02 The Hiding Place by C J Tudor

Author:C J Tudor
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Tags: Thrillers, Psychological, Horror, Suspense, Fiction
ISBN: 9781524761035
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2019-02-05T00:00:00+00:00

—

The rungs were rusted, and narrow. I could just about get my toe on each one. They groaned and sagged as I placed my weight on them. I clung on desperately, praying that I could hold on for long enough to reach the bottom.

Above, I could hear the others coming after me, showering bits of metal and dirt down on my miner’s helmet. Even though I’d felt a bit stupid putting it on, I was glad now of the protection, and the fact that it left both my hands free for gripping.

As I descended, I counted. Ten, eleven, twelve. At nineteen, my foot missed a rung. It flailed in the air and then found purchase on solid ground. Relief flooded through me. I stepped down. I’d made it.

“I’m at the bottom!” I shouted.

“What can you see?” Hurst’s voice called down.

I looked around, the light from the miner’s helmet casting a pale, yellow glow. I was standing in a small cave. Barely big enough to hold more than half a dozen people. Aside from what looked like a few animal bones on the ground, it was empty. I wasn’t sure if I felt relieved or disappointed.

“Not much,” I said.

Hurst landed beside me with a thud. Fletch, Chris and Marie followed. She clambered down awkwardly in her stilettos, still clutching the carrier bag of cider.

“Is this it?” she said.

Fletch panned his flashlight around then spat on the ground. “Just a shitty hole.”

“Guess this was a waste of time,” I said, trying not to sound pleased.

Hurst scowled. “Fuck this. I need a piss.”

He turned to the wall. I heard him unzip his pants and the gush of urine hitting the floor. The acrid smell, strong with cider, filled the small space.

Chris was still staring around, frowning.

I glanced at him. “What is it?”

“I thought there’d be something more.”

“Well, there’s not, so—”

But he wasn’t listening. He started to circle the cave, like a dog sniffing out a bone. Suddenly, he stopped, at a point in the rock where the shadows seemed to coalesce and deepen. He bent down.

And then he was gone. I blinked. What the hell?

“Where’d he go?” Marie asked.

Hurst zipped up his jeans and turned. “Where’s Doughboy?”

“Here,” a disembodied voice called.

I trained my light in the direction of the voice. And now I saw it. A gap in the rock. About four feet high, and narrow. Easy to miss, unless you were looking hard. Or you knew it was there.

“It goes deeper!” Chris called from the darkness. “There are more steps.”

“That’s more fucking like it!” Hurst exclaimed.

He shoved me out of the way and squeezed straight through after Chris. After a moment’s hesitation, and another swig of cider, Marie followed, and then Fletch.

I sighed, inwardly cursing Chris, and bent down to go after them. My head clanged against the rock. The miner’s helmet. It was too wide. The light wavered and went out. Crap. I must have knocked the battery. I edged backward and took the helmet off. I’d have to carry it sideways.

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