Chapter 12 - Ash on Blackwood
The explosion tore through the earth like a subterranean earthquake.
Clara was thrown violently against the damp concrete walls of the drainage tunnel, her ears ringing with a deafening, hollow roar. Shockwaves rolled through the narrow corridor, accompanied by a blast of scorching air and thick plumes of gray concrete dust.
"Keep moving!" Claire yelled ahead, shielding Lily with her coat as chunks of loose rock clattered down from the tunnel ceiling. "Don't look back, Clara! Crawl!"
Clara forced herself to her hands and knees, tears carving through the dirt on her face. Her mind screamed to turn around, to tear at the reinforced iron door, to drag Mark through the flames. But the muffled sound of secondary explosions detonating above confirmed the horrifying reality: the cabin, the servers, and the man she had loved were being consumed by thousands of degrees of thermite fire.
They crawled through four hundred yards of pitch-black corrugated steel pipe until the air turned cold and wet again.
Claire kicked open the rusted iron outflow grate at the base of the ravine. They tumbled out into the muddy embankment of an overgrown logging road, hidden deep beneath the canopy of dripping Douglas firs. Half a mile up the mountain, a colossal pillar of orange flame and black smoke tore into the stormy night sky. Blackwood Ridge was an inferno.
Waiting in the shadows of the tree line was an old, rusted Ford pickup truck, completely unmarked.
"Get in the passenger seat," Claire commanded, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she placed Lily gently in Clara’s arms. "I stashed clothes, cash, and clean identification papers under the floorboards."
Clara climbed into the cab, holding Lily tightly against her chest. The little girl was crying softly now, shivering from the cold, clinging to Clara’s soaked green hoodie.
"Mommy... where’s Daddy?" Lily sobbed into Clara's neck. "Why was there thunder inside the house?"
"Daddy... Daddy made sure we were safe, baby," Clara whispered, her voice breaking into an uncontrollable sob. "He had to stay behind to fix the house."
Claire jumped into the driver's seat, hot-wiring the truck with two bare wires beneath the steering column. The ancient engine roared to life with a deep, throaty rattle.
As Claire threw the truck into reverse, the high-beam headlights suddenly illuminated a tall, dark silhouette standing in the middle of the muddy road fifty yards ahead.
Clara’s blood turned to ice.
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The figure was soaked in river water, mud, and blood. His tactical vest was torn to shreds, his left arm dangling unnaturally at his side. In his right hand, he dragged a combat shotgun through the mud.
Trent Vance had survived the fall into the gorge.
