Rock And Stone
Far in the Siberian mountains was a pit that stretched for kilometres; it went straight down, almost except for the subtle ramp to go up and down. They were arriving by train, and they all had numbers on their grey, tweed, warm jackets that bordered on being a sweater. He was 73. The train went along the tracks; it bumped along now and then, the train ride wasn't smooth, and it was cold. Their bodies slam against each other with each turn. The inside of the train wasn’t a good sight, the windows were incredibly thick like bulletproof glass, the walls covered in cloth which separated the miners from the insulation. The ride was silent of voices, with some of them mumbling to themselves or at each other, everyone cramped inside the train like Jews in 1940s Germany. The train slowed as the people near the windows looked out, the fog of the distance blocking their view. They could see some people outside walking around, most staring at the train before the doors opened. When they did, the cold, brisk air touched their faces. All of them flooded out; the other miners who had been there before them watched as they came out. 73 looked around. In front of him was a building, four doors stretched across. Miners coming in and out of them, on the ground was a mix of blood and coal.
“Hey, you're 73. Grab a pickaxe and get down there.”
One of them ordered.
“What?”
“We have a quota, we are almost there, but you need to get a pickaxe and help.”
73 nodded and headed into one of the doors. Inside was a furnace; the chimney was thick and orange with rust. Coal was used as fuel, four bunk beds on the inside of the corners. On the wall was a corkboard:
*************
Today’s quota
5,000 rubles
*************
Underneath the quark board and on the wooden table was a big stack of paper. One of the miners was writing.
“What is that for?”
73 asked.
“It’s an order sheet; the guys are low on fuel down there, so we need to go order fuel for the heaters.”
He nodded, looking over was a pile of pickaxes. Taking one from the pile, 73 left the building, walking out, the train steamed up again and went off. Each miner wears the same thing: a Helmet with a light on the top. Grey, tweed jacket. Jeans painted black with coal. 73 still had blue jeans, inside were fur laces for warmth. Once the train got out of the way, he made his way to the ramp. He couldn’t even see the other side of the pit, just the slight silhouette. Staying on the side he started walking down, the pickaxe slung over his shoulder.
“You’re new, aren’t you?”
One of the other miners accused me of an insult. His jacket number was 36.
“Yes, why?”
36 Looked him up and down, he stopped on the ramp of the mine to do so.
“You’re clean.”
He was a gruff man; his facial hair hid his face. His eyes were full of experience. His hands were blackened with coal like gloves.
“C’mon, let's keep going.”
He said, walking down, the bottom of the pit coming closer, their pickaxes bouncing on their shoulders as they walked down. Nearing the bottom, miners were hard at work, and a few of them looked back as they got there. Some of the new miners who had been on the train were there already.
“73, see that spot right there.”
“Yes, of course."
He replied, looking over to where 36 was pointing.
“Wait, why are we all referred to with numbers?”
36 looked at him, almost with grieving eyes.
“So we don’t get any emotional attachments to one another. We are here strictly for work.”
“Will we get to leave?”
One of the miners who overheard him chuckled. He looked at 73 like he was crazy. After laughing, he was coughing before he got back to striking the wall.
“Nobody ever leaves.”
He admitted, 73 looked horrified.
“We are here for one reason or another, none of them good.”
They reached the wall of stone and coal at this time, 36 hit the wall once before 73’s next question.
“None of them good?”
“No, most men here are probably killers. I don’t trust a single one of them.”
“Do you trust me?”
36 looked at him for a moment, and he stopped mining for a moment.
“No, no, I don’t. Most of these men, hell, probably all of them, came from the prison.”
He revealed as he went back to hitting the wall. 73 went to a different spot not far away, though. He hit the wall over and over again, each time vibrations shot through his arms. Regardless, he kept going, coal falling onto the ground.
“Pick that up and fill the cart, don’t let any go to waste.”
