The Toyota surged ahead, fishtailing on the gravel and jerking Sam from side to side. He held on, pulled himself closer to the cargo hatch. Thule straightened the Toyota out and sped toward the ravine entrance, now fifty yards away. Sam stuck the lantern’s handle between his teeth and used his left hand to turn the wick knob. The flame guttered, then brightened. He grasped the lantern in his left hand again.

“One chance,” Sam muttered to himself.

He took a breath, let the lantern dangle at arm’s length for a moment, then heaved it like a grenade. The lantern twirled upward over the Toyota’s roof and crashed onto the hood, shattering. Flaming kerosene splashed across the windshield.

The effect was immediate and dramatic. Startled by the wave of fire across his windshield, Thule panicked, jerking the wheel first left, then right, the double slewing motion sending the Toyota up on two wheels. Sam lost his grip. He felt himself flying. Saw the ground rushing toward him. He curled himself into a ball at the last instant, smashed into the ground on his hip, and let himself roll. Dully in the back of his mind he heard a crash; glass shattering and the crunch of metal. He rolled over, blinked his vision clear.

The Toyota had crashed with its hood wedged into the narrow rock arch.

Sam heard footsteps, then Remi’s voice as she knelt beside him: “Sam . . . Sam! Are you hurt?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

“You’re bleeding.”

Sam touched his fingers to his forehead and looked at the blood. “Scalp wound,” he muttered. He grabbed a handful of dirt from the ground and patted it on the wound.

Remi said, “Sam, don’t-”

“See? All better.”

“Anything broken?”

“Not that I can tell. Help me up.”

She ducked under his shoulder, and they stood up together.

Sam asked, “Where’s the-”

In answer to his question, water washed across their feet. Within seconds, it rose to their ankles.

“Speak of the devil,” Sam said. In unison, they turned around. Water was rushing through the northern end of the ravine.

The water was roiling around their calves.

“That’s cold,” Remi said.

“Cold doesn’t even begin to describe it,” Sam replied. “Our gear?”

“Everything worthwhile is in my pack,” Remi replied, turning her shoulder so he could see it. “Is he dead?”

“Either that or unconscious. If not, I think he’d be shooting at us by now. We need to get that thing started. It’s our only chance to outrun the flood.”

They headed toward the Toyota, Remi in the lead and Sam limping behind her. She slowed as she reached the vehicle’s rear bumper, then crept around to the driver’s door and peeked inside.

She called, “He’s out.”

Sam shuffled up, and together they opened the door and dragged Thule out. He plunged into the water.

To Remi’s unspoken question Sam said, “We can’t worry about him. In a minute or so this is all going to be underwater.”

Remi climbed into the Toyota and across to the passenger’s seat. Sam followed and slammed the door shut behind him. He turned the key. The starter whined and clicked, but the engine refused to start.

“Come on . . .” Sam muttered.

He turned the key again. The engine caught, sputtered, died.

“One more time,” Remi said, gave him a smile and held up crossed fingers.

Sam closed his eyes, took a breath, and turned the key again.

The starter clicked over, the engine coughed once, then again, then roared to life.

Sam was about to shift into gear when they felt the Toyota lurch forward. Remi turned in her seat and saw water lapping at the lower edge of the door.

“Sam . . .” Remi warned.

Eyes on the rearview mirror, Sam replied, “I see it.”

He shifted into reverse and pressed the accelerator. The Toyota’s four-wheel drive bit down. The vehicle began inching backward, the quarter panels shrieking as they were dragged along the rock walls.

They were shoved forward again.

“I’m losing traction,” Sam said, worried that the rising water would drown the engine.

He pressed the accelerator again, and they felt the tires grab hold, only to give way again.

Sam pounded the steering wheel. “Damn!”

“We’re afloat,” Remi said.

Even as the words left her mouth, the Toyota’s hood was being shoved deeper into the slot. Nose-heavy from the engine, the vehicle began tipping downward as the tide shoved the rear upward.

Sam and Remi were silent for a moment, listening to the water rush around the car and bracing themselves against the dashboard as the Toyota continued pitching downward.

“How long would we last in the water?” Remi asked.

“Providing we’re not instantly crushed to pulp? Five minutes until the cold gets us; past that, we lose motor control and go under.”

Water began gushing through the door seams.

Remi said, “Let’s not do that, then.”

“Right.” Sam closed his eyes, thinking. Then: “The winch. We’ve got them on each bumper.”

He searched the dashboard for the controls. He found a toggle switch labeled Rear and flipped it from Off to Neutral. He said to Remi, “When I give the word, flip that to Engage.”

“You think it’s powerful enough to drag us?”

“No,” Sam replied. “I need a headlamp.”

Remi rummaged around the backpack and came out with the headlamp. Sam settled it on his head, gave her a quick peck on the cheek, then climbed over the seat, using the headrest as a handhold. He repeated this maneuver until he was wedged into the Toyota’s cargo area. He unlatched the glass hatch, shoved it open, then, lying with his back pressed against the seat, mule-kicked the hatch until the glass tore free from its hinges and plunged into the water. He stood up.

Below, the water churned over the Toyota’s undercarriage. Icy mist billowed around him.

Remi called, “The engine’s dead.”

Sam hinged forward at the waist, reached down, and grabbed the winch hook with both hands. Hand over hand, he began taking up the slack.

The winch froze.

“Climb up to me!”

Remi scrabbled over the front seat, reached back, retrieved the backpack, and handed it to Sam, then used his extended arm to climb into the cargo area.

“No!” she cried.

“What?”

Sam looked down. The beam of his headlamp illuminated a ghostly white face pressed against plastic sheeting.

“Sorry,” Sam said. “I forgot to tell you. Meet the real Mr. Thule.”

“Poor man.”

The Toyota shuddered, slid sideways a few feet, then stopped, wedged tightly in the rock archway and standing perfectly upright.

Remi tore her eyes off the dead man’s face and said, “I assume we’re climbing again.”

“With any luck.”

Sam peeked over the tailgate. The water had enveloped the rear tires.

“How long?” she asked.

“Two minutes. Help me.”

He turned his body sideways, and Remi helped him don the backpack. Next, he flipped his right leg over the tailgate, then his left, then slowly stood up, arms extended for balance. Once steady, he shone his headlamp over the rock face beside the Toyota.

It took him three passes before he found what he needed: a two-inch-wide vertical fissure fifteen feet above them and three feet to the right. Above that, a series of handholds that led to the top of the cliff.

“Okay, hand it up,” Sam said to Remi.

She extended the winch hook toward him. He leaned down, grabbed it. His foot slipped, and he crashed onto one knee. He regained his balance and stood erect again, this time with his left arm braced on the Toyota’s roof rack.

“Go get ’em, cowboy,” Remi said with a brave smile.

Winch hook dangling from his right hand, Sam swung the cable like a propeller until he’d gained enough momentum, then let it fly. The hook clinked against the rock face, slid sideways over the fissure, and plunged into the water.

Sam retrieved the hook and tried again. Another miss.