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fredbassettTitle : Riddles in the Dark, Part 1 of 3
Author : fredbassett
Fandom : Primeval
Rating : 15
Characters : Lester/Lyle, Finn, other OCs (plus a guest appearance from another fandom!)
Disclaimer : Not mine (except the OCs), no money made, don’t sue.
Spoilers : None
Word Count: 8,900 in three equal parts
Summary : Lester and Lyle make a return trip into the Devil’s Crowll in search of some missing cavers.
A/N : 1) Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
louisedennis’s fandom stocking. Sorry it’s late, Louise! It got a bit long to post in comments and I ran out of time. I hope this is in keeping with our fandom stocking traditions… 2) Set in my Stephen/Ryan ‘verse.
“Snoop!”
The black and white whippet acknowledged the call by flicking snow from his ears and cocking his head enquiringly to one side.
Peter Mitchell rolled his eyes at the dog and rattled the old tobacco tin that contained the gravy bones that the nine-month-old pup liked so much. That did the trick. The dog bounded through the fresh snow and sat down, his thin tail swishing through the layer of white covering the frozen red clay that characterised so much of the Scowles. Around them, centuries old yew trees clustered darkly, their branches weighed down by ice and snow.
“Good dog.” Peter handed over the treat and clipped a lead onto the whippet’s bright red harness. The next section of the track was riddled with old mine workings and he had no intention of letting the curious pup get too close to any of them. With the dog now on an extendible lead, Peter decided to take a short cut back to the car. It was cold under the trees, and he fancied a hot chocolate back at home.
With Snoop at his side, he slithered down a steep slope to the bottom of one of the deep furrows in the ground left behind by the iron workings that had started in the forest around 3,000 years ago. Peter knew the labyrinthine hollows like the back of his hand, and had explored several of the caves and mines in the area with his parents, both cavers. The snow was lighter on the ground in that part of Puzzlewood, as the area had become known. The evergreen yews had held back a lot of the snow, although periodically, a bird landing on a branch would dislodge a minor avalanche on top of an unwary walker. Not that Peter had seen that many people in the past hour. The threat of more snow had kept most way.
He followed the deep scar in the earth around a corner and saw up ahead a dark hole in the snow at the base of a small limestone cliff overhung by an old, gnarled yew. A glint of light reflected off the bars of the stainless-steel gate that guarded the entrance to one of the caves. Peter shivered, and not because of the cold. The Devil’s Crowll was somewhere he had no inclination whatsoever to visit. The place had a bad reputation and was one of the few underground places in the forest that it wasn’t possible to gain access to through the proper channels.
He kept Snoop close to his leg as they passed the entrance. When the pup whined, Peter bent down to smooth the dog’s head, the only part he could reach that wasn’t swathed in the grey fleece coat that kept the cold at bay. The black and white skull and crossbones scarf he’d bought for Snoop’s Christmas present stuck out from the fleece and Peter noticed that the knot had nearly come undone. Pulling off his gloves, he quickly retied it and then promptly got mugged for another gravy bone.
Just as he was about to move on, Peter noticed the scuff marks in the snow around the cave entrance. It looked like boots had disturbed the covering of mud and leaves before the freeze set in and then the snowfall had overlain the prints. Snoop nosed at the warn air gusting out of the hole, his ears flat against his skull as if there was something in the earthy smell that he didn’t like.
The dog whined and pawed at the earth around the entrance, sticking his nose through the bars for another sniff.
“If you don’t like it, come away,” Peter said, tugging at the handle of the lead.
Snoop suddenly pounced with both front paws and burred his muzzle into the fine white snow. Expecting him to have grabbed yet another stick, Peter turned away. A moment later, something shiny and heavy dropped at his feet. Snoop stood there looking pleased with himself.
Peter realised he was looking down at a padlock. The hasp had sheared off, leaving just the lock itself behind. He turned quickly back to the gate and dropped to his knees in the snow. The opening was no more than a metre square, the steel gate cemented firmly into place on all sides. The gate was undamaged, but his suspicions were immediately confirmed when one tug on the bars caused it to swing outwards.
“Oh fucking hell…” He pulled his mobile phone out and stared at it more in hope than expectation. Mobile reception in the forest was at best patchy and at worst non-existent. It would be quicker to head straight for home rather than fanny around trying to get to somewhere that might let him get a call through.
