Before the words had fully left his mouth, the rock below scraped again. I looked down. The salamander whose skull had been shattered was still moving. Its collapsed cranium hung at an angle, one eye destroyed, yet its body remained pressed stubbornly against the rock face, climbing upward with slow, relentless determination. Only then did I remember—we had one last M67.
Reed had already stripped part of his gear and tossed the grenade to me. I clamped the M9 bayonet between my teeth, freed my right hand, caught the grenade, flipped the safety clip with my thumb, and pulled the pin. The fuse began to burn. The creature was within meters now, its massive jaws opening against the rock face. As it lunged again, I hurled the grenade into its mouth. It instinctively lashed out with its tongue and swallowed. The detonation thudded inside the cranial cavity, the internal blast completely destroying the supporting structure. The entire head ruptured outward. The massive body lost strength, rolled down toward the riverbank, convulsed twice, and finally went still.
I released my grip from the rock fissure. Cold sweat ran down my spine. My legs suddenly weakened. There had been no time for fear a moment ago. Now it returned.
Almost simultaneously, the entire rock layer began to tremble continuously. At first it was only a faint vibration. It quickly evolved into a sustained, low roar. The underground river surged upward, white vapor rising across the surface. The air filled with sharp sulfur. Waves of heat rolled up the slope from below.
"Geothermal activity," Eleanor judged over the tremors. "Not a full eruption, but significant."
The volcanic belt beneath the riverbed had been triggered. The slope shook beneath our boots. Sheets of stone slid loose. In the distance, accumulated volcanic rock faces were shifting slowly, as if ready to collapse in whole sections. We managed to scramble onto a relatively stable ledge, but it became clear the shaking was not weakening. It was intensifying.
Eleanor explained quickly that this resembled periodic geothermal release rather than catastrophic eruption. A subterranean volcano does not always discharge energy through lava. Sometimes internal pressure adjustment alone produces tremors and thermal outflow. Such cycles might occur within short intervals, or span centuries.
Regardless of the cycle, we were standing at the moment of its awakening.
We had planned to follow the underground river for an exit, but now the channel was violently churning. The water temperature was rising rapidly. Continuing downstream would mean being trapped in boiling water. The retreat was sealed. The slope continued to shake. For the first time, I understood clearly that we might be buried here permanently.
Then Reed grabbed my sleeve and pointed upward.
Hundreds of meters above, a narrow strip of white light was widening between rock layers. It was not the red glow of magma, but steady, natural light. I narrowed my eyes to confirm. The brightness burned my vision, but the conclusion held.
It was sky.
The earthquake had torn open the surface. We began climbing immediately. The incline was nearly forty-five degrees. Volcanic rock loosened constantly under the vibration. For every few feet gained, we slid back half. Heat pressed upward in waves. Sulfur gas burned the throat. The fissure contracted repeatedly with each tremor. There was no time to hesitate.
Reed and I reached the upper edge first and anchored ourselves. Walker had climbed nearly to the top, but when he saw Eleanor slip several times, he turned back without hesitation and descended toward her, stabilizing her footing against the loose rock, bracing her with his shoulder, pushing her upward toward the line we lowered.
We stripped the webbing straps from our rucks, linked them together, and dropped the makeshift line. Walker supported Eleanor from below while she grabbed the straps. We hauled together, the tremors worsening, the slope collapsing beneath us. We pulled her over the edge with everything we had.
Walker began climbing up after her.
At that exact moment, the rock layers convulsed in a violent compressive tremor. The fissure narrowed abruptly. The entire rock face pressed inward. He was close to the top. I leaned down and caught his wrist. The next instant, the rock closed completely. His body was pinned within the collapsing seam. I threw myself at the edge, digging with both hands into the compacted rubble. My fingernails tore open and bled almost immediately, but the stone continued to compress mercilessly. The tremors persisted. Debris kept falling. Reed seized me from behind and dragged me back from the collapsing edge.
The fissure sealed shut in the roar.
Cold plateau wind struck my face. The sky opened above us. Mountains stood silent in the distance.
I sat on the rock surface, breathing unevenly, my hands still trembling.
Walker had been the one I talked to most. We spoke about everything. He treated everyone the same way—always stepping forward to help, always willing to go one step further. He had already climbed out. He had turned back for Eleanor.
He put others first.
This time too.
We were alive.
He wasn't.
—
Three days later, I lay in a hospital room at Fort Carson. Colonel Mason came to see me. He stood beside the bed for a moment before asking how I felt. His voice was steady, but I could hear what lay beneath it—concern, and something he would never admit to himself.
I opened my mouth. I meant to say, "I'm fine."
The word stopped in my throat.
I did not say it.