that wracked his whole body.

“Why d-do you m-mock me?” he cried suddenly, looking up at the distant ceiling of the cave as if he could look straight into Heaven itself. “Tough uh as-assignments I cc-can… h-handle, I’ll t-take argh…the p-pain and… en-endure the h-h-hardship, but… you h-have… t-to g-give m-me a ch-chance!” He held his hands out in a gesture of helplessness “I… c-can’t… r-raise… ah the… d-dead!”

PART THREE

Al went green at the mere idea of it. He had already placed Sam between himself and the corpses his friend had tried so hopelessly to revive.

Sam fell to sobbing again, though less intensely as rage began to overshadow the grief, his face buried in his arms, his body shaking with emotion.

“I know it’s hard, buddy,” Al soothed, “but you just weren’t meant to save them, that’s not why you’re here.”

“Why the hell not, Al? What am I doing here?” came the bitter diatribe.

Sam raised his head from the cocoon of his arms, glaring accusingly at Al, though he knew full well it wasn’t his fault, his friend was not the one calling the shots. Only right now, Sam was angry at the whole world, and unfortunately the only representative of that less than august body currently within earshot was his observer.

“Not a lot just at the moment,” Al quipped; trying to lighten the mood, then immediately realized it was absolutely the wrong thing to say. “Sorry,” he offered with a feint to one side as if to avoid a blow. He hastily moved on.

“You’re Dai Evans…”

“So I am a woman,” mumbled Sam automatically, though it was just one more thing that didn’t matter. Nothing mattered any more. Two young people, who couldn’t have been much above twenty years old, had died senselessly and unnecessarily, and he – Dr Sam Beckett, time traveler and righter of wrongs, Don Quixote of the modern age – should have prevented it. Could, he was sure, have prevented it, along with his own injuries, if only he’d been sent to the scene earlier: preferably before any of them had entered this dark, dank, dreary death trap.

“Wha-?” Al was confused by the conflicting information, but then suddenly realized Sam had been misled by phonics. “Oh, no, no Sam, not Di as in Diane, and not dye as in hair colorant either!” jested Al, tugging at his own. “Dai – you’re from Wales, you know, that little bump on the edge of the United Kingdom. D-A-I,” he spelled it out slowly as you would spell out words to somebody simple-minded.

“I – I’m in Wales?!” queried Sam incredulously, his chest-heaving sobs, which had left him drained, abated by now to the level of a sniffle. Rarely did his leaping take him outside his native America.

“No, Sam, you’re not listening. I didn’t say you were in Wales, I said you were from Wales. Though Ziggy says they have a lot of bat caves there too. Teeheehee,” he chortled, “Bat-caves! Does that make me Al-fred, the faithful butler?”

Al always cracked jokes when he was nervous, or freaked out, or when he knew he had bad news he’d have to give Sam, and was procrastinating. Right now, all three applied.

“What are you babbling about, Al?” Sam sat bolt upright and looked quizzically at his friend, instantly regretting the move as pains shot through his damaged ribs and broken leg.  “Aaaaaaaah!” he sighed; clutching his side.

“What is it, Sam?” Al leaned forward, unable to tell how much of Sam’s gray complexion was bad lighting; how much was due to the dust and grime, and how much had been etched there by suffering.

“R-ribs…” panted Sam, easing himself back down into the vague approximation of a comfortable position, his face screwed up in obvious agony.

“Zig-ggy!” commanded Al vociferously; striking the button on Stephen’s handlink that would summon her holographic presence.

“Shhhh!” Sam waved a warning hand at his friend, shaking his head from side to side. “Too much… n-noise c-could bring… this whole p-place down!” he whispered urgently.

Al looked at him; his head askance, tutted and then patiently pointed out:  “I’m a ho-lo-gram - remember Sam? My voice doesn’t carry here!”

“As am I!” pronounced Ziggy’s head – hovering above the handlink like a genii emerging from her bottle, her expression one of extreme displeasure at having been sent for and then ignored.

Al cross-examined her:

“Right, Zig, and I want none of your vague airy-fairy nonsense. I want to know exactly what’s wrong with Sam, and I want to know NOW!”

From top to toe and taking in every minute detail, Ziggy cast her homeopathic gaze back and forth over Sam's form, like she was speed-reading Gray’s Anatomy.

“Spiral fracture to right fibula,” she reported clinically, “impacted fracture to the right femur, both with associated swelling and bruising, three cracked ribs, also on the right – no discernable lung damage – blunt impact trauma to head, resulting in mild concussion…”

She scanned her creator again, and then questioned him:

“Could you tell me what symptoms you are experiencing?”

“L-let me see: nausea, oh boy, in - ah - abundance,” began Sam.  “L-light-headedness, tiredness –oh God, I’m soooo t-tired!” he yawned as if to emphasize his point, “difficulty in… f-focusing, both… physically and m-mentally,” he was breathing heavily, but in short bursts, the effort of talking causing greater strain on his cracked ribs.

“C-c-cold; chilled t-to… the b-bones, and I’ve - ah - s-such a… h-headache; not to… m-mention the constant pain; s-severe, intense p-pain; especially if I try to m-move, or…or b-breathe.”

“All to be expected; the headache appears to have been exacerbated by a prolonged excessive outpouring of grief,” pronounced Ziggy. “Dr Beckett is also suffering from shock, Admiral, brought on by pain and circumstance. In addition, he has sustained superficial contusions and abrasions to 64.9% of his anatomy, and I detect some slight internal bleeding from the leg wounds.”

Al looked at his friend with profound sympathy, and then turned to the computer projection once more.

“And what would be your recommendations for Dr Beckett, Ziggy?” the observer forced himself to echo her detached tone, though he was choked with worry.

“He should minimize movement to avoid further injury, and unnecessary discomfort. The impacted fracture is stable at present, but excessive motion could cause it to pull apart.”

Sam sighed, and wondered if there was any way he could avoid breathing too, since that was also causing him considerable ‘discomfort’. Al winced, trying not to picture Ziggy’s forecast, and opened his mouth to speak, but Ziggy had already pressed on, not pausing for breath, since she didn’t need to breathe.

“Dr Beckett should also drink plenty of fluids, to combat the shock and dehydration, which is likely to be a complication. He should rest and conserve his strength, though it is unwise to allow him the sleep he craves before he is rescued, since he could slip into a catatonic stupor. He should be taken at the earliest opportunity to the nearest hospital where he should be x-rayed, have the bones set and cast, and receive such other professional treatment as is deemed necessary. Bed rest of two to eight weeks is advised followed by physiotherapy.”

“Aha! Gotcha!” Al interjected, before Ziggy could say any more. Sam looked puzzled.

“So: Miss Smarty-Pants Ziggy. Now: YOU can tell Sam what he has to do on this leap, ‘cos I sure as Hell don’t have the heart to.” The time travelers looked alarmed, as well he might.

“Why, Admiral, I don’t see the problem,” Ziggy replied smarmily. “This is really a very straightforward leap. In the original history, all eight members of the rescue party, along with Dai Evans, were crushed to death when another lightening strike caused the cave to collapse just as they were strapping him to the stretcher.” Sam blanched still further, and gasped, devastated at the thought of so much more loss of life.

“So, I h-have to… tell them n-not… to come?” he took a few ragged breaths, “Just d-die… here a-alone… and l-let them live, is that it?” a few more snatched breaths, “Yeah, you’re r-right Zig, I… c-can do… t-that… easily!”

“Sam!” Al was appalled, and very afraid that Ziggy would concur with his suggestion.

They became aware that the outside world was once more clambering for his attention via the radio, but that would just have to wait.

“That course of action has only a 1.7% chance of success.” Ziggy stated matter-of-factly. “Even assuming that they would willingly give up on a fellow human being, which my study of human behavior and your own consistent example suggest to be highly improbable, they would come to retrieve the corpses. Humans have a strangely powerful need for ‘closure’ in such matters and that normally involves some form of burial ritual.”

