Chapter 23 - The Subterranean Channel
With a dying burst of survival instinct, George Vance threw his entire body weight onto the crowbar beside me.
Metal screeched against stone. Rust flaked away in explosive orange clouds. With a wet, sucking sound, the iron seal broke, and the heavy round cover flipped backward, crashing against the stone floor.
A blast of freezing, wet, foul-smelling air surged up into the pressurized vault. It wasn't clean mountain air, but it carried raw, rushing oxygen.
I dragged Walter by his collar toward the opening, gasping greedily as the subterranean draft hit my face. George collapsed beside the hole, inhaling violently, his shoulders shaking with ragged, desperate sobs.
Down below, twenty feet beneath the vault floor, the sound of rushing water echoed through an arched brick tunnel.
"The old mill race," Walter coughed, wiping black rust from his face, color slowly creeping back into his cheeks. "It leads out toward the river ravine behind the estate. But it’s a sheer drop down."
Above us, the steel door rattled violently.
*Clank. Clank. Squeeeaaak.*
The sound wasn't Victoria trying to get in. It was the sound of a heavy padlock being snapped onto an external chain, followed by the distinct, unmistakable glug-glug-glug of liquid splashing against the outer wooden framing of the cellar door.
The pungent, chemical stench of gasoline began to bleed through the air vent, overwhelming the lavender perfume.
"She’s pouring fuel," George whispered in horror, staring up at the door. "She’s really doing it. She's burning the house down with us inside."
"We don't have time to climb down gracefully," I said, grabbing my grandfather’s journal and jamming it securely inside my leather jacket, zipping it tight against my chest. "Walter, grab the maintenance rope from the corner hook! Loop it around that steel support pillar!"
Walter moved with frantic precision. The retired bank auditor was tough, tougher than the Vance men had ever been. He tied off a thick nylon utility cord to the central I-beam and tossed the loose coils down into the black abyss of the drainage tunnel.
"Ladies first," Walter gasped.
"No," I said firmly, grabbing George’s arm and shoving him toward the rope. "George goes first. If he passes out, he blocks the hole. Move, George! Now!"
Just as George wrapped his arms around the rope and lowered his legs into the darkness, a blinding flash of yellow light illuminated the ventilation slit.
*BOOM.*
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A low concussion rocked the foundation. The outer cellar door erupted into an inferno. The steel vault walls began to radiate immediate, blistering heat.
***
