CHAPTER 19As Spotty rolled under the choking cloud of bats, a soft stinking mass crashed into his face. Frantic squeals and flutters surrounded his head. Beady eyes and a sharp-toothed little rat’s mouth clicked; then everything blurred.
Slivers of pain hit his eyes. Grabbing at them desperately, he heard the faint tinkling of his glasses breaking on the rock near his face. The squealing and flapping ceased and left him lying on his back, his eyes squinting painfully up into the meaningless glare of his own headlamp.
His hand jumped nervously as he brushed it over his wet face. “My glasses,” he whispered. He had lost them probably a thousand times but never in a situation like this. He used to have very bad dreams that involved the loss of his glasses. This was more like those dreams—lik
