I did a load of laundry and hung it out, hardboiled eggs, put the bed back together, and scrubbed the bathtub.
I wrote 1026 words on Dirty Toes, and got through the Under the Hill scene.
Total 12154 for July (sort of)
I vaguely remembered leaving by way of the same rock crack we entered by. The tunnel stretched forever, with tons of rock all around me. When I got out, I was sweating and hyperventilating. My hands shook when I put my kit and weaponry back in place. Ramirez looked a little peaked too. Corin, the old wolf was decidedly done in. It was going to be a miracle if he could walk back to the car.
I still have no earthly idea how we got back up that slope to my car.
My poor blue car was almost white with bird crap—stupid crows—and the grass looked higher than it should. Lots of leaves, more than a few hours' worth, covered the hood and rain-spattered dust marked the windshield. It should have been early afternoon, at the latest, but the sun was just above the horizon and the air still had that morning smell to it.
I wondered how long we had really been down there. It could be November already, and the Wild Hunt done and over in the time it took us to walk out of the tunnel. I imagined it would amuse Queen Chrysanthemum to no end if we did all this for nothing, only to emerge on November second.
Ramirez stared a little. I unlocked the doors, ready to put this place in the rearview mirror as fast as I could. I checked for seedlings or snow patches, but my tires weren't even flat. I was guessing less than two weeks, given the weather. At least I wasn't staring up at a flying car streaking its way through a geodesic sky of the greater Mem-Jax-Nash metroplex.
We climbed in. I checked my cellphone. Ramirez's had been Underhill with us and now cheerfully proclaimed it was 27:63 on July 35, 1462. My own had three percent battery left, and said it was eight in the morning on October thirtieth. I showed it to the others and started the car.
We were out of time.
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