“In order to avoid the original outcome and preserve all their lives, including his own, Dr Beckett has merely to make his way some 361 meters almost due east of his current position, aligning himself with the vertical shaft down which the rescuers will access the cave. From there it will be safe for them to retrieve him. It should be oh, I see what you mean,” she didn’t even pause for a nanosecond as she changed her mind mid-sentence.

Both men could virtually hear the computer metaphorically switch on a light bulb as her two prognoses were discovered to be in direct conflict with each other.

For a moment, Al was afraid she was going to blow a fuse. He was sure he saw her holographic image fritz. Certainly, her face took on a scowl.

“Exactly! Now, how about you project some alternate scenarios?” Al shot at her acerbically.

“Without additional data, there are no alternatives.” she retorted: unfazed.

“W-what about the P-professor?” offered Sam, desperate for any solution that meant he wouldn’t have to undertake such an arduous trek. “Where did he go? Can he h-h-help?”

“Yeah!” Al’s eyes lit up. Why hadn’t he thought of that?

“Professor Roderick Allen Cooper, aged 57 years, experienced zoologist and long time rare bat enthusiast...”

“Skip the autobiography, Zig,” cut in Al, his tone exasperated.  The parallel hybrid computer really knew how to push his buttons! “Where is he?”

“The Professor is currently located approximately 5.2 meters north-west of Dr. Beckett’s position, just around that outcropping, then…”

“Show me,” urged Al, walking purposefully in the direction Ziggy had indicated, holding her out in front of him like a beacon.

As he disappeared from sight Sam sighed; not at all happy to be left alone in this unfriendly place. With a groan, he rolled to his side once more, and stretched out for the abandoned backpack. Fumbling inside, he retrieved the canteen, and – following Ziggy’s advice – set to countering dehydration. The water was cool and clean and refreshing, and felt good. Still, he exercised self-restraint, and rationed his intake. He was very tempted to up-end the container and shower his face, to wake him up if nothing else, but he resisted. He did, however, allow himself the luxury of a little water cupped in his hand, to rinse his tear-stung eyes.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Al had followed Ziggy around the bend in the cave for the prescribed distance. Looking around and seeing nothing in the eerie glow of Ziggy’s projection, he sought further directions.

“The Professor is 3.7 meters due south.” Came the annoying reply.

“What is this? A damned treasure hunt?” snapped Al. “Center me on him, now!”

Ziggy complied, and Al felt a stomach lurching drop. He found himself down a ravine, up to his holographic knees in water, the Professor lying face down at his feet, or more precisely over his feet. One look told him more than he needed to know.

At that exact moment - the storm outside having renewed its intensity and deposited copious amounts of rain through several shafts - the stream swelled up and rushed over them like a miniature tidal wave. Had Al been there in reality, it would have knocked him off his feet with its force, and Al instinctively swayed to keep his footing.  As the raging river surged onward and upward, it succeeded in dislodging the professor from the crevice he was wedged in. Unfettered now, the corpse bobbed up to the rapidly rising surface, like an apple in a Halloween party bowl, causing Al to jump back with a cry of horror.

His hand – and every other part of him - shaking, Al ordered Ziggy to center him back on Sam.

Al returned.

Sam questioned him with a look, which clearly demanded ‘can he help me?’

Al shook his head regretfully.

“Is he t-there?”

“Oh yes, Sam, he’s there.” Al was not looking him in the eye. Sam knew what was coming, but needed to hear it nonetheless.

“And….?”

“He’s…”

“Is there any…any way h-he can g-get out?” Sam queried, though his heart told him the answer before Al, having swallowed hard, informed him:

“H-his neck,” Al’s hand instinctively went to his own, “H-his neck is broken, Sam. He died instantly. Better he did, else he’d have drowned.”

Al looked like he was about to pass out. He was not good with dead bodies. Sam empathized, wishing he could have spared his friend the experience, but wishing more that he could have spared the Professor’s life. Despair threatened to consume him once more.

Sam closed his eyes and blinked back the fresh tears forming therein. He could ill afford the fluid loss, and his head already throbbed from long crying. He could achieve nothing for those around him now by making himself weaker, and he would do nothing avoidable to lessen his chances of saving those yet to come.  With a shrug of resignation, he declared:  “Guess I’d better get going.”

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” queried Al, nodding in the direction of the bodies without actually looking at them.

“Oh Al!” Sam sighed sadly, a mournful expression on his face, “I know… the rescuers aren’t… gonna be a-able to… reach them to get them… out, but I’m n-not sure I’m – uh - strong enough to… to drag them all t-that way!” In fact, given the state he was in, he wasn’t at all sure he was strong enough to drag his own sorry butt that far.

Al looked at him, wide eyed, incredulous, and waved his arms in denial.

“No, no, Sam, I wasn’t suggesting….” he protested, “There’s no way you could haul dead weight like that…”

“Al!” the doctor admonished him. “That’s no way to speak about them, they are… were… people, real people, people somebody loved…” Sam fought once more to contain his misery, his overwhelming sense of failure and gloom. A great melancholy emanated from every line etched round his pain-dulled eyes.

The fact that these youngsters would be denied even the dignity of a proper funeral was like adding insult to injury. It was almost too much to bear.

“I’m no priest, Al,” he whispered, “but maybe I s-should uh say a few words…?”

Al didn’t think it would make much difference to them either way, they couldn’t hear him, but he knew enough of his friend’s sensibilities to know it would ease Sam’s anguish to say them.

“Sure pal. Go for it.”

With a gulp and a grunt and much panting, Sam somehow managed to raise himself up on his good knee again, and heave himself back to a position between the two bodies. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered to them, so softly that not even Al heard him speak the apology. He gently and reverently positioned their lifeless bodies onto their backs, arms crossed over their chests. He tidied Lizzie’s hair, and brushed the dust from off their faces. All too soon, more would cascade down upon them, and entomb them, but he felt the need to tend them nonetheless. Their eyes were mercifully closed already, a natural instinct in their last moments as they succumbed to the avalanche. He’d checked their pupils as he fought to revive them, of course, but the lids had fallen shut again of their own volition.

Satisfied he had done all he could to prepare them, Sam bowed his head and clasped his hands together.  He was silent for a long moment.  Then he looked sideways at Al, who was hovering uncomfortably a little distance from the group.

“I can’t remember what I should say,” he confessed, miserably, feeling once again the keenness of his failure to these people.

“It doesn’t matter, Sam,” Al reassured him. “Say anything.”

“What are their names, Al?” Sam asked him. “Their full names.”

Al had Ziggy supply the response; she was still active, but obviously sulking, her holographic image dim and distant, her expression sullen:  “Elizabeth Anne Rowland and Clifford Johnson; both aged 20 years."

Sam drew another hitching breath.

Closing his eyes, Sam Beckett prayed, “Lord, receive these Thy servants, Elizabeth Anne Rowland, Clifford Johnson and Roderick Allen Cooper, into Thy tender care. Into Thy loving arms I commend their spirits. Ash to ashes and dust to dust…”

It was too much for him. He cringed as he talked of dust, and suddenly the shock of it all hit him like a slap in the face. He fell forwards, panting and sobbing “Oh, God, why?” his head buried in his hands, feeling old and tired and useless, and oh so devastated at the waste of life. He wanted to believe that it was their time - that God had called them home for a reason, but he couldn’t accept that such a tragic accident was truly necessary, was right in the scheme of things. Not when he, Sam Beckett, was there, with the potential to have made it different. It wasn’t right and it wasn’t fair.

Al knew exactly what Sam was going through, and his heart went out to the young man he’d once accused of being ‘terminally good’. The Observer also knew that sympathy was the last thing that was going to get the job done, and get his buddy out alive. Time for some tough love, and Albert Calavicci had enough experience at that to call himself grand master.

“Okay, Sam, that’s enough.” His tone was harsh, but not cruel. “They’re gone and there isn’t a goddamn thing you can do about it. I know it’s not fair, and I know you’re hurting, but you got a job to do. So snap out of it, Mister.” Sam knew deep down his friend was right, and though the despondency remained, he sniffed, and pulled himself together with a tremendous effort of will.

