He coughed.
His head hurt, his ears rang, and his memory was wiped out.
He only knew that he was alive and hurting and largely unable to move, trapped beneath something heavy covering him from his feet to his chest.
Patting around, he determined that a heavy wooden beam had fallen onto him. But not just a beam. He lay trapped beneath a huge load of dirt and stone, too.
All at once, everything came rushing back, killing the second or two of blissful amnesia he had experienced upon waking.
Now, he understood the pain and debris and remembered everything that led to it.
An explosion.
He was in the mine, hunting Toole, and there had been a sound back toward the entrance, a sound like running feet, and then that other sound, the soft thump.
Dynamite?
Had Toole been waiting for him? Hiding back there with dynamite?
Sheffield, back out in the main tunnel, had turned to face the noise and had whispered a warning to Conn…
“Sheffield?” Conn called.
There was no response. Everything was darkness and dust and pain.
He started pawing at the rocks and dirt piled on top of him.
He moved slowly at first then built speed, wanting to get out from under this crushing force, wanting to escape this trap, wanting to move and take a full breath, wanting to go back into the main hall and find his friend.
Soon, he was tearing wildly at the debris, pushing it left and right then pushing even more frantically as dislodged stones triggered small avalanches onto his chest and face, threatening to smother him.
He growled, pushing and digging, fighting against what seemed like a steady pouring down of grit and rock, laboring for breath in the dusty air, hoping against hope that his legs still worked. He couldn’t move them, couldn’t feel them.
Thus he struggled for what seemed like hours, shoving and grabbing and pitching away stones and sand and splintered wood, heart pounding, struggling to breathe, knowing the explosion had collapsed the mine and nearly killed him.
Eventually, fresh rocks and dirt stopped sliding down on top of him.
Encouraged, he attacked the rest of the debris with fury, tossing it this way and that with bleeding hands until, having uncovered his upper body, he was finally able to sit up.
He just sat that way for a time, letting the dust settle.
When it did, he concentrated on his breathing. The dusty air made him cough, but eventually, he could breathe fully again. Doing so hurt his ribs, which had clearly been bruised by the collapse.
Once he got control of his breathing, his heart rate slowed, and his head cleared.
He realized that he could feel his legs. They were just numbed by the weight of everything on top of them.
He patted his shirt pocket and found his matches and struck one and was horrified by what he beheld.
A massive pile pinned his lower body to the ground. Beyond that, there was nothing. Just a wall of debris. It packed the passage from floor to ceiling.
“Sheffield?” he called.
His own voice echoed back at him from the impenetrable wall of rubble.
He knew what that meant but would not allow himself to look it in the face.
He needed to move, needed to free his legs.