He swung the gate shut, straightened up and, with an uneasy backward glance at the hole in the ground, started a slow but steady jog over the uneven ground, to the end of the scowle where he then scrambled over into another one and then back up a slippery slope, assisted by a fallen tree, to complete his short cut. After that he stuck to the main paths, where he could move at a faster run without risk of turning an ankle.
Snoop loped at his side, puzzled by the change of pace, but clearly enjoying the run.
Fifteen minutes later, Peter was back at the car park where he’d left his mum’s car. He’d passed his test six weeks after his 17th birthday, and had spent the last two months gaining confidence on the forest roads. She’d not been keen on him taking the car out on ungritted roads with more snow forecast, but he’d promised to turn around as soon as any more flakes started to fall. Judging by the leaden grey sky, that wouldn’t be long now.
Still no phone reception.
Forcing himself to keep to a sensible speed on the treacherous road, Peter drove the few miles home through the forest roads that led to the hotel his parents had run for the past six years
To his relief, the car park still contained a Hilux and two large black Range Rovers as well as his parents’ cars and those of the three other sets of guests who were spending the weekend at the hotel. Pausing only to pull off his boots and leave Snoop’s coat in the porch, Peter skidded into the lobby where his mother was putting the finishing touches to the enormous Christmas tree his dad had brought in that morning.
“Mum, someone’s taken the lock off the Devil’s Crowll!”
****
“What are the chances of it just being vandalism?” Lester said, trying hard to inject a note of optimism into his voice.
“My thumbs have been itching for the past two days,” Lyle said.
“There has been a rash of anomalies again,” Nick Cutter said.
“And apart from an extremely puzzled giant sloth that Finn wanted to keep as a pet, nothing has come through.”
“Maybe we just haven’t found the problem yet,” Lester said, watching as his optimism packed its bags and ran away to join a travelling circus.
“Sergeant White has just rung through the results of the PNC check on the car that’s still in the carpark at Puzzlewood,” Stephen Hart announced, walking into the bar, with a piece of paper in his hand. “It’s registered to a David Haller in Swindon. Age 23, works as a car mechanic. The sergeant wants to know if you want him to arrange for someone to go round to the house.”
“There was snow on the car,” Peter Mitchell said. “That means it’s been there at least a day and a half without moving, doesn’t it?”
Lyle nodded, still scratching at the ball of his thumb. “We need to check the car out. That’ll be quicker than sending someone over to knock on doors in Swindon.”
“Breaking into cars is illegal,” Lester pointed out mildly.
Lyle grinned. “Finn’ll make sure no one notices.” He stood up. “Come on, Pete, it’s your catch, so you may as well come to. Let’s take a look in the boot and see what they’ve left behind.”
****
Forty-five minutes later, Lyle arrived back, Peter Mitchell and Finn in tow. Lester looked up, knowing immediately from the look on his lover’s face that Lyle wasn’t bearing good news.
“There are three of them,” Lyle said. “Definitely cavers. Finn and I’ll get kitted up and get back over there and see what’s happened to the stupid fuckers.”
Lester stood up. “You need three for a trip down the Crowll.”
Lyle grinned. “I thought you were never going to offer, sweetie.”
“Fuck off, Jon,” Lester muttered, much to Peter Mitchell’s amusement. “I knew giving the rest of your lot the weekend off was a bad idea.”
His boyfriend’s hazel eyes met his, the habitual humour slipping away for a minute. “The two of us’ll be fine. We’ll need you on the surface if anything goes wrong.”
“Bollocks. Jim and Mary can run surface support and call it in if we’re not back on time.” To reinforce his point, Lester pulled his expensive cashmere sweater over his head and dropped it onto the arm of a chair. “Come on, Jon, we’re wasting time.”
****
His last trip down the Devil’s Crowll three years ago had been Lester’s first trip for several years. Then, he’d been wearing a wetsuit and carrying a gun. The difference now was that since starting a relationship with Lieutenant Jon Lyle, he’d spent a lot more time underground, was considerably fitter and was more used to carrying a gun. He was also wearing an oversuit and fleece undersuit, which made even more difference to his comfort.
“If we’re not back in 18 hours, start worrying,” Lyle said as he prepared to slip through the entrance.
“If you’re not back in 18 hour I’m calling it in as a rescue and coming down after you,” Jim Mitchell said, aiming his remarks at Lyle’s rapidly disappearing helmet.
