Lincoln Child - The Third Gate

Tina said nothing. She was looking at the muck that was now up to their waists and still rising, thick as a foul, black milkshake.

“Tina!” he shouted. “ Do you understand? ”

The round circles of white in her otherwise black face turned to him, blinked, then rose up and down-a nod. Logan took tight hold of her hand, squeezed it.

“Don’t let go,” he said.

Just then there came a final, cataclysmic shudder-a rising squeal of metal, stressed beyond endurance-and then the ceiling above them tore away and the black heart of the Sudd descended on them, enfolding them in its noxious embrace.

F rank Kowinksy fought his way up through the muck and ooze. His eyes stung from the grit, and his ears and nostrils were filled with thick silt. The swamp seemed to pull at him, giant invisible hands that tugged at his clothes, trying to drag him down. And there were things here in the muddy blackness: sticks and weeds and softer, more slippery things he didn’t care to guess at. Some he could use, like hand and footholds, and he made his way up through a slippery universe of mud.

He’d been in this shit now for-what, maybe sixty seconds? — and already his chest was starting to burn. He should have taken a deeper breath when he launched himself out from the Umbilicus. And then, he’d expended precious oxygen just forcing himself out into the swamp. Had that been a mistake? Should he have tried to make his way up through the ruined hell of the Umbilicus? But no-that would have meant certain death.

Mud trickled down past the nape of his neck, down his back, under his arms. It seemed to seep in everywhere, his belly, even his groin. It was too horrible, this blackness, not knowing where he was, not knowing how much farther he had to go, and all the time slowly running out of air…

Suddenly, he hit his head against something, hard. It brought stars to his closed eyes-but it also snapped him out of incipient panic. At first, he thought-hoped-it might be one of the floating pontoons of the Station. But then as he reached out, probing at it with blind fingers, he realized it was a huge chunk of wood, a tree branch, embedded in the quicksand of the Sudd. He shook his head to clear it-shook it as much as the surrounding ooze would allow-then pushed himself away from the chunk of wood, reoriented himself as best he could, and resumed clawing his way up through the black nightmare.

L ogan had been utterly unprepared for one thing: the intense, implacable pressure of the Sudd. It pressed in on him like a cold vise: from above, from behind. It squeezed his chest as if trying to force the air from his lungs. For a moment, he just hung in place, an insect trapped in amber, stunned by the overwhelming, awful, claustrophobic sensation. And then, with a mighty effort, he kicked upward, tugging on Tina’s hand as he did so. He felt her hand moving back and forth as she, too, began forcing her way upward. He tightened his grip, interlocking his fingers with hers-somehow, he sensed that, if they were to get separated, it would mean death for them both.

He kept his eyes and mouth tight shut, tried to forget the muck that oozed its way into his ears, and he allowed his body to find its own equilibrium as they struggled up toward the surface. He kept his nose clear by blowing out, gently, every few seconds-it had the effect of clearing the mud from his nostrils and also kept him from retaining too much air in his lungs. Now and again, as he flailed with his free hand, he knocked against branches and twigs, caught in the matrix of the Sudd; whenever possible, he used them as hand- or footholds to help force his way upward, all the while keeping a tight grasp on Tina’s hand. Once he almost became entangled in the rotting tendrils of some submerged plant. Fighting down panic, he pushed it away, still careful to maintain his equilibrium.

Their upward struggle together, their combined momentum, seemed to make the ascent easier than it would have been for one person alone. Lack of shirts and pants helped coat their bodies in an oil-like slick that counteracted some of the swamp’s treacherous downward pull. And yet, all too soon, Logan began to feel Tina’s hand twitch and tremble. She was running out of air.

How far had they risen? Fifteen feet? Twenty? It was impossible to tell in this black oblivion. His hand encountered another branch; he used it to pull himself upward, then felt for it with his foot and forced himself up yet again. Now his own lungs were starting to burn. The twitching of Tina’s hand became more urgent; he had to hold on still tighter to keep her from letting go. Another few moments and either she would breathe in or go unconscious. He would not be able to continue to lift her as a deadweight. Already, he could feel his strength ebbing. They would both sink down into the endless blackness, and their bodies would join all those of Narmer’s train, who had-

All of a sudden, he felt a strange thing. His free hand was not struggling as much to force its way through the thick medium of the swamp. He interlocked his fingers with Tina’s more tightly still, pulled her toward him, and then-with the last of his strength-wriggled upward in a sinuous motion, legs together, as if swimming a vertical butterfly stroke. And then his head felt the same freedom his hand had-it could move more easily, no longer encumbered by a surrounding matrix of mud. Sputtering, coughing, spitting mud, he pulled Tina up until she, too, broke through. They were encrusted with black mire-creatures more of the swamp than of the dry land-but they could once again breathe.

They had reached the surface.

K owinsky was beyond desperate. It had been over ninety seconds now, maybe two minutes. He was in decent shape, he worked out regularly, but even so every atom in his body was now screaming out for oxygen. He struggled ever more furiously through the muck and mire. He must be near the surface-he must. His eyes were wide open now, heedless of the pain. Surely a little light must penetrate this goddamned hell. Surely, any moment, the intolerable blackness around him would get a little lighter, and then a little lighter still, and then… air.

It was all he could do to keep his mouth closed. Air, he had to have air. Every movement sent little stabs of agony shooting through his lungs. He was no longer aware of the muck or the stench or the way the swamp sneaked into every orifice, every crevice, even those he hadn’t known he possessed. Air was what he needed. Air.

Oh, God, it was too terrible. Where was he? Why was it all so black? Why was he still beneath the surface?

In his frenzied thrashings, his hands encountered something. Eyes wide but sightless, his nose dribbling little oily bubbles out into the mud, he probed along it. A hand-an arm-a head. It was a human body, freshly dead. But in his agony, Kowinsky didn’t give it a second thought. He pushed it away and struggled forward.

Now his scrabbling hands hit something else-something hard this time, hard and smooth. Metal. This was it-at last, he’d reached the Station! Hope, almost gone, surged in him afresh. Another five seconds, maybe ten, and he’d have been a goner. That’s how close it had been. He reached out with his other hand, trying to orient himself in the blackness, preparing to heave himself up and out…

And then he noticed something. The hard, smooth piece of metal dead-ended into another-this one curved, studded with heavy rivets. What part of the Station was this? The pontoons were all smooth, and the crawl spaces beneath the various wings had only…

And then he felt something else, something attached to one of the rivets. A heavy piece of fabric, slippery, rough at the edges as if it had been violently ripped away.

Reality came crashing down. This wasn’t the Station. This was the Lock. Somehow, maybe when he’d hit that chunk of wood, he’d become disoriented in the blackness. He’d turned himself around-and headed back down to the bottom. To the tomb.