“Tell me… what…to do, Al,” Sam begged plaintively, and the question went far deeper than the obvious. They both knew it, but Al didn’t dwell on it.

“Take the radio for starters; you need to keep in touch. And while you’re at it, ransack those rucksacks for anything else that might be useful.”

Sam turned and glared at Al, appalled at the suggestion. “You mean - rob the dead?!” he whispered incredulously. This was going too far. Had they not been dealt a rough enough deal without him debasing things further?

“It may be distasteful,” agreed Al, who wanted as little as possible to do with the departed, “but it‘s better than joining them, buddy.”

Though Sam felt that he deserved no less than that fate, he reminded himself that other lives were at stake here, and swallowing hard, he gave a terse nod.

“Keep to essentials,” the war veteran advised. “Take what you need, but only what you need. Use the biggest backpack, and strip it down to the lightest possible, nothing wasted. You have a tough enough job without adding weight lifting to the equation.”

Sam really didn’t need that pointing out to him. His leg throbbed abominably, as did his head, and his ribs ached with every breath he took. The mere effort of keeping his eyes open was almost more than he had strength for.

With as much professional detachment as he could muster, Sam began rummaging through the three back-packs, Lizzie’s, Cliff’s and his own – Dai’s, pulling everything out and making three piles, things to discard, things that he could not do without, and things he would take if he thought he could manage them.

Since Cliff’s pack had been designed for the radio, Sam decided that should be the one he’d take.  Alongside the communication equipment, he packed what provisions he could find: three canteens of water, his own nearly full, the others three parts empty, “Take ‘em anyway, Sam,” advised Al, “you may be able to fill up on spring water.” some sandwiches – peanut butter and jelly (ugh sweet, but high in protein and energy), ham and tomato (well, the tomato can come out for a start, Sam hated tomato) and cheese (he broke off a small piece and ate it without enjoyment, as if swallowing a bitter medicine); two bars of chocolate (again good to give a burst of energy), and an apple. Sam’s eyes lit up at the fruit; until he turned it over and saw how badly bruised it had been by the impact. Rather like himself. Regretfully, he discarded it. Both Cliff and Liz had cans of coke too, which he took – Liz’s with more gratitude since it was diet.

Sam tossed aside the assorted junk – novelty key-ring, make-up and other ‘feminine items’, little black book, zoology text books, (the maps he put in the maybe pile) copious notes on the target of their little field trip – the Myotis bechsteinii one of the rarest breeds of bat on the planet…

A sudden thought struck the scientist:  "Al?"

"Yeah buddy, what is it?"

"Y-you're n-not gonna…t-tell me… I gotta save all the…b-blasted b-b-bats too, are ya?" his eyes looked at Al pleadingly.

"Wha…?" Al looked bemused for a moment, and then he smiled, grateful to be able to give some reassurance. "No, no, Sam. They sensed the cave-in even before the humans were aware of it - took off thataway!" He made a sweeping gesture toward the vertical shaft which Ziggy had proclaimed to be Sam's target.

"In fact, that's one reason we had trouble locating you. All the screeching… the uh, sonar… from the bats played havoc with Zig's sensors."

        Sam recalled the confusing sounds which had assaulted him when he first leapt in. Some of them now made sense to him.

He continued to sort through the contents of the backpacks, feeling into every pocket and pouch to be sure he had missed nothing.

"Might have known they wouldn't have anything I really need," he complained, "Like pain-killers, or bandages…"

"On the contrary," interjected Ziggy, brightening as she got the chance to display her superior knowledge once more. Sam stopped what he was doing and looked at her quizzically.

"The party came equipped with a thoroughly comprehensive first aid kit." she pronounced.

Sam's face brightened at the news, then his brow furrowed.

"Well, where is it, then?" he questioned, looking at his piles of random objects as if he could have missed so precious a prize at first glance.

"Inside the rucksack carried by the Professor, naturally," Ziggy informed him candidly.

Had the light been better, one could almost have seen the disappointment and dejection paint itself on Sam's features like a Halloween mask.

“Thanks a bunch, Zig,” he told her, his tone bitter. “Now tell me something I can use.”

“Yeah, Zig,” Al couldn’t help but chime in, still feeling pleased with himself for getting the better of her earlier. It didn’t happen very often, and it felt good to take her down a notch. She could be such a snooty, superior, supercharged slide-rule. “I thought you were supposed to be giving positive input, not contradictions.”

“Since you know so much, Admiral,” Ziggy responded, her tone haughty, “I’ll leave you to help Dr Beckett.” With which, she terminated her connection to the handlink, leaving them both in darkness and bewilderment.

“Now look what you’ve done, Sam!” muttered Al, watching carefully where he trod lest he ‘connect’ with the corpses.

“Me? You’re the one who had to rub it in that you made her feel foolish.” Sam shot back feeling, if it were possible, even more depressed than before.

The intermittent nagging from the radio finally shook Sam from his desolation and drew him reluctantly back to the reality of the here and now.

“You better talk to ‘em, Sam,” Al advised. Sam had been far too preoccupied to bother with passing on the dismal news, and he didn’t relish it now, but he could hear how anxious they were, and it wasn’t fair to keep them hoping any longer.

He pulled the handset from the pocket of the rucksack where he’d stowed it; took a breath with closed eyes to compose himself, and prepared to impart his heartbreaking report.

“Dai, please come in,” crackle, spit, “what’s going on there?” came the frantic cry.  “Are you still there?”

“I’m here,” he stated, dejectedly. Sam realized suddenly that he would have to confirm the Professor’s demise, which he had not seen for himself. Had he done so, his long absence from the radio would be easily accounted for.

Sam waited for those at the other end to speak again. He didn’t know how he was going to tell them what he knew he had to tell them. He had no way of knowing how close those out there were to those who would never leave here.

“Are you okay, Dai?” they obviously picked something up from his tone.

“Far from it,” he confessed, which was true on oh so many levels.

“What’s wrong, what is it?” the voice from out the wilderness was young, female and full of concern.

Sam sighed, a long audible sigh. There was no easy way to say this; so plain and simple would have to do.  “They… they’re d-dead. All of them,” Sam said, softly, feeling the finality of admitting it aloud.

He heard his heartfelt sigh come back to him, multiplied in the mouths of those assembled at the other end.

“D-Dead?” they repeated, unable to believe, as he had been.

“I’m s-sorry,” Sam was all but apologizing for daring to be left alive. “I t-tried to h-help them, I swear to God I tried… but they were a-already d-dead.”

Once more the young radio operator deferred to a male voice. This group seemed to be three students - back at the University Sam surmised, which the paper trail he’d found informed him to be SIU in Carbondale, Illinois.

“Dai?” the male student subtly but firmly demanded his attention. “What about Pr...” spit, buzz… “Cooper, Dai? Did you find him?”

“He… he fell… a ravine… I c-can’t reach him,” that much was simple truth, “but he’s…I’m sorry…he’s d-dead too.”

“Are you sure?” again the voice was somehow commanding, yet gentle.

Al caught Sam’s eye, the pleading hope that there had been some mistake. Al had seen with his own eyes, and hadn’t needed Ziggy to point out what was so painfully obvious. Al said nothing; he merely touched his neck again, and shook his head.

“His neck… I t-think…he broke… his n-neck,” Sam confirmed. “I couldn’t… save… any… of them.”

“Take it easy, pal. Nobody’s blaming you, Dai.”

“Nobody but Sam Beckett,” chimed in Al.

Sam accepted the rebuke in the spirit in which it was intended, but it didn’t make him feel any less depressed.

        There was a mumbling among the assembled group again, and one of them seemed to be whispering to the lad on the radio. Sam imagined he had placed his hand over the microphone. After a few moments, he exhorted Dai to “hang on” and then it went quiet as they switched off the link.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

        “Please respond, are you okay?”

        Nothing. Not a word.

        “Cliff?”

“Can’t you fine tune this thing any better, Travis?” she shot at her would-be boyfriend.

