Rodney froze in his spot, unable to breathe, refusing to call out to Sheppard no matter how desperately he wanted to. Sweat beaded on his forehead and dripped into his eyes, but there was no way in hell he was raising a hand to wipe it away. He didn't even want to inhale. He settled for rapid blinking, every other part of his body as still as the stone that surrounded him. It didn't help, and he ventured to slowly, ever so slowly, raise a hand to his brow.

How the creature managed to hear him, he had no clue. Maybe it had a built in motion detector, some sort of alien radar, or very large invisible antennae. The small area which confined him filled with hot, putrid breath, and a snarl so vicious that Rodney couldn't help but shriek in response. The fact that the mouth seemed level with his head wasn't the best of news.

There was a deep growl, seeming to come from the depths of hell itself, and the creature lunged.

Rodney yelled out and pressed himself as far back as he was able, barely out of reach of the gaping jaws. He couldn't see, but he could sense the bulk of the beast, hear the gnashing of the teeth, taste the breath. "Shoo! Go on! Get outta here . . ." The creature howled at him as one well-aimed punch landed on the long muzzle. Angered, it pushed further in, snapping, spittle flying.

"Shit!" Rodney shrieked, pinned in the corner, batting at the beast as best he could while somehow managing to avoid the snarling jowls. "Colonel!"

"Rodney!" He could just hear the voice, but had no clue where it was coming from.

"Sheppard!" Teeth grabbed his sleeve, pulling at the fabric before he yanked it away. The material tore and teeth once again latched onto his arm. "Help me!" Oh god. . .

"Hang on!"

"Help me!"

He didn't know what happened or how, but the creature let go with a sickening tear, and turned.

His head was pounding. His heart would explode. Then everything was dimmed by adrenaline, as he watched an amber light bouncing off into the distance. He stumbled out of his hideaway, calling for Sheppard, hearing the creature bellow after his friend. Blood trickled down his arm, but couldn't see to bind the wound. "Sheppard!" He was alone, in the dark, his friend was being hunted, and he couldn't even see to go after him.

He felt along the wall and headed in the direction where he last saw the fading light.

-------------------------------------------

Sheppard heard the cry behind him, knew Rodney was still alive, and counted his blessings. Then he ran like hell.

It took only one good swing to get the wolf's attention, and it was more than happy to release his prey for closer fare, the smell of fresh blood notwithstanding. Sheppard could see the wet muzzle in the torch light and hear scrabbling from Rodney's position. The fool man would come out, which dimmed the chances of a successful rescue. So he swatted at the wolf once again, and ran for his life. "Come on, you ass! Come get me!" He heard a persistent howl behind him, and stumbled. "That's Mr. Gingerbread Man to you, asshole," he muttered, then caught himself, remembering how the story ended, though if it meant finding a river to cross, he'd risk it.

The wolf was huge. And fast. And huge. Too damn huge . . . and it took a well timed dive to avoid those crushing jaws, only to feel paws on his back the size of dinner plates, to feel a grip on his neck, and to pray.

And the tremor hit.

The wolf actually stopped, perched on Sheppard's back. It growled once more, then gave a slight whimper. He heard his name called around chopped curses, and knew Rodney was now in the path of the beast. Dammit. . ."Rodney! Get out of here!"

"Sheppard! You okay?" The discarded torch rose, still lit, and the shock on Rodney's face said it all. He saw Rodney grit his teeth and approach, swinging the torch in front of him and yelling.

And another tremor hit.

This time the wolf tucked tail and slumped off, galloping down the tunnel.

"Shit," Rodney muttered. "Shitshitshit!" He bent over Sheppard, who was shakily pushing himself to his feet. "You okay?"

"When I say get out, I mean get out!" Sheppard patted himself over, but other than a few gouges, he seemed fine. Rodney was a different story, however, and Sheppard sudied his arm. "We need to find our packs, get the first aid kit."

"Back there." The cave shook once again, and wide eyes met wide eyes. "You know, I'm not liking this all that much."

"Me neither. Let's get the packs."

Dressing the wound was easy enough. Seeing it was the hard part.

And the next tremor knocking them off of their feet didn't help.

A rumble sounded, like heavy rocks in a large tumbler. Rodney didn't have time to think. He was lifted to his feet, his pack and the extra torch shoved into his hand, and was pushed to run. The hand on his back urged him on, and he slid, feeling the vibrations of a huge rumble behind him. He continued to run, past the jutting rocks, going downwards, spilling over onto sharp points that rivaled the teeth of the cave wolves. The fear of being run through with stone battled with the fear of being buried alive, and the tunnel took a dip to the side, and he fell . . .

----------------------------------------------

He'd never known such darkness.

Now he knew why Rodney was so claustrophobic. It wasn't fun.

In fact, he had been surprised that the man hadn't complained any more than he had. It was possibly that a sense of fatality had covered him; knowing he couldn't go back, and yet at the same time wanting desperately to prove he was right about the geyser. Sheppard had survival skills, could decipher a map, and yet the ones that Rodney carried with him were meaningless, like a child's scribble. He remembered how Rodney's notes covered them, his scrawl not helping matters much. In truth, Rodney's handwriting was rather elegant when he took the time to breathe between words. His hurried note-taking was impossible.

He knew the man used to play the piano. It had slipped out in conversation once. And he believed it after watching those expressive hands and long fingers. He claimed his piano teacher said he had no soul, that he was all technique. Sheppard found that hard to believe. The man had the heart and soul of a warrior, well, he was getting there. Either way, just watching the passion with which he talked and did his job, it was hard to believe it didn't translate into notes on a keyboard. Rodney should have found another teacher.

It was these meager thoughts that kept him from going mad as he slowly dug at the wall in front of him.

Much easier to analyze others than oneself. Hell, he was already familiar with his own memories and feelings, of his travels and constant moving, his southern roots and northern upbringing. His family, cousins, schooling, more schooling, frat parties, football . . . if he had stuck to it, he could've been a pro player. Flying was a second love to him. Nothing like being on a field with your buddies, and the bad guys running at you as you run backwards and catch the pigskin from a perfect arch, and then you are the target of everyone on that field, your team mates, the opposing team, the crowds in the stands, the coaches, bands, and with luck, the cheerleaders. And you hurl yourself through obstacles that fling themselves in your path, seeing your buddies clear the way for you as you run for the field goal, your objective so clear before you, with nearly everyone cheering you on.

Great game.

And why didn't he do it? Who knew. Chalk it up to one of those "could have been but wouldn't be" situations. When the Air Force came calling his junior year, he studied the pamphlet that promised team work and a good future, saw his coach on the other side of the room, and signed on the dotted line.

And he didn't regret a moment of it.

He wondered if Rodney regretted his decision. Both men were doing what they enjoyed, he was working in a team environment overcoming obstacles, and Rodney was, in his own way, still being an artist.

Funny how things worked out.

He had to stop moving. The air was thick, and while he was used to the heat, more used to the heat, rather, it was rapidly approaching stifling. His little hole was barely large enough to stand in, he had to crouch slightly. It was a fissure that was only slightly larger than the one he had pushed Rodney into, and the entrance was packed in with rocks of all sizes. He could stand, almost, and turn in a solitary circle. Squatting pressed his knees right against the wall before him. And the problem with shifting the rocks was two-fold, either he really had no place to put the discarded rocks, or he risked the whole wall caving in on top of him. Or he could just sit there and suffocate.

Pick and choose, pick and choose.

One by one the rocks moved. And he tried not to think about how he now had no light, no pack (it was somewhere underneath the wall), no air, and practically no chance.

Obstacles, huh. Obstacles sucked.