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George jolted awake, swallowing a mouthful of bloody saliva with a cough as he peeled his eyes open to blearily take stock of his surroundings. A thick cloud of dust hung all around him, settling on his face and in his hair. He was lying sprawled out on his stomach, with the side of his face pressed up against some rubble and the rest of him pinned under a massive pile of debris; crumbled red brick, broken white pillars and splintered wooden beams. The longer he had his eyes open, the more the weight seemed to press him down into the ground.
Taking a breath, he gently shifted, trying to see how much room he had. His left leg screamed in pain, and his vision blurred at the edges, colourful dots conquering his field of view. Something was digging into his thigh, something sharp and jagged that didn’t want his leg moving anywhere.
When the pain fizzled down to something just manageable, he continued with his once-over. He was pinned in a pretty tight pocket, but not tight enough that it was impossible to breathe. Uncomfortably difficult, yes, but definitely possible. His ears were ringing. Something sharp was stabbing in his thigh. He couldn’t feel his fingers on his right hand, but he couldn’t see enough of them to figure out what the problem was. He could feel something wet and sticky starting to pool underneath his legs and stomach.
Well, thought George numbly. This is fun.
The dust from the air got in his throat. George choked dryly and tried to remember what happened. His memories were out of focus like overexposed photographs and it made it hard to tell what they were memories of in the first place.
He knew he remembered being with Detective Murdoch and Inspector Brackenreid. They’d been looking for something, but George couldn’t recall what it was or why they were looking for it. What had they been doing here? More to the point, where was here?
If the detective and the inspector were here, were they looking for him? Were they even here, or was he misremembering things in his hazy mind? If they were here, who’s to say they weren’t lying somewhere around George, pinned under the wreck just like he was?
Who's to say their corpses weren't lying somewhere pinned under the wreck?
George shuddered. Not helping, he told himself. He blinked hard, trying to clear his head. He was trapped in the dark, stuck under a pile of rubble somewhere, with something stabbing his thigh, being actively and slowly crushed to death from the sheet weight of debris pressing into his back. He didn’t dare try to move again; now that he knew he was hurt, he didn’t want to risk making it any worse.
At least the weight might help staunch the blood, he thought grimly. That might buy me a bit more time.
Noise. His only hope was to try making some kind of sound, and pray that someone heard him and came looking for him. Swallowing, he took a wheezy breath and called as loud as he could, “Hello?” It was barely above a whisper, and he worried he’d yell his throat raw before too long.
He suddenly remembered his whistle, tucked into the left breast pocket of his tunic. He knew from experience that it made a bright, clear and extremely loud sound. Perfect, he thought. He just had to get it out of his pocket.
His left hand was pinned tight beside his body, too tight for him to even think about moving. His right arm had some wiggle room, but he still couldn’t feel his fingers. He couldn’t tell where his hand even was in relation to the rest of his body.
Gritting his teeth, George forced his arm into motion and— oh god, very nearly blacked out again. A stab of sharp pain shot up his arm. He squeezed his eyes shut, breathing hard. Steady on, George, he told himself. Just do it. Pushing through the pain, he slid his arm up towards his chest. His arm moved at a snail’s pace; any faster and the pain would have made him faint. Slowly, inch by inch, his numb fingers slipped into where he assumed the pocket of his tunic was. It was a tricky business, trying to grab onto a thin, metal pipe without being able to feel it in his clumsy fingers.
He dipped his chin down to grab it between his teeth. It was cold on his lips. Maneuvering the whistle in his mouth, he took a deep breath through his nose, closed his eyes and blew.
That was more like it! The high, piercing sound snapped through the eerie silence. He blew again, and again, keeping at it for a short few minutes, until spots started dancing in his eyes and he began to feel light-headed.
Don’t faint, he told himself, blinking hard and taking slow, controlled breaths. If you pass out, you might not wake up. Slowly, his head felt less and less like a hot air balloon.
The warm, wet puddle he was lying in was definitely getting bigger. His leg pulsed with pain. Each heartbeat made it throb.
Hot tears of frustration burned behind his eyes. He was going to die here, trapped under a small mountain of wood and bricks. Maybe someone would find his body someday. He wouldn’t know. He wouldn’t be alive to see it happen. The next time any person would lay eyes on him, he’d be a rotting corpse, crushed under a pile of debris, with wide, dead eyes staring at the dented furnace pipes and—
Wait. George craned his neck painfully to look at the thick, iron pipe poking out from the pile of rubble, the kind that attached to an old wood stove and sent heat to the rest of the building. It'll connect to pipes all over the building, he thought. If I hit it with something, the sound should echo through all of the pipes.