One of them said with order in his voice. 73 turned to see who it was. On his number tag was 45. 73 leaned down and picked up the coal, his body shivering from the cold, and the heaters had still been out of fuel.
Getting to the cart, he filled it up and started walking away, but before he did, he heard yelling from behind him, a man struggling against the others; he was a new one. 92 was on his number t;g, he struggled against the others as they tackled him. Another one of the miners held his pickaxe to 92’s neck to keep him from moving.
“What did he do?”
“He didn’t do anything, we need him though.”
59, the man who was tackled looked up at 73.
“Help!”
73 didn’t move; he watched as the others tied the rope from the cart around his waist. They took his pickaxe and left it near where he was before.
“You don’t expect him to make it all the way up there by himself, do you?”
They turned to 73.
“He'd better, or else he might get an early retirement.”
73 watched as 59 started walking, he was going with restraint, his body being held back with the utter amount of weight. Walking back, he left 59 alone, and he went back to mining away at the wall. Some of the people who were at the wall went deeper than others, and some of the others were coughing horribly. Like their lungs were crippling and falling off their skeleton, the ones who had been coughing had lower numbers, ranging from 15-30.
“36?”
He looked around for him.
“Yes?”
36 appeared just behind 73.
“I’m starving, do we ever get to eat?”
He looked annoyed and a little bit angry.
“Yes, you can eat whenever you want to. Up at the top of the pit is a stack of soup crates. They are unopened, but listen to me say this: never ever eat more than you need. Food is expensive, and we need money for the quota.”
“Of course, I won't eat too much, but what happens if we don’t have enough for the quota?”
36 looks at him with irritation, like it were an insult to ask it.
“Just go eat, you ask too many questions.”
73 nodded, then laid down his pickaxe to go up.
“What are you doing?”
He turned around, wondering why 36 asked that.
“Going to go eat? Like you said.”
“Never leave behind your pickaxe.”
He demanded. Before 73 could say or ask anything else, 36 turned back to the wall. He picked up his pickaxe, then started going up the ramp. As he walked up, he could see 59 again. He was still struggling to make it up the hill. As 73 got closer, he tried to converse with him.”
“Why didn’t you help me back there?”
He said, each word laboured as he was hauling the coal crate up.
“What was I supposed to do? I don’t want to be doing what you are doing, and I don’t even know you, so why would I want to help you? For all I know-”
Without finishing his sentence, 59 cut him off.
“For all you know, I could be anything, and you still decided to just watch.”
His voice is full of judgment. 73 waited a moment with him as he struggled up a hill before breaking off and going his own way. It seemed to be horrible trying to get up the steep ramp with an incredibly heavy minecart strapped to you. There were no rails, so he had to rely on the wheels staying on; if he let the cart flip or slide away, punishment would be certain for him. The ramp for the hill would grow every time they needed to go further down for coal. Getting near the top of the pit was almost barren. During the day, most people were busy working down in the mines; they didn’t come up as they needed to mine for many. 73 still didn’t know what would happen if they didn’t reach their goal.
Walking from the ramp, he made his way across the cold, stone ground, across the train track, past the building to a table that looked like it could barely stand. There were four boxes of soup stacked on top. He reached in and grabbed one. It was small, but he couldn’t complain. Opening it, he didn’t have any utensils, so his hand would have to suffice. Using his index, middle, and thumb, he ate. The soup wasn’t good, but it was as good as it would get. Walking away from the table with the can, he finished eating, then tossed away the can; he didn’t care for the littering. As he looked towards the ramp, he saw 59 still walking. He had made it up the ramp, but he was on his hands and knees; his body ached. Other miners were waiting around it.
“What are you guys waiting for?”
They looked at each other, then at 73, then back to each other.
“Waitin’ for the train, why?”
“How long until the train comes?”
“At least once a day, sometimes twice, it’s almost sundown.”
He was right, the sun was starting to set, and the temperature was dropping.
“Will there be enough beds for everyone?”
The miner smirked.