“I’ve not been rescued from a cave yet and I don’t intend to start now.” Lester crouched down and shuffled feet first into the entrance, hoping he sounded more confident than he felt. The Crowll didn’t hold the best of memories, but he’d meant it when he said three was the minimum sensible number for a trip into the Forest of Dean’s toughest cave system. “Chuck the bag in after me,” he said to Finn. They were each carrying a tackle bag with the ropes and ladders needed for the descent, as well as a first aid kit and spare lights. And just in case the cave had more trouble in store, each of the bags contained a Sig Sauer pistol and several spare magazines. In addition, Lyle and Finn’s bags each contained a Mossberg 590 shotgun with a collapsible stock. Lyle had gone for stopping power over rapid fire on this occasion, and as there wasn’t much room for distance shooting in the cave, Finn had agreed.
Lester braced his feet against the sides of the muddy rift and reached up to take the tackle bag from Finn. With the straps slung over one arm, Lester was able to slither to the bottom of the short climb and start to make his way through the reddish-brown rock, following Lyle’s light down the narrow passage.
There was little in the way of walking passage in the entrance series of the Crowll. Mostly it was a series of short climbs and tight wiggles, descending steadily to the first obstacle, an awkward three-metre climb, with a tight take-off that left him dangling in mid-air, flailing for the one solid, elusive foothold until Lyle grabbed his foot and stuck the toe of his Wellington boot on the rock projection.
“Cheers, Jon.” Lester finally got his head over the lip and could see to take the next couple of moves down to the floor of a small chamber.
“OK, possum?”
“Better than last time.” Lester shouldered the tackle bag again, and set off after his lover.
The first pitch was the easy one. A six-metre free-hang belayed to a bolt on the left-hand wall. An electron ladder already hung from the bolt, providing proof – if any had been needed – that the Devil’s Crowll had been pirated. The dig down the cave had been finished three years ago when the cave system had finally been connected through a long and difficult sump to the further reaches of Clearwell Cave. As the system had experienced anomaly activity, the cave had remained closed to visits, even by genuine cavers. No one had been willing to take any chances.
Lyle pulled the ladder up and replaced it with one of their own, even though it appeared in good order. Once done, he climbed down quickly and headed off into the darkness.
Lester stepped out onto the ladder, keeping his weight on his feet as he quickly climbed down the thin metal ladder. “Ladder free!” he called to Finn and then continued down the cave. Good practice would have seen them use a lifeline on the pitch, but they were all experienced and took the view that speed was of the essence. They would line the more difficult of the climbs.
The second pitch was an awkward sod and Lester was glad of the security of the rope around his waist as he dropped into the narrow crevice, trying to stop the ladder from swinging into the tightest part of the rift. He vividly remembered the problems he’d had on that section on his first trip. He’d got solidly jammed in the narrow chimney, getting the gun holster on his thigh jammed under the rungs of the ladder. This time the gun was in the bag and it was easier to move without the constriction of a wet suit. Lester was able to keep moving, sliding between the smooth rock walls to emerge in one of the larger chambers where bands of vivid green ore streaked the rock.
Lester leaned against the wall and quickly undid the rope from around his waist, calling up the pitch, “Rope free!” He looped the rope back around his waist, ready to line Finn on a double rope from below. “Climb when ready!”
A moment later, “Climbing!”
Finn slithered down the pitch so quickly that Lester suspected he’d barely had his feet in the rungs of the ladder at all, simply bracing his body in the chimney to prevent too rapid a descent. The young soldier landed lightly on his feet on the muddy floor.
“OK, boss?”
Lester nodded and moved off down the passage.
They reached the longest of the pitches after two and a half hours of rapid caving. Their tackle bags were considerably lighter by now, as Lyle had insisted on replacing the all ladders left behind by the cavers who’d broken into the Crowll. The soldier had no intention of trusting his life to someone else’s kit, especially when the owners had been irresponsible enough to break into a locked cave.
This pitch was 25 metres deep and dropped down through two awkward corkscrew bends, one of which pinched alarmingly in the middle. Lyle had already put on a climbing harness and had attached an abseiling device to the rope. On the way back, they would climb the ladder, running the rope through a chest ascender that would prevent a fall.
“I’ll see you on the other side of the squeeze,” he said, referring to the feature in the cave known as the Devil’s Arsehole.
“Best of luck,” Lester muttered, pulling on his own harness and getting his kit ready so he could follow Lyle as soon as the rope was free.