He tinkered with the dial, but was careful to note exactly where it had been.

“Are you reading us? Over.”

Still nothing.

Claire took a swig of her coffee to lubricate her throat, dry from repeated calling.

At this moment, Jenna put down her mobile phone.

“Any news?” she queried, without preamble.

“Nothing yet,” Travis informed her.

“Cliff, anyone, can you hear us? Oh, please answer me! Please.”

“How long since you had contact?” Jenna interrogated Travis.

Before he could reply, the radio gave a faint crackle.

“H-hello?” a hoarse rasp, barely audible.

“Yess!” the three students declared, almost as one, slapping their collective hands in the air in relief.

 “P-plea…spit, crackle…elp us,” the voice was faint, and the interference loud, they could only just make out the words.

“Dai? Is that you?” Claire queried, not sure if she detected the lilt of his Welsh accent or not, but knowing it didn’t sound like Cliff or the Professor.

“G-get us out of here! P-please,” the voice, which now they knew to be Dai, sounded desperate, and pained.

“You okay, Dai? Are you hurt?” Claire’s relief at hearing his voice was tinged with concern. Why had Cliff, designated radio operator, not responded? Why was Dai, normally so boisterous and loud, so hard to hear?

“ …l-leg is ah b-broken… spit, buzz crackle…oo places. Feels like… crackle, spit… everal cracked ribs…buzz…t concussion…”

“Did you hear that?” Claire turned to Travis and the others - repeating what she thought Dai had told her.

 “Sit tight, Dai, help is on the way.” they reassured Professor Lofton’s research assistant.

“It could take some time,” Jenna warned. “The chopper won’t be able to take off until the storm dies down, and they probably can’t get closer than base camp because of the density of the woodland. The rescue team may have to hike up the rest of the way same as you guys did. Sorry, Dai, but it could be several hours before they reach you.”

“Where are the others, Dai, have they gone for help, are they okay?” Claire questioned.

A pause, then Dai told them that Lizzie and Cliff appeared to be unconscious, but he couldn’t see the Professor.

“Stand by,” they heard, “…crackle…check on them.”

“Be careful.” Claire warned him, surprised at her friend’s endurance.

While they waited for further news from Jenna, who was on her mobile phone again, Claire gave her attention to the radio, eager to hear word from Dai. From time to time she called him, asking what was going on, how the others were, if he had found the Professor, but he didn’t reply. She reasoned that he sounded badly hurt, and probably shouldn’t have been moving at all, let alone trying to administer first aid to fallen comrades, and that it was bound to take some time before he had anything definite to report. Still the waiting was intolerable, and she periodically nagged for news.

“Dai, is everyone okay?” Claire asked for what seemed like the hundredth time.

Still no reply. It had been so long. What if Dai had passed out too?

“Dai, please come in, can you hear me? What’s going on there? Are you still there?

“I’m here,” came the dejected reply. Claire could tell that something was very wrong. Dai was usually so bubbly and upbeat and chatty. She figured he had to be in a lot of pain, but then when he’d ripped his shoulder playing Rugby, he’d been in agony but had still cracked jokes with the nurses, always on the pull, always the character.

When he said no more, Claire queried: “Are you okay, Dai?”

“Far from it,” came the even more worrying reply.

“What’s wrong, what is it?” the more she heard, the more concerned she was. This didn’t sound like Dai at all.

She heard him sigh, loud and long.  “They…they’re d-dead. All of them,” he pronounced softly, as if afraid that only by confirming it aloud did it become true.

A hush had descended on the assembled crew, and they all heard his declaration, though it had been so quietly spoken.

A collective sigh escaped their own lips, as almost as one; they repeated the simple, devastating four-letter word:  “D-Dead?”

“I’m s-sorry, I t-tried to h-help… spit crackle…to God I tried…but they were a-already d-dead.”

Travis took the radio from Claire’s trembling hand. He suddenly felt a lot older and very tired.

“Dai?” Travis swallowed convulsively, anxious to hear his friend answer the question he was afraid to ask. “What about Professor Cooper, Dai? Did you find him?”

“He… he fell… a ravine… I c-can’t reach him, but he’s… I’m sorry… he’s d-dead too.”

This was too much. “Are you sure?” there had to be some mistake, there simply had to be.

“His neck… I t-think…he broke… his n-neck,” the voice was choked with emotion.  “I couldn’t… save… any… of them.” 

“Take it easy, pal.” Travis consoled him, though he was feeling pretty emotional himself. His friend sounded eaten up with guilt, yet there was probably little if anything he could have done; especially given his injuries. It was a wonder he’d been able to discover their fate, let alone anything more. “Nobody’s blaming you, Dai,” he hastened to reassure his fellow student.

Jenna’s’ mobile phone rang at that moment, in response to the SOS they had sent out via Matt.

As they spoke in hushed tones, Travis put his hand over the mike, not wanting Dai to hear until he was sure that the news would be good.

After a few moments, Travis exhorted Dai to “hang on” and then it went quiet as they switched off the link for a while.

The debate now became how they could mount a rescue and keep their butts out of the sling. There was no need yet to reveal everything. It was common knowledge that the group had decided to spend spring break on a field trip to the Ozarks. It was largely because of that decision that the three of them had sought – and been given – permission to remain on campus during the recess, and why Professor Lofton had agreed to act as the ‘responsible adult’ should there be any unforeseen problems.

Claire had the distinct impression they were out of their depth here, and she, for one, would welcome handing the problem over to Professor Lofton to sort out. She had been outvoted though.

PART FOUR

While they were preoccupied, Sam turned his attention back to the various items strewn around him. He knew he would soon have to start making his weary way across the seemingly vast expanse of the cave, and he wanted to be absolutely sure that he left nothing useful behind. There seemed to be precious little of real benefit considering how much stuff there was there. Cliff’s supplies included spare batteries for the helmets, which he’d fastened securely in a pocket of the rucksack. With a grimace of distaste, he now removed those already in the other two helmets, and stashed them too, just in case.

Al watched him rummage, and pointed at the junk pile:  “Now if you were MacGyver, you could turn that lot into a micro-lite aircraft or something!” he sniggered. “He always seems to find exactly what he needs!”

“Well, I’m not MacGyver!” snapped Sam, more harshly than he intended, and surprised that he remembered the character to whom Al had alluded. “Besides, what I… need… is a motorized… wheelchair,” he added, ruefully.

The comment did make him look at the assorted items in another light though. “A little… lateral thinking… never hurt,” he mumbled.

Lizzie’s backpack was a different design to the others; it was tall and had a lightweight metal frame. Sam began ripping it out.

“Wha’cha doin’ pal?” queried his Observer.

“Improvising,” explained the quantum physicist.

He picked up a large roll of duct tape, and exchanged a bemused look with Al. Whatever strange impulse had induced Lizzie to bring it along with her on this particular excursion, they would probably never know, but Sam was grateful for it. He returned to the discarded articles and retrieved a small pair of scissors from Lizzie’s manicure set, which he then packed on a whim. Almost as an afterthought, he also removed her sunglasses from their expensive soft leather case, rejecting the contents but holding firm to the wrapping.

Al looked on helplessly as Sam struggled with his new acquisitions. Small, restrained noises escaping Sam’s throat told his friend that the current exertions were exacerbating his agonies.

“Sam?”  Al queried, as the scientist began divesting himself slowly and painstakingly of his upper vestments.

Sam could not spare a pain-racked breath to explain his actions, but his look said ‘wait and see; there is a reason I’m forcing my body through these exhausting exercises.’

First, he removed the waterproof sky-blue anorak, slipping it off his left arm, and then gently easing it from his right. Next, the thin but warm angora sweater– the left arm first, then the head and finally sliding out of the right sleeve. Every move was carefully choreographed to place as little strain as possible on his aching ribs. Even the slightest stretch of his right arm sent pains searing through his chest, and took his breath away. Every stage was separated by a pause during which he regained control of his breathing, and willed himself not to pass out.