“You only sleep if needed; most who sleep don’t wake up.”
73 didn’t bother to know why that is; he didn’t really want to know why that is. Taking a look away from the mine cart and out to the ramp, he could see other miners coming up, not many, but some; they looked so immensely tired. Some of them headed into the shack, some of them just sat and waited; the train track rattled. People moved out of the way. 73 stood up and walked away from the tracks. Some looked happy, others depressed. The train seemed big; it was armoured in the front, with at least 5 inches of pure steel as armour. The wheels of the train screeched coming to a stop, sounding like dying, wheezing lungs.
“Start moving the coal!”
A few people from the sides watching them joined in hurriedly to help them transfer from the cart to the train; they lifted it and tossed it. Grabbing coal 73 also started to help out with getting the coal to the train; it was heavy and cold, but they did it anyway. The first horn of the train went off. Two more to go, the cart was halfway empty, and there was another one coming up. Another poor soul to make the trip, 73 looked around as he loaded up the train. They got the other cart further back near the end of the train. The second horn went off; the front of the train was still blocked off with armour. Those who drove the trains had no or very little trust in the miners. 73 picked up the last lump of coal, and he lobbed it over the train car, causing it to fall inside. As the people at the end of the train with the other cart emptied it and filled the train, the third horn of the train went off, and the engine started up. One of the miners held onto one of the ladders that would help you climb on top of the carts to also load them up, or take things out of them.
“I’m going home!”
The miner who climbed on yelled. He held on with all of his might. He took the helmet off his head and dropped it on the ground. A big grin on his face as he started climbing the ladder, he occasionally looked back at everyone. They watched as he headed away. He threw himself into one of the train cars that had coal. The train faded into the distance past the thick fog, and everyone went back to what they were doing.
73 watched as everyone walked away. He could only wonder where he would go, or what would happen to him; he also wondered why nobody else got on.
“What was his number?”
73 asked one of the miners, and he turned to him, gripping the pickaxe as he spoke.
“Don't matter now, does it?”
A rhetorical question, he coughed, the time down in the mines getting to him, but he could still work; everyone was treated the same, everyone had the same amount of money. It was communism. 73 didn’t bother to keep asking; nobody needed a name, nobody got a name. There was no need to give yourself a name if nobody cares; 73 had a name, though it was at the back of his mind. He learned to react to his number and only his number. Why should he care if nobody else does? The sun had fully set now, and the moon started to rise. 73 yawned and made his way to the building. Heading in, he saw that some were already asleep on the beds; there were two left. He chose the one that was near the coal stove. He lay down and watched the bottom of the bunk above him. He felt tired, his legs a little sore, as the night grew and his eyes grew heavier 73 succumbed. He fell asleep.
***
‘AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH’
Screaming from one of the miners woke everyone up It wasn’t even morning, probably bordering on five A.M., 73 looked up from his bed.
“What happened?”
He mumbled, trying to figure out who was yelling. Nobody answered him, so he sat on the bed and slipped on his boots, which were coated in coal dust, which had in turn dirtied his hands. Before walking out, he grabbed the flashlight off the helmet. Leaving the building, there was an obvious blood trail, which started on one of the beds and went outwards. He followed it; the trail led behind the building, no screaming but a few miners picking away at someone. Their pickaxes crashing through his body, their pickaxes turning red with blood. 73 stumbled over his words as he witnessed this. The miners looked at 73; he was shocked and didn’t know what to do. One of them walked towards 73; his number was covered with blood.
“What are you doing here?”
His voice flat and devoid of emotion, he looked into the eyes of 73, even though his headlamp was blinding his view, 73 was too shocked to even get a single word out.