The main pitch held considerably fewer terrors than it had done on Lester first trip through the cave and the descent was accomplished with little in the way of problems, apart from a potentially interesting moment when his right foot got inexplicably tangled up with the ladder and gave him some difficulty when he tried to break free. To deal with the problem he had to wedge across the drop and haul up both the ladder and his own foot until he was able to kick free of the metal rung. After that, the rest of the pitch was easy.
By the time Lester reached the flat muddy floor of the chamber below, Lyle’s boots had disappeared into the squeeze. The scraping noises issuing from the low tunnel made it clear that Lyle hadn’t managed to get clear of that section of passage yet. The harsh sound of panting and the occasional expletive told Lester that this part of the cave hadn’t miraculously got any easier.
Lester was glad of the opportunity to catch his breath. He was still nowhere near as fit as the soldiers, but he had regained the same easy confidence in his environment that had characterised the caving he’d done with his brother Ralph in their university days in Bristol when trips to the Mendips, South Wales and Yorkshire had been a regular part of his social life.
Eventually, Lyle’s voice echoed back into the chamber, “All yours, fruit bat!”
Finn grinned. “The old ones are always the best, boss.”
Lester rolled his eyes. “Don’t encourage him.”
The squeeze needed to be approached from flat on the floor, wriggling head first into a low tunnel that dipped steadily down for nearly a metre before gradually angling back up again. In Sod’s Law of caving, the tightest spot was at the bottom of the dip. The mud on the floor was hard and compacted, and it was difficult to get any purchase on the mud and rock. Lester took it very slowly, doing his best to keep his breathing level in the confined space.
Panicking would only make matters far, far worse.
Author : fredbassett
Fandom : Primeval
Rating : 15
Characters : Lester/Lyle, Finn, other OCs (plus a guest appearance from another fandom!)
Disclaimer : Not mine (except the OCs), no money made, don’t sue.
Spoilers : None
Word Count: 8,900 in three equal parts
Summary : Lester and Lyle make a return trip into the Devil’s Crowll in search of some missing cavers.
A/N : 1) Written for
louisedennis’s fandom stocking. Sorry it’s late, Louise! It got a bit long to post in comments and I ran out of time. I hope this is in keeping with our fandom stocking traditions… 2) Set in my Stephen/Ryan ‘verse. “Snoop!”
The black and white whippet acknowledged the call by flicking snow from his ears and cocking his head enquiringly to one side.
Peter Mitchell rolled his eyes at the dog and rattled the old tobacco tin that contained the gravy bones that the nine-month-old pup liked so much. That did the trick. The dog bounded through the fresh snow and sat down, his thin tail swishing through the layer of white covering the frozen red clay that characterised so much of the Scowles. Around them, centuries old yew trees clustered darkly, their branches weighed down by ice and snow.
“Good dog.” Peter handed over the treat and clipped a lead onto the whippet’s bright red harness. The next section of the track was riddled with old mine workings and he had no intention of letting the curious pup get too close to any of them. With the dog now on an extendible lead, Peter decided to take a short cut back to the car. It was cold under the trees, and he fancied a hot chocolate back at home.
With Snoop at his side, he slithered down a steep slope to the bottom of one of the deep furrows in the ground left behind by the iron workings that had started in the forest around 3,000 years ago. Peter knew the labyrinthine hollows like the back of his hand, and had explored several of the caves and mines in the area with his parents, both cavers. The snow was lighter on the ground in that part of Puzzlewood, as the area had become known. The evergreen yews had held back a lot of the snow, although periodically, a bird landing on a branch would dislodge a minor avalanche on top of an unwary walker. Not that Peter had seen that many people in the past hour. The threat of more snow had kept most way.
He followed the deep scar in the earth around a corner and saw up ahead a dark hole in the snow at the base of a small limestone cliff overhung by an old, gnarled yew. A glint of light reflected off the bars of the stainless-steel gate that guarded the entrance to one of the caves. Peter shivered, and not because of the cold. The Devil’s Crowll was somewhere he had no inclination whatsoever to visit. The place had a bad reputation and was one of the few underground places in the forest that it wasn’t possible to gain access to through the proper channels.
He kept Snoop close to his leg as they passed the entrance. When the pup whined, Peter bent down to smooth the dog’s head, the only part he could reach that wasn’t swathed in the grey fleece coat that kept the cold at bay. The black and white skull and crossbones scarf he’d bought for Snoop’s Christmas present stuck out from the fleece and Peter noticed that the knot had nearly come undone. Pulling off his gloves, he quickly retied it and then promptly got mugged for another gravy bone.
