Chapter 39 - The Ridge Road Run
"He's bluffing," Luke said, his voice cracking with panic. "He wouldn't seal the tunnel with us inside!"
"He would," Corinne said, grabbing the canister and shoving it into her coat. "Harrison doesn't bluff. If he caps the shaft under an emergency hazard order, our bodies won't be found until the limestone is quarried in twenty years. Run!"
We bolted down the tunnel, our boots splashing through the oily puddles on the concrete floor.
The rumble above us grew louder, accompanied by the deep, rhythmic thud of pile drivers striking the rock on the upper ridge. Dust began to drift down from the limestone ceiling, speckling our shoulders like gray snow.
Behind us, a deafening klaxon began to wail, its red strobe light flashing against the damp rock walls.
"The hydraulic gates!" Luke yelled, pointing ahead.
A hundred yards from the entrance, a reinforced steel security gate—installed by Keaton's private contractors years ago—was grinding downward on heavy chain tracks, descending like a guillotine.
"Luke, slide!" I yelled.
Luke threw himself forward, sliding across the wet shale and rolling under the descending steel edge with inches to spare.
I grabbed Corinne’s hand, pulling her toward the gap. The bottom edge was three feet off the ground and falling fast.
"Go!" she shouted, shoving me forward.
"Together!" I grabbed her around the waist, dropping to my knees as we scrambled under the teeth of the gate. The heavy steel scraped against the back of my jacket, tearing through the heavy fabric before slamming into the bedrock with a shuddering crash that shook the entire hillside.
We spilled out into the cold midday air, gasping for breath, coughing out the limestone dust.
Up on the ridge above us, two massive yellow bulldozers were already pushing mounds of broken shale and gravel toward the secondary vent shafts. State police cruisers with flashing blue lights were parked along the perimeter fence, alongside black SUVs bearing the seal of the Tennessee Department of Environment and Conservation.
Vance Keaton stood by the lead cruiser, an unlit cigar between his teeth, watching the heavy machinery work.
When he saw the three of us emerge from the lower tree line, his eyes widened in disbelief.
"Officers!" Vance barked, pointing down the hill. "Arrest those people! They're trespassing on a condemned state hazard zone!"
Four state troopers moved toward us, hands resting on their holsters.
"Don't move!" one called out.
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I didn't run. I stood my ground, wiping the blood from my scraped knuckles, and reached into my pocket.
"Officer," I said loudly, holding up my phone, which had just reacquired five bars of cell service. "You might want to check with your dispatch before you take another step."