“I—I—”
The miner raised the pickaxe, but before he could swing, 73 ran away and headed back into his room. He lay back down on the bed, turned the light off and hoped they didn’t follow him. Waiting for a few moments, they didn’t come anywhere near; they didn’t even try. He was safe for now. He tried to fall back asleep, but his hands were shaking; he couldn’t bring himself to close his eyes, even though that miner's voice was playing in his ears over and over again. He couldn’t un-hear it, like how he couldn’t unsee the butchering of that poor man. All 73 could do was wait. He waited for the sun to rise, the train came by once as he was waiting, and he heard it drive past. The other miners were fast asleep, and he could hear some of them snoring; he hated it, reminded him of how he couldn’t. The room grew in colour, that being rustic-metal and wooden furniture, some of it bolted to the ground. The miners who had been sleeping woke up, got ready then left the building. They headed out not to return until the next night, and maybe someone else could be sleeping in it. 73 just lay there, unmoving, he was still trying to drown out the images that he had seen. Their pickaxes sank into their bodies, pulling their flesh back as they lifted it back out. His bones are getting crushed with every swing, the sounds of snapping echoes. Eventually, after a few minutes, 73 stood up out of bed. He was a little tired, but as he worked, it would go away. He left the building, and the sun hit his eyes; the chill breeze of the outside world brushed against him once again; it seemed colder; it might have been moving into the fall and winter seasons. A few miners started to push one of the minecarts to the ramp. They grunted with each strong push. Eventually, they got there, and they watched as it rolled down with haste. 73 walked over as he was going to go down to the mines anyway; he needed to take his mind off last night. The cart was flipped onto its side.
“You’re goin’ to help us lift that.”
One of the miners said to 73, nobody really had a choice in what to do, either they did it and got to continue their slave labour. Heading towards the minecart, the few other miners that were near him were murmuring to each other. 73 could barely make out what he was saying. He tried to listen closely.
“I swear it’s these new guys who always think it isn’t that bad, just wait until he tries to run also.”
He quietly said to the other miner, obviously meaning the ‘new guys’ as 73.
“I know, always so full of themselves, like they are better than us, just wait until he gets a coal lung.”
73 listened with shock as he mentioned this. It brought his mind back to that one guy who was coughing; it was so bad that people tried to stay away from him. They all referred to it as coal lungs; they hadn’t been told about CWP (Coal Workers Pneumoconiosis) if someone got it. There weren’t any doctors. Quickly, 73 tries to leave them and jump ahead.
“Where are you going, 73?”
The miner asked; he was 45.
“I was going to get there faster.”
He tried to excuse himself to get away from 45.
“Why do that?”
He turned to the other miner.
“Look at him proving my point right there. Too eager.”
“Too eager?”
73 asked.
“Yes, if you do that too much, your lungs will be coal. Then you can't breathe.”
73 looked at him for a moment, his eyes welling a little. He wanted to live, but he didn’t want to sit around and do nothing. Didn’t want to end up dead, dragged out of bed, then pickaxed to death. He hated thinking about it, yet he never seemed to be able to escape. He stood at where the mine was, the sound of the pickaxe on the wall was rhythmic, like he could listen to it for a lullaby, that’s what it had been turning into. Striking the wall, he watched as dust came off and went into the air; some of the miners were coughing, but even still, they had been hard at work. Most of them knew there was no leaving; the ones who believed they would leave kept good at heart, and the knowledge of the truth seeped into their minds like corruption. The day was cold, the mines were colder, the heaters had stopped working, there was no fuel left in the generator, and people started huddling close, before starting to chip away at the wall again. It didn’t ever seem like much, but people had been making a massive dent in the wall, almost visible to the naked eye.
“When are we going to get heat?”
73 asked, he said, abroa,d praying to get an answer from anybody, a small voice rang through the crowd.
“We get fuel next time the train stops.”
73 looked to thank them, but nowhere to be seen. Others don’t typically give people the obvious information that they are asking for, sometimes because the question is stupid or the fact that people will ask again. Sometimes, so many people are there that the question doesn’t even get recognized past the sounds of pickaxes crashing against coal and stone.