Just as he was about to move on, Peter noticed the scuff marks in the snow around the cave entrance. It looked like boots had disturbed the covering of mud and leaves before the freeze set in and then the snowfall had overlain the prints. Snoop nosed at the warn air gusting out of the hole, his ears flat against his skull as if there was something in the earthy smell that he didn’t like.
The dog whined and pawed at the earth around the entrance, sticking his nose through the bars for another sniff.
“If you don’t like it, come away,” Peter said, tugging at the handle of the lead.
Snoop suddenly pounced with both front paws and burred his muzzle into the fine white snow. Expecting him to have grabbed yet another stick, Peter turned away. A moment later, something shiny and heavy dropped at his feet. Snoop stood there looking pleased with himself.
Peter realised he was looking down at a padlock. The hasp had sheared off, leaving just the lock itself behind. He turned quickly back to the gate and dropped to his knees in the snow. The opening was no more than a metre square, the steel gate cemented firmly into place on all sides. The gate was undamaged, but his suspicions were immediately confirmed when one tug on the bars caused it to swing outwards.
“Oh fucking hell…” He pulled his mobile phone out and stared at it more in hope than expectation. Mobile reception in the forest was at best patchy and at worst non-existent. It would be quicker to head straight for home rather than fanny around trying to get to somewhere that might let him get a call through.
He swung the gate shut, straightened up and, with an uneasy backward glance at the hole in the ground, started a slow but steady jog over the uneven ground, to the end of the scowle where he then scrambled over into another one and then back up a slippery slope, assisted by a fallen tree, to complete his short cut. After that he stuck to the main paths, where he could move at a faster run without risk of turning an ankle.
Snoop loped at his side, puzzled by the change of pace, but clearly enjoying the run.
Fifteen minutes later, Peter was back at the car park where he’d left his mum’s car. He’d passed his test six weeks after his 17th birthday, and had spent the last two months gaining confidence on the forest roads. She’d not been keen on him taking the car out on ungritted roads with more snow forecast, but he’d promised to turn around as soon as any more flakes started to fall. Judging by the leaden grey sky, that wouldn’t be long now.
Still no phone reception.
Forcing himself to keep to a sensible speed on the treacherous road, Peter drove the few miles home through the forest roads that led to the hotel his parents had run for the past six years
To his relief, the car park still contained a Hilux and two large black Range Rovers as well as his parents’ cars and those of the three other sets of guests who were spending the weekend at the hotel. Pausing only to pull off his boots and leave Snoop’s coat in the porch, Peter skidded into the lobby where his mother was putting the finishing touches to the enormous Christmas tree his dad had brought in that morning.
“Mum, someone’s taken the lock off the Devil’s Crowll!”
****
“What are the chances of it just being vandalism?” Lester said, trying hard to inject a note of optimism into his voice.
“My thumbs have been itching for the past two days,” Lyle said.
“There has been a rash of anomalies again,” Nick Cutter said.
“And apart from an extremely puzzled giant sloth that Finn wanted to keep as a pet, nothing has come through.”
“Maybe we just haven’t found the problem yet,” Lester said, watching as his optimism packed its bags and ran away to join a travelling circus.
“Sergeant White has just rung through the results of the PNC check on the car that’s still in the carpark at Puzzlewood,” Stephen Hart announced, walking into the bar, with a piece of paper in his hand. “It’s registered to a David Haller in Swindon. Age 23, works as a car mechanic. The sergeant wants to know if you want him to arrange for someone to go round to the house.”
“There was snow on the car,” Peter Mitchell said. “That means it’s been there at least a day and a half without moving, doesn’t it?”
Lyle nodded, still scratching at the ball of his thumb. “We need to check the car out. That’ll be quicker than sending someone over to knock on doors in Swindon.”
“Breaking into cars is illegal,” Lester pointed out mildly.
Lyle grinned. “Finn’ll make sure no one notices.” He stood up. “Come on, Pete, it’s your catch, so you may as well come to. Let’s take a look in the boot and see what they’ve left behind.”
****
Forty-five minutes later, Lyle arrived back, Peter Mitchell and Finn in tow. Lester looked up, knowing immediately from the look on his lover’s face that Lyle wasn’t bearing good news.