The dark blue shirt came off after that, in much the same way as the anorak, leaving Sam in just a black t-shirt. As he panted he weighed up in his mind the relative merits of removal versus the effort needed to keep it rolled up under his chin out of the way of the task he had assigned himself. Weariness persuaded him to try the latter.

With a grunt, he took hold of the duct tape, and loosened the end.

Al suddenly realized what he had in mind.

“That’s gonna smart when they pull it off again,” he warned. “You’re gonna lose all your chest hairs!”

Sam did not dignify the comment with a reply. He needed the support the tape could give his ravaged intercostals muscles; it was the best and only option he had to shore up his damaged ribs. When he was ready, he lifted the t-shirt, and kept it up by biting on the hem. Leaving his hands free, this afforded him the added bonus of something to keep him from crying out in pain.

Al gasped at the sight of Sam’s naked torso, the pale flesh splodged liberally with bruises of all shapes and sizes, like a purple spotted Dalmatian. The worst was a huge angry port-wine type stain on the right, the size of his fist, marring the chest just below Sam’s well-defined pecs. The area looked swollen too.

Slowly and clumsily, Sam began tightly gift-wrapping his chest with the broad, strong duct tape, wincing as he did so.

For the three-hundred-and-twenty-fourth time, Al cursed the limitations of being a hologram.

“I really wish I could help you there, Sam,” he assured his suffering compadre.

Sam gave him a wan smile, “Not…half as…as much… as… I do!” he told his ‘invisible’ friend finally lowering the t-shirt back over his shivering gooseflesh covered frame. A three year old could dress himself with more dexterity than Sam was displaying as he struggled to put back on the clothes he had recently removed.

That done, Sam lay back, hugging his chest tight and breathing raggedly.

“Damn… t-that…was…h-hard…w-work!” he eventually confessed. He felt as if he had just run a marathon up the side of Mount Everest: the air too thin to sustain his endeavors.

Dr Beckett daren’t allow himself to rest too long, though he felt drained and exhausted and sick to his stomach. He knew he was a hair’s breadth from passing out, but much as he yearned to give in to healing rest, he had a job to do – a job with a deadline.

Thus it was that - moments later - Sam was fumbling with the metal rods from Lizzie’s backpack.

“Good thinking, you gonna make yourself crutches, Sam?” inquired Al.

“I wish,” responded Sam, testing the flexibility of the poles. “They uh aren’t strong enough for that.” Talking and breathing were still uncomfortable undertakings, but the binding certainly helped.

Instead, by a series of contortions and ingenious improvisations, Sam somehow managed to strap the four rods onto his injured leg, one on each side of his upper leg, and the other two straddling his lower, firmly held in place around the jeans with copious amounts of the duct tape.  The trouser leg felt tight and restrictive round his swollen limb, adding to the ache, but he left it intact to provide additional support. He was going to need all the help he could get for the hard labor he’d been sentenced to.

Though now encased in the makeshift splints, Sam’s leg was still twisted at an awkward angle, exactly as it had been since the moment the bones broke. His knee was twisted inward, his foot facing outward, the muscles pulling painfully on the bone, a sure sign of the spiral fracture Ziggy had diagnosed. To Al’s squeamish eyes, it looked almost as bad as it felt, and oh boy did it feel bad. The only way Sam had managed to endure the arduous activities he had just carried out had been to clamp his teeth down forcefully on the soft leather specs case he had procured, folded in half to make a substantial bit, so that he didn’t bite his tongue or cry out too loud as the movement lit the fuse in his ankle and sent burning pains snaking up his leg to explode the dynamite in the pain receptors of his brain.

As soon as he had finished, he collapsed once more to a recumbent posture, Al alarmed to see his hands digging in and clutching clumps of debris, his face contorted with pain. He was more alarmed still to see Sam’s body relax, releasing its tension, his eyes closing as the pain swamped him and tried to rob him of his senses.

Al didn’t need Ziggy’s expertise to tell that Sam was rapidly sinking into obliviousness. He couldn’t blame him, but neither could he let him.

“Sam!” he called sharply, “Stay with me Sam! Come on buddy, wakey-wakey!”

Sam’s eyes flickered as he fought an internal battle with weariness beyond measure and pain beyond belief. “That’s it, pal; stay with me!” urged the Observer, his heart in his mouth. After a while, Sam’s eyes opened wider and held Al’s with a pleading look which spoke volumes that Al couldn’t bear to hear – ‘Please, let me rest; let me escape the pain, just for a while, let me regain my strength, let me sleep, leave me in peace…’

“C’mon, Sam,” Al chivvied his friend, “you just gotta make it up that little slope, that’s all, and then you can rest. I promise, when you meet the rescuers there, you can rest all you want.”

Sam tilted his head, and strained to see the target Al was indicating. He couldn’t focus, it seemed a mile away. It may as well be a mile away.

“I…I d-don’t… think… I can…d-do it, Al” Sam’s halting plaintive voice was a mere whisper.

“Ach, I don’t wanna hear you can’t do it!” Al made a dismissive gesture, trying to make his tone light. “It’s a breeze, a piece of cake, a walk in the park pal…” Al didn’t believe a word he was saying, any more than Sam did.

“How do I… walk in… the park, Al, w-when…I can’t… walk!” Sam’s chest was heaving with the strain of breathing.

“You gotta try, kid. You know you gotta try,” was the only answer his friend could give him.

Sam took a moment to have one last look at the array of items strewn around him, and the contents of his bag.

‘Take what you need and only what you need,’ Al had advised him. It was very good advice. The rucksack was already far heavier than he could easily manage, but he was reluctant to abandon anything that might possibly help him later. He looked again at the infrared camera equipment the group had set up, loathe to allow such expensive technology to be smashed and wasted, and wondering if it may help should the torchlight fail. In the end, though, it was just too heavy to be a viable option. Bad enough the radio was so cumbersome, but he guessed that a smaller model would not have the power to penetrate through the mountains. The signal was patchy as it was.

Sam spared a thought to wonder what they had to discuss so urgently, and in secret from him. It did not bode well.

Finally, Sam could find no further excuse for procrastination, and having taken a few more sips of water, and an energy boost in the form of another bite of the cheese sandwich – which tasted like sponge - rubber in cardboard – he pushed the pack behind him and set off on the long haul to life and liberty.

His manner of momentum was much as previously, except he hadn’t the energy to sit up fully. Instead, he propped himself on his elbows, and launched backwards as before by pushing off with a bent left leg. With less thrust behind it, he did not travel as far with each cycle, but though he gained less ground, he found it equally exhausting.

Thus, Sam inched his way slowly and painfully toward his goal.

Al walked along beside him, frustrated to be able to do no more than offer words of comfort and encouragement, and from time to time steer Sam around an obstacle too large or heavy for him to sweep aside.

Sam’s pain addled brain began fantasizing about skateboards.

“Sam, buddy, you are in no state to go trick jumping in the park.”

“N-no. But I… could… rest… my… broken… leg… on it,” came Sam’s panting reply, “Make… this… journey…darnsight…easier.”

Soon after he started, Sam commented to Al that the torch on his helmet did him little good, explaining how he’d foregone it’s faint but comforting glow on his first journey. They soon decided that though it looked unorthodox, it was more helpful for him to wear the helmet back to front, so that the feeble beam could help Al to guide his way, and veer him round obstacles. Even so, it was dark enough to make it slow going.

“Dai…?” Sam welcomed the interruption of the radio as an excuse to pause in his endeavors. “Can you hear me?”  This was a female voice, young and concerned as before, but not the same person.

“H-here,” Sam affirmed panting wearily, and then decided that he needed names if he were going to maintain meaningful contact. There had been at least two female students as far as he could tell, so he ventured…

“Who… who’s t-there? Is… that…?”

“It’s me, Jenna… crackle… spit… on their way, D… crackle… hang in there.”

Sam’s emotions were mixed at the news he thought he understood of the approaching rescue. He desperately wanted to be taken away from all this, yet the closer they came, the more danger his rescuers were in.