The sound of a train could be heard but only lightly; they were so far down that the sounds above them wouldn’t travel far enough, the voices of others from the top unhearable unless they yelled, but even then. Their voices are as quiet as the blowing dust across the ground. 73 was on his way back up from the mines to go eat, hunger taking his body; it had been close to twenty-four hours since the last meal. The walk up and down was boring; the misery among those there was palpable. Looking up the ramp, he saw something, like a box on wheels. At first, he didn’t even know what it was. It got closer, then he saw what it was: a minecart barreling towards him from the top. The speed made it shake and rumble against the ground of the ramp.
“Oh fuck!”
He yelled, jumping out of the way. He landed on his elbow, the minecart passed him, luckily, he didn’t get injured by it. Standing u, he watches as it hits the wall of the mine, rolling over an unsuspecting victim's foot. He could barely hear the scream. Looking at himself, 73 could see that there was a hole in the elbow where he had landed; he wasn’t bleeding, as it only tore the jacket. The Siberian air hugged it, making him shiver slightly. The lack of generator fuel didn’t make it any better. Getting to the top, the food stock was lower than it was earlier. It didn’t bother him as he didn’t get much anyway. Every time he is allowed to eat is just around one can of soup; he is happy with soup as it doesn’t take much to eat, 73 drinks it like water or alcohol. They don’t give any of the miners utensils. Most of the people there have adapted to it; some of them eat like animals with their bare hands, letting it make a mess and darkening the soup, the coal on their hands.
“Watch out for the mess.”
One of them said, their eyes cold and dead like they had stayed up all week, they looked like there was nothing left but them and their pickaxe. 73 looked down at the train tracks not far ahead of him. They were painted red, along with bits of bodily parts scattered around; he could see the blood flood the rails. They glistened like they had been oiled; shards of bones littered the railway like trash alongside the highway. The sight made his stomach drop a little, and the feeling of hunger faded; he could only imagine the pain that the poor person went through. 73 walked past. He made it to the building, where he got himself inside one of the doors. He kept himself from turning around as he couldn’t bear to see something like that again. A miner was writing something down on a piece of paper; he was writing with a small piece of coal.
“What are you writing?”
32 looked over, he still gripped onto the small bit of coal.
“A shopping list, you slide it in through the mailbox that the train has. We need some more boards.”
“Why do we need boards?”
“Some of the guys down in the mines further down came across a cave; they need the boards to bridge with.”
73 was almost surprised to find someone willing to talk, other than the people who were new like he was, since he got off the train, he hadn’t seen another shipment of other people.
“Why are they so far down?”
32 sighed as he finished writing.
Resources are better, at least that is what we believe. One guy said he heard something calling for him, but none of us believed him.”
“So why are you digging?”
“I heard it too.”
73 thought for a moment of what it could have been. He knew it was probably the fact that they were inhaling so much dust, messing with the mind.
“Why aren’t you using a pencil instead?”
“Do you always ask so many fucking questions?”
He was a little shocked at that but quickly gathered his composure.
“No, but I just want to know, I am new after all.”
32 stopped writing and walked out the door while speaking.
“They won't give us any new pencils; we have to make do with what we have.”
He watched as 32 went to the front of the train and opened a small slit, putting the paper in, and he shut the door. 73 left the building and waited for the train to leave so he could get by, as he did not want to risk going in front, just in case it started up again. He watched as people were still loading coal onto the train; they did this until it left. If the daily quota was not met, they would lose another warning. Currently,y they all only have three warnings left. 73 went over to the back of the train to see if there was anything anyone had left behind. Sometimes they do because it blends in with the train, and also because they just don’t care to take it. Going to the back of the train, he could hear some people arguing with each other; they were being loud. He didn’t consider it eavesdropping because of that.
“Get the fuck outta here, man.”
One of their voices said, he sounded volatile, impatient, 73 stopped moving and stood there for a moment on the other side, they had been just around the corner.
“Don’t touch me.”
“Get out of my goddamn face, I don’t want to see you.”