“There are three of them,” Lyle said. “Definitely cavers. Finn and I’ll get kitted up and get back over there and see what’s happened to the stupid fuckers.”
Lester stood up. “You need three for a trip down the Crowll.”
Lyle grinned. “I thought you were never going to offer, sweetie.”
“Fuck off, Jon,” Lester muttered, much to Peter Mitchell’s amusement. “I knew giving the rest of your lot the weekend off was a bad idea.”
His boyfriend’s hazel eyes met his, the habitual humour slipping away for a minute. “The two of us’ll be fine. We’ll need you on the surface if anything goes wrong.”
“Bollocks. Jim and Mary can run surface support and call it in if we’re not back on time.” To reinforce his point, Lester pulled his expensive cashmere sweater over his head and dropped it onto the arm of a chair. “Come on, Jon, we’re wasting time.”
****
His last trip down the Devil’s Crowll three years ago had been Lester’s first trip for several years. Then, he’d been wearing a wetsuit and carrying a gun. The difference now was that since starting a relationship with Lieutenant Jon Lyle, he’d spent a lot more time underground, was considerably fitter and was more used to carrying a gun. He was also wearing an oversuit and fleece undersuit, which made even more difference to his comfort.
“If we’re not back in 18 hours, start worrying,” Lyle said as he prepared to slip through the entrance.
“If you’re not back in 18 hour I’m calling it in as a rescue and coming down after you,” Jim Mitchell said, aiming his remarks at Lyle’s rapidly disappearing helmet.
“I’ve not been rescued from a cave yet and I don’t intend to start now.” Lester crouched down and shuffled feet first into the entrance, hoping he sounded more confident than he felt. The Crowll didn’t hold the best of memories, but he’d meant it when he said three was the minimum sensible number for a trip into the Forest of Dean’s toughest cave system. “Chuck the bag in after me,” he said to Finn. They were each carrying a tackle bag with the ropes and ladders needed for the descent, as well as a first aid kit and spare lights. And just in case the cave had more trouble in store, each of the bags contained a Sig Sauer pistol and several spare magazines. In addition, Lyle and Finn’s bags each contained a Mossberg 590 shotgun with a collapsible stock. Lyle had gone for stopping power over rapid fire on this occasion, and as there wasn’t much room for distance shooting in the cave, Finn had agreed.
Lester braced his feet against the sides of the muddy rift and reached up to take the tackle bag from Finn. With the straps slung over one arm, Lester was able to slither to the bottom of the short climb and start to make his way through the reddish-brown rock, following Lyle’s light down the narrow passage.
There was little in the way of walking passage in the entrance series of the Crowll. Mostly it was a series of short climbs and tight wiggles, descending steadily to the first obstacle, an awkward three-metre climb, with a tight take-off that left him dangling in mid-air, flailing for the one solid, elusive foothold until Lyle grabbed his foot and stuck the toe of his Wellington boot on the rock projection.
“Cheers, Jon.” Lester finally got his head over the lip and could see to take the next couple of moves down to the floor of a small chamber.
“OK, possum?”
“Better than last time.” Lester shouldered the tackle bag again, and set off after his lover.
The first pitch was the easy one. A six-metre free-hang belayed to a bolt on the left-hand wall. An electron ladder already hung from the bolt, providing proof – if any had been needed – that the Devil’s Crowll had been pirated. The dig down the cave had been finished three years ago when the cave system had finally been connected through a long and difficult sump to the further reaches of Clearwell Cave. As the system had experienced anomaly activity, the cave had remained closed to visits, even by genuine cavers. No one had been willing to take any chances.
Lyle pulled the ladder up and replaced it with one of their own, even though it appeared in good order. Once done, he climbed down quickly and headed off into the darkness.
Lester stepped out onto the ladder, keeping his weight on his feet as he quickly climbed down the thin metal ladder. “Ladder free!” he called to Finn and then continued down the cave. Good practice would have seen them use a lifeline on the pitch, but they were all experienced and took the view that speed was of the essence. They would line the more difficult of the climbs.
The second pitch was an awkward sod and Lester was glad of the security of the rope around his waist as he dropped into the narrow crevice, trying to stop the ladder from swinging into the tightest part of the rift. He vividly remembered the problems he’d had on that section on his first trip. He’d got solidly jammed in the narrow chimney, getting the gun holster on his thigh jammed under the rungs of the ladder. This time the gun was in the bag and it was easier to move without the constriction of a wet suit. Lester was able to keep moving, sliding between the smooth rock walls to emerge in one of the larger chambers where bands of vivid green ore streaked the rock.
