He did not let himself notice hunger or thirst, but the darkness creeping out from under the trees finally blurred his vision before he had anything that would support George. He had tried dragging three times, and all he had to show for it were the obvious scars in the forest soil.
And now it was almost too dark to see. . . . His hands were itching, burning, shaking; when he tried to stand, cramps seized his legs and arms; he staggered. Now he was thirsty; his mouth burned. He took several steps toward the creek before he remembered.
Don’t panic, he told himself. Think. But he could not remember when he had thought last . . . days ago, it seemed. For a moment it was hard to think where he was, or why. . . . Then it came clear. They had had supplies, of course they had. Back where the trap was. He could get water there, and food. He started back, in the near dark, hoping he could recognize which dark blur was the right tree.
The worst thing about being in a cave, Bubbles thought, was how you could lose track of time. They had drunk some of that cool, clean water, eaten a little food, and then, while trying to figure out all the things Kell left, day had turned to night. Even with night goggles on, she could see nothing. If they left the candle burning, anyone who looked in the entrance might see it sparkle on the water . . . and she didn’t want to go outside and make sure no gleam showed through the leaves.
Sleep came to them slowly, with many starts and twitches, but they were both still tired from the night before, and finally slept. I’m not Bubbles any more, was her last conscious thought. I’m grown up now—I’m someone else, named Brun.
What woke them was the sound of rock falling someplace. In the echoing darkness, they could not tell how far off it fell, only that it was inside and not outside. Bubbles had slept with the goggles on, and when she woke could just make out a paler smudge beyond the rock buttress. Raffa’s hand reaching for hers almost made her squeak, but she managed to stay silent. She squeezed Raffa’s hand and then put it aside. She would have to crawl to the edge of the buttress, and look around, to see how near daylight it was.
The pool of water tinkled pleasantly, as if it were being rained on, and when she got to the corner of the buttress, she could see light seeping in from the entrance. Not as bright as the day before (if it was the day before—had they slept the clock around?) but enough to show that no one was in the visible part of the cave. If someone had caused the rockfall, they were now out of sight. She started to creep around the buttress, and realized suddenly that her knees were wet—the pool was rising. Yesterday there’d been at least two meters between the buttress and the pool, and a meter between the pool and the entrance. Now the gleam of light reflecting from water extended to the entrance . . . perhaps even outside. She backed up until her feet bumped into Raffa.
“I think it’s raining,” Bubbles said softly. The cave felt slightly less resonant, or perhaps the tinkle and chime of dripping water, and its echoes, covered her voice. “The pool’s up.”
“Can we get out?” Raffa asked.
“For now, yes. . . . It’s probably not more than a couple of centimeters at the entrance. And I doubt it goes much higher for long—that’s never a large creek out there.”
“The creekbed—yes.” Raffa sounded pleased. “If it actually flows, it’ll take care of our tracks coming in.”
“What about our tracks going out? And with water coming out there, it’ll be obvious something’s inside.”
“Maybe we won’t have to go out. . . . Let’s look.” Raffa lighted the candle-lantern again, and they peered at the water, then the cave walls. A pale streak topped by a dark one ran along the wall perhaps knee-high. Farther up, a blurrier mark showed.
“That’s common—probably a seasonal flood. And the other is older, and rare. Didn’t you say there were seasonal rains?”
“Yes—and this is supposed to be the dry season.”
“Well, then: I’ll bet it won’t get that high.” Raffa pointed to the lower mark. Bubbles thought she sounded entirely too cheerful.
“That’s our lives you’re betting,” Bubbles said.
“That sounds like Bubbles and not Brun. It’s our lives either way—if we go out now, they’ll have nice muddy footsteps to show where we were. How long do the off-season rainstorms last?”
“Only a few hours, usually, but they can drop a lot of rain when they hit.” Bubbles sighed. “I’m not used to being Brun, you know. It’s going to take some getting used to. You’re right—it’s not likely to come up even as high as the wet-season floodmark. And even if it does, we can climb—there are ledges. . . .” They looked big and high enough. In the meantime. “We can use Kell’s floaters and weights to mark the pool’s edge and see how fast it’s rising.” She took down the pile of floats, and poked the weight tied to one at the edge of the water. Luckily they had a supply of candles for the lantern, and need not sit in the faint light that came from around the buttress.
Several hours passed with only the musical tinkling of water falling into the large pool. A bar of concentrate eased the hunger pangs, but Bubbles would have been very glad of a hot breakfast. The cave’s damp coolness no longer seemed a comfortable refuge from the heat outside. Slowly, in tiny lapping ripples, the water rose. Each hour, Bubbles put another weight at the edge of the water. The first one now lay two centimeters under; the last, as the third hour came to an end, was hardly covered by a skim of water.
“Made it,” Raffa said, giving Bubbles an affectionate shove. Then they both heard the voices. Raffa reached out and snuffed the candle in the lantern; darkness closed around them. They dared not move, lest they trip on something and make a noise. Bubbles slipped the dark goggles back on, to find her vision just as black.
Then a ray of light flared across. . . . Someone had flashed a light inside. A man’s voice, magnified and distorted by the cave’s echoes, boomed from the entrance. “Nothing. There’s water right up to the entrance; if anyone had come inside, we’d see the marks.”
Another voice. “—got here before the rain?”
“Not likely. Nothing—no sounds, no movement—nothing on IR scan.” Bubbles blessed the thick rock that lay between them and the entrance, and the cold cave water that had covered any mark they’d left. She had thought of the hunters having dark goggles; she’d forgotten the special equipment on the rifles.
“—those weapons?”
“Nah. They’ll be basic by now—they don’t have any way to revalidate them. C’mon.” The light vanished, and the voices faded. Bubbles realized she was shaking, and tried to take deep slow breaths. What had they meant, the weapons would be “basic” by now? She reached out and found Raffa’s shoulder; Raffa grabbed her back and they hugged, both of them still trembling. For an unmeasured time they clung together, until they were both breathing normally.
“We were stupid,” Raffa murmured in Bubbles’s ear. “We didn’t even have our weapons within reach.”
“It’s so hard to believe,” Bubbles said. “I keep remembering the old camping trips: we played at chase and smuggling and capture . . . but it was just play, though we took it seriously then. Now—it’s real, but it’s hard to keep remembering that.”