“How you holding up, Dai?” Jenna asked him.

“If… honest… I’m in…helluva lotta pain… but…whole… cave…unstable… trying…to…get…out…” he had to warn them of the danger, in case he passed out before they got there. He couldn’t promise not to.

“…spit say again, Dai, your signal is very weak…”

“No kidding. So am I.”

“I’m… crackle… your signal, Dai, please… buzz…”

Sam pressed his lips together as waves of pain washed over him again.

“Dai?”

“I… h-have… t-to… g-get…out…” Sam was panting hard; despite the tape breathing and talking were still tiresome. He wanted to impress on this young lady how important it was that they not get caught in there, but it was such an effort…

“We’ll…buzz…spit…out of there before…crackle... Dai. spit…others are…spit…crackle…. Just…buzz… easy, save…spit…strength.”

‘What strength?’ thought Sam, feeling as exhausted as a fledgling fresh from fighting its way out of the egg.

“Movement… hurts… but I… got to… get c-clear… can’t… stop t-to… talk…”

“Take it easy…buzz…spit… you’re badly injured.”

‘You’re telling me!’ Sam felt like throwing back at her, but she was only doing her best to be supportive.

“If…spit … an’t always ans… crackle… worry, but I’ll keep talking from time… buzz… crackle… know I’m with you in spirit… crackle… spit… buzz… when the guys get…buzz… give me a sign every now… buzz… crackle… can, so I know you… spit… hear me, can you do that, Dai?”

It hurt his aching brain to try filling in the gaps, so he just had to hope he was understanding the gist of her conversation. Common sense told him she was making the usual reassuring noises, showing solidarity, and seeking reassurance as to his continued survival, and he appreciated both her concern and her support.

“I’ll t-try…” he promised her.

For a few moments, there was silence, and Sam prepared to resume his expedition.

He had barely begun to move, when the voice, Jenna, called him plaintively: “Dai?”

“Here…” he reiterated.

“Thank God,” a whispered aside, that Sam heard nonetheless.

Sam spared a moment to feel for Jenna’s angst. He wanted to reassure her, but his cup of optimism was way more than half empty.

“Listen, Dai, I… buzz… ou can’t talk much, spit… crackle… well you can hear me, but I need to talk to you, okay?]

“I… c-can… listen…” Sam told her. Another friendly voice in the wilderness wasn’t entirely unwelcome.

“Hey, you’ll never guess…” she began a light banter, and Sam listened half-heartedly as he once more made his way toward his distant, seemingly unattainable goal.

“I…spit… Matt… buzz…boyfriend to help us. He’s…buzz… we may not get busted for…spit… all…”

Busted? BUSTED????

Al and Sam exchanged worried looks. The leap had suddenly taken on a further unwelcome complication. Al turned instinctively to his handlink to summon Ziggy, but she failed to respond. He wondered whether the storm outside had picked up again and was interfering with the electronics, or if she was merely giving him the cold shoulder, so to speak, in retribution for his having humiliated her earlier.

With an exasperated shrug of his shoulders, the Observer motioned toward the radio, suggesting that Sam seek his answer there.

“W-what…d-d’you…m-mean?” he countered, between his last collapse and his next launch.

“Don’t panic, Dai... says if… crackle… in and get…buzz…crackle… enough, we can get away with it. The rangers…buzz… know you…spit… wrong cave…”

Sam had no clue as to what she meant by the ‘wrong’ cave, but since Ziggy was not inclined to enlighten him; he decided that it was not something that should concern him at this precise instant.

For now, the fact that it was unstable and liable to entomb him at a moments notice made it enough of the wrong cave for him.

As he struggled to reach his unreachable chute, Jenna continued to explain the situation to him, between long pauses while she did who knew what, in bursts of conversation which he heard in part and understood even less. He filed it in his fogged up memory to be processed once the high pressure front lifted.

Every once in a while, between exertions, he made noises to the effect that he had received at least some of her message, and was still – if barely – awake.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Some considerable time and several calls later, the students were feeling a little more hopeful.

Jenna’s boyfriend had come through for them, and how!

They may just get away with this with their Uni places intact.

Jenna hastily explained to the others exactly what they were going to have to do and how lucky they were that Matt had rounded up three reliable people who could help them, without making their secret common knowledge. Now if only they could get in and get the team out quickly and quietly – and hopefully prove Dai’s dismal prognosis to be an exaggeration, then everything would turn out fine.

One of them needed to stay by the radio, they decided, to keep both parties apprised of the situation, and so that Dai didn’t feel alone in his ordeal.

Jenna volunteered for communication duty – she was due to take over from Travis later anyway, and would certainly not be able to sleep now. Besides, her asthma made her the least useful to take on a rescue mission that was likely to be physically challenging.

Travis assured her that her role was just as important as theirs, and in fact she could be pivotal in ensuring that they didn’t get caught. In addition to keeping the channels open between the base, Dai and the rescue team, he showed her how to check and monitor the local authorities’ communications.

Within a very few minutes, Travis and Claire were tearing down the highway in a brand new Ford Excursion 4 x 4 they had ‘borrowed’ from the University motor pool, heading for a rendezvous with Matt and his crew.

It was a long drive, and they had no time to waste.

Left alone, Jenna turned her attention back to the radio. She had suggested writing down anything Dai said, which they agreed could prove useful. Borrowing Travis’ notebook she turned the page from his essay notes, and lay the pen on a clean sheet.

“Dai? Hello, Dai? Can you hear me?”

“H-here,” acknowledged her friend, after a moment. He sounded out of breath, and weary.

“Who… who’s t-there? Is… that…?” he asked, as if he didn’t recognize her voice. Jenna put it down to the dodgy signal, the storm and the mountain blocking reception.

“It’s me, Jenna. The others are on their way, Dai, just hang in there,” she encouraged.  “How you holding up, Dai?” she enquired. Conversation would help him pass the idle hours ‘til they arrived.

“…spit, buzz…lotta pain…crackle…unstable…spit…crackle…out…”

“Please, say again, Dai, your signal is very weak…”

“No kid… buzz… o am I!”

“I’m not reading your signal, Dai, please repeat…” begged Jenna; twitching the dial in an attempt to improve the reception.

Jenna had the feeling it was going to be a very long night for both of them. “Dai?”

“I… h-have…t-to… g-get… out…” Dai was panting hard. He sounded as if he was on the edge of panic, and even with a faint, distorted signal, she could hear the pain in his voice.

Jenna took a deep breath to steady the timbre of her own voice before reassuring him:  “We’ll have you out of there before you know it, Dai. Matt and the others are on their way. Just take it easy, save your strength.”

“….spit…crackle…hurts…buzz… to…crackle… spit…buzz…talk…”

“Take it easy, Dai. I know you’re badly injured.” Jenna didn’t like the sound of Dai’s garbled messages one bit. “If you can’t always answer, don’t worry, but I’ll keep talking from time to time to let you know I’m with you in spirit, okay? I’ll let you know when the guys get close. Just give me a sign every now and then if you can, so I know you can still hear me, can you do that, Dai?”

“I’ll t-try…” was all she got back.

With a sigh, she poured herself another coffee, and looked at the notes she had taken of their conversation. If you could call it that. Between the distortion of the radio signal, and Dai’s difficulty in speaking, there was very little meaningful content. Just enough to worry her sick.

She really liked Dai.

Not fancied him -not perhaps as a potential boyfriend. He was reasonably good looking, she supposed, it was just that he was a bit too…chunky for her taste; she preferred ‘em lean like Travis and Matt. Not that Dai was fat. Just typical muscular rugby player - chunky.

Still, as a friend, she liked him a lot. He was funny, and good company, and kind and dependable, and smart…

She wiped away a tear that crept unbidden to the corner of her eye.

Hearing him – or almost hearing him – in such obvious pain and distress, knowing he was alone and so far from help…

‘Oh God, please let them get to him in time!’ she breathed.

Alone.

Cliff. Lizzie. Professor Cooper.

She couldn’t believe they were really dead. Not all of them.