Lester leaned against the wall and quickly undid the rope from around his waist, calling up the pitch, “Rope free!” He looped the rope back around his waist, ready to line Finn on a double rope from below. “Climb when ready!”
A moment later, “Climbing!”
Finn slithered down the pitch so quickly that Lester suspected he’d barely had his feet in the rungs of the ladder at all, simply bracing his body in the chimney to prevent too rapid a descent. The young soldier landed lightly on his feet on the muddy floor.
“OK, boss?”
Lester nodded and moved off down the passage.
They reached the longest of the pitches after two and a half hours of rapid caving. Their tackle bags were considerably lighter by now, as Lyle had insisted on replacing the all ladders left behind by the cavers who’d broken into the Crowll. The soldier had no intention of trusting his life to someone else’s kit, especially when the owners had been irresponsible enough to break into a locked cave.
This pitch was 25 metres deep and dropped down through two awkward corkscrew bends, one of which pinched alarmingly in the middle. Lyle had already put on a climbing harness and had attached an abseiling device to the rope. On the way back, they would climb the ladder, running the rope through a chest ascender that would prevent a fall.
“I’ll see you on the other side of the squeeze,” he said, referring to the feature in the cave known as the Devil’s Arsehole.
“Best of luck,” Lester muttered, pulling on his own harness and getting his kit ready so he could follow Lyle as soon as the rope was free.
The main pitch held considerably fewer terrors than it had done on Lester first trip through the cave and the descent was accomplished with little in the way of problems, apart from a potentially interesting moment when his right foot got inexplicably tangled up with the ladder and gave him some difficulty when he tried to break free. To deal with the problem he had to wedge across the drop and haul up both the ladder and his own foot until he was able to kick free of the metal rung. After that, the rest of the pitch was easy.
By the time Lester reached the flat muddy floor of the chamber below, Lyle’s boots had disappeared into the squeeze. The scraping noises issuing from the low tunnel made it clear that Lyle hadn’t managed to get clear of that section of passage yet. The harsh sound of panting and the occasional expletive told Lester that this part of the cave hadn’t miraculously got any easier.
Lester was glad of the opportunity to catch his breath. He was still nowhere near as fit as the soldiers, but he had regained the same easy confidence in his environment that had characterised the caving he’d done with his brother Ralph in their university days in Bristol when trips to the Mendips, South Wales and Yorkshire had been a regular part of his social life.
Eventually, Lyle’s voice echoed back into the chamber, “All yours, fruit bat!”
Finn grinned. “The old ones are always the best, boss.”
Lester rolled his eyes. “Don’t encourage him.”
The squeeze needed to be approached from flat on the floor, wriggling head first into a low tunnel that dipped steadily down for nearly a metre before gradually angling back up again. In Sod’s Law of caving, the tightest spot was at the bottom of the dip. The mud on the floor was hard and compacted, and it was difficult to get any purchase on the mud and rock. Lester took it very slowly, doing his best to keep his breathing level in the confined space.
Panicking would only make matters far, far worse.
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Date: 2018-01-21 09:19 pm (UTC)It was so great to see the boys back there, but there is trouble ahead, isn't it? And I'm dying to read aabout it *g*
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Date: 2018-01-22 12:45 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2018-01-21 09:33 pm (UTC)Idiots breaking in will be in for a surprise - even if it is only from Lester and the lads.
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Date: 2018-01-22 12:45 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2018-01-21 09:44 pm (UTC)And the Devil's Crowll is one of the best sites for a fic.
Yay!
The little bits of humour interspersed with the action really make it lovely!
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Date: 2018-01-22 12:46 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2018-01-21 10:40 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2018-01-22 12:46 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2018-01-21 10:43 pm (UTC)Oh yay! Loving this.
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Date: 2018-01-22 12:46 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2018-01-22 09:03 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2018-01-22 09:15 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2018-01-23 10:28 am (UTC)But I know now I’d have vertigo and claustrophobia. LOL
Fingers crossed Fruit bat and the others get out safely.
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Date: 2018-01-23 10:32 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2018-01-23 10:40 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2018-01-23 09:19 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2018-01-23 09:40 pm (UTC)