TWENTY-FOUR Lofthouse lay on the ground, panting. She was in absolute darkness. She’d bloody well left her pack on the other side of the chamber when she’d run at those things. She had her torch, and what was in her shoulder bag . . . Yes, it was still here . . . and she’d kept hold of the gun, thank Christ. She felt like her ribs were bruised down her right-hand side, where she’d landed. She’d taken some of the impact on her knees, which also felt fucked. She’d hit a few lumps of rock on the way down too. Her fingers and palms were ripped from trying to grab for dear life. She put out a hand and found a rock wall, the cool of the wet rock against the heat of her skin. She found purchase and used her better leg to push herself upright. She experimentally put some of her weight on her other leg, and just managed to stifle a cry of pain. She lay against the wall, breathing deeply. She was going to die here. She was going to die far beneath the earth.
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