Dai had to be wrong, surely?

Jenna was starting to think she had the toughest job.

The others all had their roles to play, they were off being heroic rescuers, dashing to the cave to pluck Dai from the jaws of death. They had something to do, something to keep them busy.

Jenna, she had little to do but wait, and try to talk from time to time with someone she could barely maintain contact with. Time - time to think: Time to worry; Time to despair.

“Dai?”

“Here…” came back the weary response.

“Thank God,” she whispered, almost to herself.

 “Listen, Dai, I know you can’t talk much, and I’m not sure how well you can hear me, but I need to talk to you, okay?” Silence was too oppressive.

“I…c-can…listen…”

        “Hey, you’ll never guess…” she made a conscious effort to keep her tone light, to pretend she was just having a casual chat with a mate on the phone.

“I got Matt - you remember, my boyfriend - to help us. He’s amazing. He says we may not get busted for this after all…”

“W-what…d-d’you…m-mean?” Dai sounded alarmed again; and Jenna wondered if he had misheard her.

“Don’t panic, Dai. Matt says if we can get in and get you out quick enough, we can get away with it. The rangers need never know you were in the wrong cave…”

Dai didn’t respond. He probably had more urgent concerns than whether or not he was going to get expelled. He had his injuries to obsess him. It weighed heavy with Jenna, though. If the truth came out, they were all implicated.

It had seemed a risk worth taking when Cliff had put it to Professor Cooper, who had readily agreed to take responsibility. Only now, Dai reckoned the Professor was dead. He couldn’t take the blame, and he couldn’t ‘square things away with the Dean’.

Jenna shuddered, and decided that dwelling on thoughts of doom and gloom would do neither of them any good. For now, they had to sit tight and hope for the best.

She went back to telling Dai how they may be able to pull it off.

“Matt’s got a buddy at the army base, Joseph, who has a sister at Memorial. She’s a nurse, Dai. She’s gonna get us some supplies. Not only that, but she knows one of the porters. He’s an Italian, and between you and me, I don’t think he has his green card, so he’s only too willing to lend a hand, if you know what I mean.”

PART FIVE

Following his third rest break, Sam had hauled himself several yards nearer his target, when his hands slipped on something slimy. His arms slid down with a jolt, his helmet came off, and his head struck the ground. The breath was knocked from his body, and pain reverberated through his skull, ribs and leg. “Aaaaaaaaah!” he sighed, feeling every sting of the new bruises being added to the already extensive catalogue.

“Sam!” called Al in alarm, afraid his friend has knocked himself unconscious. It was a close call.

For long moments, Sam lay still, bar the trembling of limbs pushed too far for too long.

“Speak to me, Sam,” begged Al; watching his friends face grimace in pain.

“W-what…??” Sam finally queried thinly, when his pulse had ceased pounding in his temples, and his heart stopped hammering wildly in his chest. Whatever had caused him to falter; he was anxious to avoid a repeat performance. His hair felt matted and sticky, and he wasn’t at all sure whether or not his own blood had made it so.

He wrinkled his nose; an unpleasant, or rather positively noxious odor was assaulting his nostrils.

“I dunno, pal, its too dark in here. Where’s your torch gone?”

The light had gone out as the helmet fell. Sam fumbled around until he felt the headgear, and flicked the switch on again.

“Looks like it’s a bit muddy here, Sam…” began Al, bending low and peering closely at the ground around his companion’s collapsed carcass.

Sam sniffed. The more he struggled to control his snatched breaths, the more the foul, pungent, putrid stench made him retch.

“N-not m-mud…” he contradicted, frowning. “Smells…”

Al bent closer still, and was suddenly overwhelmingly glad that holograms did not observe in smellivision. He instinctively lifted his feet delicately, shaking his green suede Italian shoes as if to remove all trace of the loathsome substance.

“Eeeeeeuuuuuuuwwwwwwwwww!” he declared as he realized what it was that Sam had slipped up on.

“You might want to move from there, Sam,” he advised. “A few degrees to your left looks like the cleanest route.

“W-what…?” Sam repeated, not liking it where he was, but not anxious to recommence his labors.

“You really don’t wanna know, Sam,” warned his friend, “Just get outa there.”

Sam struggled to raise himself up again. His head lifted a couple of inches, then drooped again, too heavy, too dizzy.

“Come on, buddy.” Al encouraged, stepping sideward himself: anxious to be away from the mire.

Sam tried again, managed to heft himself up, skidded again and just about stopped himself from slamming to the ground once more.

“W-what…?” he asked for a third time, gritting his teeth and moving with a tremendous effort in the recommended direction, a tiny bit at a time.

Al finally accepted Sam would not give up until he knew.

Wrinkling his own nose in disgust, he confessed:  “Bat droppings, buddy…”

“Ugh!” reacted Sam, scuttling crab like out of the guano, a sudden rush of adrenalin lending him temporary strength.

When he was clear, Sam wiped his hands on his jeans, then took the canteen and poured a little of his precious water to wash them.

Though concerned at the rapidly dwindling rations, Al did not utter disapproval of this action. He would have done exactly the same in the circumstances.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“Lend a hand with what, precisely?”

Jenna was so startled by the unexpected voice behind her that she actually let out a little shriek. She had not heard anyone come in.

She spun round in the chair to see the figure of Professor Lofton looming over her, a questioning frown on his handsome features.

“Errr, uh, well…” she was hedging, but there was also an element of her mouth not coordinating with her brain. She stood up, retreating from the radio, looking like a greyhound in the slips, ready to bolt.

“Before you concoct some implausible tale, Miss Blakeney, I feel I should tell you I received a phone call a few minutes ago, from Dr Gonzales at Memorial hospital.”

Jenna’s eyes widened in alarm. They’d been busted. It was all over.

She tried to still her hammering heartbeat, and to maintain an air of innocent ignorance, but deep down she knew she was fooling neither the Professor nor herself.

“You may or may not be aware that I have been dating Aurora Gonzales for some time now, but this was NOT a social call, far from it.”

Dom Lofton looked at his student sternly, but not unkindly.

He sat down, assuming a less threatening posture, and motioned to Jenna to do the same.

“Okay, out with it.” He tried to keep his voice calm and even.

Still, Jenna hesitated. A part of her wanted to unburden herself, let the Professor know what was happening and share her fears. Yet she was ever conscious that others beside her stood to lose so much.

She looked at him, her eyes pleading for clemency.

“Okay, Jenna.” He offered, seeing her consternation, “I don’t think we have time to play games, so I’m going to tell you straight exactly how much, or how little, I already know.”

Jenna’s face broadcast her relief that he was taking the initiative.

“I know that Memorial is affiliated with the University’s Medical School through its Family Practice Residency Program, but I didn’t think that stretched to making them accessories to criminal activities. Aurora was approached by a junior nurse, who overheard a conversation between Nurse Benedict and your helpful porter, Mr. Palmiero, in a store cupboard. They were ‘plotting’ the theft of medical supplies, for some sort of clandestine rescue mission involving students from this faculty. Now who do you suppose they could be?” he cocked his head to one side inquisitively.

“They are in trouble…” Jenna went so far as to confess. That wasn’t exactly news. Nurses don’t steal supplies unless somebody is hurt.

Lofton turned to Jenna. “So why haven’t you alerted search and rescue? I presume you haven’t. “

Jenna opened her mouth to confess, but the words wouldn’t come. How could she explain?

This was it: the moment of truth. Jenna felt a sinking in the pit of her stomach.

Professor Lofton repeated his question, afraid from the hesitation that he knew what the answer would be. He may be relatively young and inexperienced, but he knew evasion when he saw it.

He swallowed convulsively. This was his first faculty appointment, and he had only been in the post one whole semester. What a baptism of fire this was turning out to be! Teaching wildlife ecology was not supposed to be so hazardous.

“N-not uh, not exactly! Ah, uh… um…” Jenna wanted to help her friends, but how would it help them to get them into so much trouble? She was confused. She looked around for support, and then remembered she was alone. She was going to have to be the one to betray Cliff’s secret.