“No, The fuck is your problem?!”
The sounds of rustling from pushing around became present.
“You are stealing the food!”
“What do you mean? I didn’t steal a damn thing!”
One of them, probably the one who accused him of stealing, grunted; their argument diminished into grunts, painful cries, and incoherent blabbering. 73 turned the corner and watched them as they scuffled against the ground. Too busy fighting themselves, they just ignored him.
“You fuckin’ bastard!”
The one on top yelled, his nose pouring with blood, his hand slamming his fists down on the guy below him. Barely conscious, he could barely move.
“Don’t say that again!”
He continued in anger. 73 couldn’t really tell who they were; they had taken their jackets off, a surprising move from the temperature, but it wasn’t horrible. It was early morning or late afternoon. A little after the person at the bottom went limp, the one on top stopped. He was panting and checking his nose, which by now had started to pour even more; it looked broken. He looked up and over at 73.
“So what, you like to watch? Sick fuck.”
He said, 73 was disgusted and shocked. He didn’t mean to come off that way, but he wanted to see what would happen. Most miners walked by, but some stayed and watched as this happened.
The miner took his jacket, slung it over his shoulder and went into the building. Another person followed him in. The train was gone, and he didn’t even notice him leave, too deep into what had unfolded in front of him. Walking away and heading towards the ramp to go down to the mines the wound started to pick up, 73 unzipped his just to mid chest, he took out a mask and put it on, it wasn’t for working but staying out of the wind, and it didn’t work that well either, riddled with holes looked like it had been used as target practice. It was quiet other than the occasional coughing. Walking down the ramp, the minecart was already down there. He watched as they filled it up. He could see some of the miners walking around doing whatever it was they needed; looking at it, you’d never know they all had something to do. To save time, they left a few cans of soup for hunger so they wouldn’t have to go up as often. They also had a few beds down there near where they mined, so they wouldn’t have to go so far if they were tired. 73 felt hungry again; the feeling seeped back, but harder this time. He clutched his stomach and went over to the stack. He wasn’t too far away.
“You good to be here right now?”
One of the miners asked, looking at 73’s current state.
“Yeah, I’m just hungry.”
“Oh, careful, half a can only down here, that’s what everyone agreed on, try not to linger too much either. I hear a sickness is going around.”
“A sickness?”
“Shush, we don't want this to be too big, just know it's a cold. The heaters will be back soon.”
73 nodded, pretending like he had even an iota of a clue about what he was talking about. Walking towards the pallet where the food was being stored, he cracked a fresh one open, he ate only half, and wished for more. Setting it back down, he wiped his hand against his pants, the stain growing from last time. Just a little in front of him, he watched as someone fell to their hands and knees and started coughing like their lungs were going to come out of their body. 73 stepped back, turning away. A few people were walking down the ramp, carrying something. It piqued his interest, but now that he had confirmation of the ‘cold’ going around, 73 started walking away from that area. He saw a hole in the side of the wall, far left, not close to the main wall, and it was a considerable-sized hole. He got closer to it, must have been the one that 32 was talking about.
“Hey, you, move out of the way.”
