Red spoke warningly from the west entrance. "They're closing in, Ramey. I think they're going to rush the joint."
Ramey bent, raised, and cradling the mortally wounded Grinnell in his arms like a gangling child, carried him to the spot he had begged to be taken. Grinnell's lips twitched in a feeble smile. "This is ... swell. Now give me a ... rifle, Winters ... and get the hell ... out of here. All of you."
Ramey looked at Aiken—the doctor nodded. One by one they abandoned their posts, slipped into the narrow corridor beyond the prostrate figure. Sheila was sobbing softly. Syd O'Brien's face was a mask of pain and rage; even Lake was grim as he stopped to wring Grinnell's hand in last farewell.
Only over Grinnell's white lips hovered the ghost of a smile. Ramey and Dr. Aiken were the last to pass him. He searched their faces with eyes already uncertain. "Don't worry about ... me ... Doc," he whispered. "Just get even." A shudder trembled through him; he drew a faltering breath. "Wish I could go with you ... though. It's ... a strange journey ... you're going on. A strange journey...."
Dr. Aiken tapped his forehead significantly. "Delirium," he whispered.
Then Red's voice boomed from the background. "Ramey! Doc! Come on! They'll be busting through in a minute."
And he was right. Already figures were closing in on the abandoned barricade. Ramey gripped the old man's arm, propelled him by sheer force down the corridor. They had covered perhaps a hundred yards when they heard the lone, explosive crack of a rifle, Johnny's rifle. Then another shot ... then a volley. Then silence....
Their way led them from wide corridors to smaller ones, then down a slow ramp to a passageway narrower still and almost completely lightless. The only illumination came through squares of stone fretwork high on the walls.
Ramey judged they were below ground level now. Sheila Aiken, behind whom he stumbled, verified his guess.