Treasure of the World Tara Sullivan (inspirational books for women TXT) 📖

I came over to see if anyone needed help.” He takes in my tearstained face. “I guess you do?”

The rock Victor pulls out dislodges a pile of rubble and the two of us have to move away, coughing, until the dust settles again. I know Francisco thinks Guillermo was well clear of the landslide. But what if he wasn’t? If Guillermo is trapped underneath this rubble, he could be running out of air . . . or slowly bleeding his life away. I couldn’t spare Daniel from being crushed alone, but I can make sure it doesn’t happen to someone else.

I climb over the growing skirt of the pile before the dust is completely cleared and keep pulling at the rocks. After a moment, Victor joins me. The work is intense. I don’t ask any more questions, and Victor doesn’t volunteer anything else.

I know that Francisco is right and that help is no doubt on the way, but no one is here yet. We could wait, but a few minutes might be the difference between life and death. I can’t take that chance. My back aches and my hands are in pain. But finally, I pull out a rock and the rubble dislodges in two directions—out and in, creating a narrow entrance shaft.

Leaving Victor to widen the hole, I race across to where Belén is and grab the helmet. It’s gone out. I strap the acetylene tank to my hip and fiddle with the dial and the lighter. The flame doesn’t catch, and I blow on the spigot, hoping to dislodge whatever dust might have clogged the mechanism. If the metal is bent so that no gas can get through, I’ll never be able to fix it here.

I try again and whisper a prayer of thanks when it lights. I carefully put the helmet on my head and climb up the rubble heap to where Victor has opened an entrance about the size of a pothole. I shine the light down it and call for Guillermo.

“I don’t hear anything,” I say.

“Me neither.”

We’re both breathing hard from the effort we put in, and neither of us wants to say what needs to be said next. After a moment, taking in how tall Victor is and the width of his shoulders, I take a breath and say it.

“One of us has to go in.”

Victor’s gaze drifts down to the small, ragged hole in front of us. “I don’t think I’ll fit,” he says. His voice is very soft.

“Victor . . .” My voice quavers. I can’t finish. I know it has to be me: we don’t have time to widen the tunnel. But the terror of the days I spent lost in the mines is crushing me.

“I won’t leave,” Victor says, putting a hand on my shoulder. “You’re my best friend, remember? If it caves in again, I’ll stay here and dig you out. I promise.”

I don’t trust myself to answer, so I just nod, biting my lower lip. Then I lie down on my belly and squirm into the hole.

22

The tunnels of the main mine had been chiseled smooth, worn by centuries of use. Even the exit vent I crawled out of the last time had been widened by hundreds of years of wind and rain. But these rocks were ripped from their moorings only minutes ago, and their edges are sharp. I feel them press into my body, hard and ice cold, as I push myself, face-first, into the rough tunnel.

The hole is barely wider than my shoulders, and the air inside is so thick with dust, the beam of my light reflects back at me. I can’t see through it and my lungs spasm as I try to breathe. When I cough, the edges of my ribs hit the sides of the tunnel. Debris sifts around me. Terror wraps tight like a blanket of needles, digging through my skin.

I pull myself another arm’s length in. Then another.

Centimeter by centimeter, I claw my way into the womb of the Pachamama, away from fresh air and freedom. My whole body is encased in rock now—a single false move and I’ll be buried.

Victor said he wouldn’t leave, I tell myself again and again, but the thought does little to slow my rapid breathing. I know that if the tunnel were to collapse on me, I could easily suffocate before Victor could dig me out. Or, flame-first, I might hit a pocket of gas and the explosion could rip my face off before he has the chance to pull me away. Or . . .

I force myself to stop thinking about these things and pull myself in another arm’s length. I feel the scrape of the tunnel ceiling on my heels when I kick to propel myself forward. Directly ahead of me a large boulder blocks part of the space, and I have to flatten myself and tip my head sideways between my outstretched arms to wriggle past it. The rough edge of the ceiling digs into my spine as I push myself over. My acetylene tank catches.

I’m stuck.

With my head tipped to the side, I can’t raise my face to see where I’m going. My arms spasm to try to reach around and free my tank, but my elbows bark painfully against the sides of the narrow crawlway.

I can’t move forward. I can’t see where I am. My face is pinned against my arms, and I can’t move them. Rock is digging into the small of my back.

Black dots start to dance in my vision.

I feel like I can’t spread my ribs enough to pull in air.

Unable to look around, unable to move, I lose myself to panic.

I don’t even know if I’m trying to move forward or backward anymore, I just need to get out. A scream tears itself from my throat. I kick my feet against the tunnel walls and scrabble with my hands. There’s a ripping sound and I feel the rock slice my hips. I