A miner said from behind him, he and another person were carrying a plank, a few actually, for the bridge they were talking about building in the cave. 73 stepped aside and let them walk past into the cave. He watched as all that remained were their headlights lighting up the others and the surroundings. Following into the cave,e 73 turned his headlight on, he looked around, and there was a slight fog in the air, more smog than fog, but it was all the same to them. The amount of harmful dust that had been left in the air because there was almost no air flow at all, other than the slight breeze. Inside the cave was a little spooky; he felt like there were eyes on him the entire time that he was walking down into the cave. The feeling of paranoia was growing inside his mind; he was terrified of what was watching. Though as he carried on, he imagined it to be nothing more than the dark and unknown. The lights of the other miners had disappeared from his view. He stood still for a moment to see when they would finally disappear; he waited and waited. Soon, the lights faded. That is when he started to walk forward; he wanted to hear what the others were hearing, mostly to see if it was true or not. The tunnel was absurdly long, seemed like it was a never-ending loop, and he was just stuck there until he perished. Or until someone, or something, found him. Though as he kept walking, his pickaxe felt heavy on his shoulder, he finally saw something. A bridge stretched across a small pit in the ground, too long to jump across but not too long to build across. As he reached the bridge, it wobbled a little bit, though it didn’t seem to have much of an impact on his confidence to walk over it. After all, if it did end up falling, he could just jump the rest of the way. In his mind, getting over it seemed a whole lot longer than it actually was, probably just three steps to get over the pit. Once he did, there was a massive underground chasm. Like one of those things that, with such beauty, strike your eyes and leave you stunned and unable to speak. He looked around with awe, but he still didn’t hear anything, which led him to be somewhat disappointed.
“Hey.”
Someone said from behind 73, he thought that was the voice everyone keeps talking about. It wasn’t. As he looked at the person who got his attention, it was just another miner.
“Did you hear the voice as well, or did you have to come in here? At least it is warm.”
73 looked at him with a little bit of surprise, as he didn’t expect anyone to try and start a conversation.
“No, I was just seeing what was down here as some people were talking about a bridge that needed to be built. I think I passed it back in the entrance of the place.”
“That one? No, you are wrong on that. What you are looking for is actually over that way; you are going in the wrong direction.”
He pointed to the right of him, but it didn’t really matter as he couldn’t see very well; the headlamp of the other miner was impairing his vision to see who he even was.
“Ok, so I head that way?”
“Yes, that is where I need to get to.”
The miner nodded, turning away, and he started his way down to the cave, and so did 73. They weren’t walking for long before finding where they had to be; the entrance to the cave was huge and not man-made either. What looked like massive claw marks were on the walls; they stretched for a while, stopping and starting again in random ways. Nobody else seemed to notice it, which he had found quite strange. 73 brushed it off as them being down here for an extended period of time, certain things start to fade out, and certain things tend to stick out. Regardless, they had gotten closer to the sounds of talking. A familiar voice was heard from down in the dark. The sounds of air-pressure nail guns shot out, echoing against the empty cave and the walls. As he got closer to the voice he assumed familiar, his headlight shone across their faces, he went from their faces to the boards, back to their faces. He did recognize the voice, kind of surprisingly, as it was 32, the last time he had seen him was on the surface and not way down here.
“How did you get down here so fast?”
73 asked 32, and he looked up from the boards.
“I just did, I guess, somehow I believe there are ways of things in which we do not understand.”
His poetry baffled 73; the only time he had heard poetry was when he was in school.
“What is across the bridge?”
“I don’t know yet; we have yet to build across.”
“Do you need help?”
73 wanted to try his best to be helpful. 32 didn’t say anything; instead, he struck the last nail with the nail gun.
“Nah, don’t need any.”
He stood looking across the bridge to the other side, curiosity swimming over his body. He started to walk across as 73 watched. He wanted to make sure that the bridge would be stable before walking across. It was a bigger gap than last time, which was a little surprising that it held his weight, as 73 was pretty sure he weighed less than 32.
“Are you coming also?”
32 asked 73 once he got to the other side, for a moment, he stood there waiting for an answer.
“Yes, I am.”
He cautiously walked across; no jumping would save him now, below him was an abyss. No light went down, and no light came up.
“High up, isn’t it?”
73 rhetorically asked as he looked down, his legs wobbling a little. He had no response. 32 was gone, and went further into the mine. 73 got across, and he quickly looked around to try and see where 32 went. This is uncharted territory, and if they got lost, there would be nothing they could do. Taking a few more steps forward into the cave, he heard a whisper, just loud enough to hear but too quiet actually to be able to make out what it had said. Walking, all 73 could hear: his footsteps and the occasional dripping sound from which he could never find the source. It was interrupted by a blood-curdling scream. He had no idea what it could be; he knew that no human could make a sound like that, it was utterly horrifying. He did a quick three-sixty to make sure it wasn’t close; now he had to find 32. Whatever ever yelled, he didn’t want 32 to find out whatever it was.