He swallowed. It was definitely the loudest option he had, but one of the more painful ones. The pipe was within arm’s reach, but considering how much it had hurt to just get his whistle from his pocket, he knew that stretching his arm out to repeatedly whack a pipe was going to be excruciating.
Gritting his teeth, he took a breath. You can do this, he told himself, shifting his arm into motion. A bolt of pain rippled up his arm, and he bit back a whimper. “Come on, George,” he whispered breathlessly.
Slowly, painfully, he slid his arm towards the pipe, and, using his tin whistle that he still had clutched in his numb fingers, he tapped out a message in Morse code on the pipe: S-O-S. His telegraphy skills were abysmal at best, but he at least knew that much.
Every tap on the pipe sent shocks of sharp, stabbing pain running through his arm. His vision blurred, but he kept at it. S-O-S… S-O-S… three short taps, three long ones, then three more short taps. S-O-S…
He sat there for what felt like centuries, tapping on the pipe, pausing briefly in between each set of letters to listen for any reply.
George let out a small sigh. So much for that. He shivered. He didn’t know if it was from being cold or if he’d just lost that much blood. He wasn’t sure if it mattered anymore. He allowed his eyes to slide shut, still tapping weakly on the pipe.
Well, George, he thought tiredly. No one can say you didn’t try.
He didn’t hear it at first, or well, if he heard it, it didn’t register until much, much later. It was a voice, an oddly familiar voice, saying something that he didn’t quite understand.
“Oi! Shut it! I think I hear it again!”
“It’s coming from down there!”
“Bloody hell… Crabtree! Crabtree, can you hear me?”
George sighed. Whoever this Crabtree person is should hurry up and answer them, he thought. No one can hear my tapping with all that yelling.
“George! George! Where are you?”
George blinked. Wait, were they talking to him? Were they here to help him? He clenched his jaw, tapping the pipe as loud and as fast as his arm would allow.
“Over here!” The debris around him shifted. He could hear voices shouting and a series of scuffles.
And then a hand was brushing against his shoulder. “I’ve got him!” called a voice.
“George!” cried the other voice. “Are you all right, George?”
Swallowing hard, George peeled open his eyes. The world was a blurry mess, everything hurt, but even in his haze, he knew those voices. “... sirs?” he whispered.
“Hang on, Bugalugs,” said Inspector Brackenreid’s voice. “We’re going to get you out.”
The rubble moved around again. There was a lot of heaving and huffing sounds for a little while and then finally, the weight came off of his back and he could take a full breath in for the first time in what felt like forever. He shivered from the stale rush of air that rested on him.
“Bloody hell,” breathed the inspector.
“Sir—” choked Detective Murdoch. “His leg.”
“I see it.” The inspector’s voice was grim. “We’re going to need some help getting him out of here. I’ll fetch the other constables. Murdoch, stay with him and try to keep him awake.”
“Right.” The detective knelt down beside the constable, resting a hand on George’s back. “George?” he said softly and a little awkwardly.
George made a soft noise of acknowledgement.
“How are you feeling?”
George groaned weakly.
Murdoch nodded. “I know,” he said. “Your leg’s been impaled by a wooden beam, you’ve got a pretty broken-looking arm and who knows what sort of crush injuries you got from being trapped under here for so long.” He paused and cleared his throat. “I’m sorry,” he said bashfully. “I’m… I’m not very comforting, am I?”
George tried his best to quirk a wry smile, but the best he could manage was a grimace.
“That was very clever of you,” said Murdoch after a moment’s pause. “Using Morse code on the stove pipe?”
Wetting his lips with his metallic-tasting tongue, George swallowed. “... wha… h…ppnd?” he murmured.
“Hmm? What happened?”
George nodded.
“There was an explosive device under the stage,” said Murdoch. “When we went to search the theatre, it went off while you were down there. The whole building collapsed.”
Well, that explained it. Now that he thought about it, he could smell that smoky, sulfur smell that he remembered well from the last explosion he’d been in. He cleared his throat. “... you… hurt?”
Murdoch shook his head. “I’m fine,” he said. “So is the inspector. We were far enough away that we could get out in time.”
“Mmm—” nodded George. He was so tired. Exhausted.
“George? Stay with me, all right?”
George could hear Murdoch’s voice, but he was far too out of it to understand what he was saying. He wasn’t sure how much time went by after that, but eventually, he could hear several muffled voices talking all around him. He was vaguely aware that he was being moved, that there was a numb stab of pain in his leg and that the voices began talking much more frantically to each other, but he didn’t have the energy to try to figure out what was going on. He was too tired.
He could feel several arms lifting him up, and putting him down again, wrapping him up in something warm and soft. He closed his eyes and fell asleep, comforted by the knowledge that this time, it wasn’t dust, rubble and debris pressing into him from all sides, but warmth, softness and peacefulness. He was safe now. He’d been found.