“Well, uh…”she licked her dry lips and swallowed, “it’s uh sorta like this…”

“Listen,” Dom encouraged. He knew these kids, all of them, and he knew Professor Cooper. The old guy had taken him under his wing so to speak, and helped him to settle in. Dom would have trusted him with his life. And the study-group were as great a bunch of kids as a new Professor could hope for. All regular, well behaved, clean-cut, diligent, hard-working, sensible kids…he couldn’t fault them. So if they had some deep dark secret, it must be something pretty important, pretty serious. He didn’t want to see any of them in trouble, but there was the bigger question of casualties now, and that had to take priority.

He leant forward, almost conspiratorially. He didn’t want Jenna to see him as the enemy, so he tried to imply by his body language that he was just one of the gang.

“I know something is bothering you guys, over and above this accident. I can’t promise to make your problem disappear, only that I’ll do whatever I can to help. But I can only do that if you tell me. Tell me everything, and tell me now, okay?” It sounded good and simple to him; he just hoped it would turn out that way.

Jenna looked into the Professor’s face, and decided that they would just have to trust him.

“Well…”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Nearly an hour later, Sam asked:

“Are… we…nearly…there…yet…Al?”

Once more he had collapsed to the horizontal, and was fighting to control his breathing, to stay awake, and to overcome the overwhelming agony.

“You’re doing great, Sam,” Al avoided giving a direct response. In truth, Sam had covered precious little of the distance needed, and Al was dreadfully afraid that at the current rate, his buddy was not going to make it in time.

“Keep going, pal, you’re doing fine.”

Sam heard the catch in Al’s voice, though he tried hard to hide it.

“Need… rest,” entreated Sam. It was not the first time he had explained this, but Al was a hard taskmaster, and kept him strictly to his exercise routine.

“Just a bit further, then you can have another snack,” encouraged Al. “You can start on the ham now you’ve finished the cheese!” The prospect held little appeal for Sam, though he knew he needed to fuel his body. He didn’t feel at all like eating, it just made his nausea worse.

Sam pushed off again; moved a few precious inches, grunted in pain.

He no longer worried about his cries causing another rock fall. His throat was dry and hoarse, and he had no strength or power in his lungs to create that much noise. A few grunts, groans and moans were all he could muster to mark his suffering.

“That’s it, Sam. Again, come on, you can do it!” Al felt like the commandant of a prison camp, torturing his victim. He hated every second, but knew that he had to be strong to keep Sam strong.

“Aaargh!” - a few more inches, a lot more pain.

“Gimme… a break… here, Al,” Sam pleaded. “I…g-gotta…”

“Five not enough for you now,” responded Al.

“Huh? Five… yeah… five m-minutes… thanks!” Sam leaned back and closed his eyes, his face lit up like all his Christmas’s had come at once.

“No, Sam. Get up,” bullied Al. “I meant five breaks – 3 ribs, and two in your leg. Bad joke, sorry.”

If his breath had not been in such short supply, Sam would have used up a significant amount in calling his Observer a few choice names. Instead he settled for panting:

“So… not… funny.” A tear escaped his eye as he tried to move on, as per Al’s renewed exhortations. 

“Hna-aaarh!” every slight movement jarred his injured leg, and heaped agony upon agony.

“H-hurts…” he complained.

“I know, buddy. I know.”

“Y-you…” launch, reverse, collapse,

“have…” launch, reverse, collapse,

“n-o…” launch, reverse, “aah, idea…” collapse,

“ho…how…” launch “ba-ad…” reverse, collapse.

“You kidding, Sam?” retorted Al. “I only gotta look at you.” Al turned away for a moment, surreptitiously wiping a tear from his own eye. “It’s killing me to have to stand by helpless and see you suffer like this pal; so don’t tell me I don’t know.”

“K-killing… y-you?” Sam’s tone was harsh and bitter. “You…sh-should tr-try…it…f-from…here!”

Sam lay down, and purposefully straightened his overworked left leg. His posture said ‘that’s it. I’m on strike. I can go no further.’

“Okay, Sam, take a breather. Have something to eat, and four or five sips of water - no more; you been hitting it rather hard.” Al’s voice was strictly business-like, but he turned on his heel and walked a few paces off afterward, stinging from the rebuke, yet fully understanding where it came from.

He shouldn’t have said what he did. Sam didn’t need telling how hard it was for his friend to watch him suffer, unable to alleviate it in any way. Sam knew perfectly well how frustrating it was to be helpless in the face of such need. Just as Al knew his own frustration and discomfort (though worse than Sam imagined) were nothing compared to what Sam was having to endure.

Al made a fist, which he then ground into his palm. He paced for a minute or two, in the pattern that those who knew him recognized so well – four steps, turn, four steps back - and then offered what could be taken for a prayer under his breath:

“Dear God, hasn’t he been through enough? Can’t you cut the guy some slack here?”

“Al?” a feeble call from his companion sent the Observer instantly back to his side.

“What is buddy?” Al crouched down by Sam’s head, cursing himself for his neglect of his friend. What if he had slipped into a coma?

Sam replaced the lid of the now almost empty canteen and stowed it back in the pack before replying.

“Sorry,” he whispered simply. He didn’t need to expand.

“Me too,” Al brought closure to the issue. There was a mutual understanding that bonded the two men deeper than words.

“Ready?” Al encouraged.

“Nope,” came the honest answer, yet Sam resumed his routine once more nonetheless.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Once she began, Jenna found the words tumbled out of her like apples from a barrel tossed over Niagara Falls, tripping over each other in their haste to have the story told.

Consequently, it was not very long before she found herself alone once more, and the question on her lips was whether or not she should worry her injured colleague with the fact that the Professor now knew everything.

He had taken it better than she’d expected, and had even agreed that since things had already gone so far, he would assist them in the rescue and attempt to avoid getting the authorities involved. That didn’t mean he was happy about any of it of course, as he was careful to point out.

The Professor was also as unwilling as they had been to take Dai’s gloomy assessment as established fact. He hoped that it was only the lad’s own regrettably dreadful state of health that prevented him from gleaning signs of life in the others.

His good friend and mentor Roderick Cooper simply could not be dead.

It was the strong desire to prove this notion erroneous, more than anything else, which drove Professor Lofton to go along with their hair-brained scheme.

Since she already had an inkling what was going on, he roped his girlfriend into coming along for the ride, reasoning that a fully trained doctor was liable to be a valuable asset in their endeavors.

She had expressed reservations too, but ultimately agreed to meet him and do what she could for the stricken team. Grabbing appropriate supplies based on the injuries ascribed to Dai, and those likely to have been sustained by the others in the party, she loaded up her station wagon and filled up with gas, then swung round and collected her boyfriend before heading for the hills.

Jenna resumed her attempts at haphazard communication, getting more and more frustrated and worried as Dai’s replies became fewer and further between.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

After three or four repetitions, Sam paused.

“Not yet, Sam, you gotta keep going, you…” Al gestured toward the still far distant goal.

“Listen…”

The cave had been the source of many eerie sounds throughout, from faint echoes of Sam’s moans, through the distorted mumblings of the radio to the distant claps of thunder from the storm raging outside.

This new sound was different: A rushing, roaring sound that built in volume and intensity and was definitely getting rapidly closer.

Alarmed, Al looked back the way they had come, with a sudden shock of realization:

“Quick Sam, get out the canteens, all of ‘em. Fasten the backpack on… doesn’t matter how, just do it! Get hold of those canteens and don’t let go. Hurry!”

Sam fumbled to comply, trusting in his friend to be giving him good advice. Though it had pained him greatly, somehow he managed to lay the rucksack on his stomach and fasten it behind him, and wrap the straps of the canteens round his wrists, two on the left, one on the right.

“Now…wha…?” before Sam could complete his request for a reason to these strange instructions, the event almost prevented him from hearing his friend’s explanation:

“Flash flood, Sam! Hold tight, don’t fight it; just go with the flow!”

TO BE CONTINUED