“32!”
He called out, hoping to get a response, but there was none. He had nothing. At the end of the cave was a small opening, which looked like it had been hit a few times to make it bigger. He looked through, beautiful purple and green and yellow shards lit up the inside. A major contrast to what was before him on the other side, he could see someone walking towards one of the shards. He could only assume it was 32 or the other miner who wasn’t patient enough to even greet 73.
Setting down the pickaxe next to it, he stuck his legs through first. He pulled himself through; the rocks beneath him crumbled out and bounced, as they did, 73 slid most of the way before tumbling at the end. He cut his hand on a few rocks that were too sharp. Gathering himself, he got up on his feet, looked down at his hand to assess it. A few cuts on the back, but a big gash in the front, it wasn’t the first time that he had cut himself, so he assumed that it would be fine, not that it would matter, because once he found 32, they could go back for medical. Now that he was on the same level as one of the shards, he could really see them for all they were. At least spanning nine to eleven meters tall. Some of them came up straight, but most seemed to be on an angle. Or they were coming down from the ceiling, or out from the walls. Trying to get past, he saw 32.
“Hey!”
73 called out, he ignored it, just kept walking, like he had been mindwashed and was only good for walking.
“Hey!”
He yelled again, this time trying to get closer to him. This continued until he started jogging. Getting closer, he felt something was off; maybe it was the room, after all, he had never seen anything like it before. Reaching out to grab 32’s shoulder, he spun around. He stared at 73, like he was waiting for something, his eyes glazed over like cataracts.
“Look, man, we have to go there is something—”
32’s face spread open like a demagorgon from Stranger Things. Flesh and teeth were all over, a horrific spaghetti. There were 32 eyes in the middle, staring at 73. He didn’t know what to do.
“What the—”
32, or what used to be 32, screamed, just like hw he heard earlier in the cave, what did that thing do to him, he thought. Shoving him away, 73 ran. Stumbling on his own two feet at first, he eventually started running, faster than he ever had before in what he imagined to be his whole life. He kept screaming, every time sending shockwaves through his ears. He could hear 32 getting close. He saw the hole where he came in, not having his pickaxe, which made him feel unsafe in this moment. Making a sharp turn, he got to the base of the rock slide. Climbing with all his energy and rocks falling beneath his feet, he was getting up. Though he was not far behind. 73 was close to the hole of the cave, he grabbed onto the sides and gripped onto the pickaxe’s handle, his brief moment of hope of getting out faltered. He felt a hand grip his ankle; it was irregularly shaped, its fingers being stretched almost double that of the average human's.
“NO!”
HE yelled as 32 yanked back, 73 flew through the air, crashing into one of the shards. He felt a crack. It vibrated through his chest, and the wind was knocked out of him. He gasped for air as he lay on the ground, the pain radiating. But a soft tingling feeling flooded his hands, took some of the pain away. Adrenaline. 32 lost sight of him, but 73 knew he had to be careful.
“Hello?”
Someone yelled from the hole, 73 held his breath the best he could, his ribs. Shattered. 32 Zipped across the shards un-humanly. As he got closer to the other miner, 73 took the opportunity to run. He went the opposite direction, and as he did, there was a bright glowing orb. It glowed white with a tinge of blue or teal. He looked at it, almost mesmerized, turning around to see if 32 was still gone, but he wasn’t. As 73 turned to look, he stopped tearing the other miner limb from limb and started making his way to 73, zipping towards him in almost a desperate plea to get 73 away from the orb, like it was his home or family and needed to protect it. Before it got any closer than it already was, 73 lifted his pickaxe, 32, no more than ten feet away, lunged at 73. He swung down.
