The underdwelling

The drift was called a “dog drift” because it was just barely large enough to work in. The drillers would sink a pattern of holes and then the charge crew would pack them with dynamite and everybody would get the hell out of there. The blast would clear maybe ten feet of tunnel and right away the diggers would rush in when the dust settled and go at it with picks and shovels, clearing away rock and debris. The only way to do it was to form sort of a fireman’s chain and pass the rock back out of the drift to the waiting tram cars. Even so, the dust was so thick you could barely see in there. Boyd knew there were men in there with him, but all he could see were the lights of their helmets bobbing in the murk. The claustrophobia he felt was a real, physical thing. They went at it nearly three hours, cutting the drift deeper into the rock a good twenty feet.

When break time came, they retreated far back into the stope where things were a bit quieter. Boyd’s boots were thick with red mud and he was stained head to toe with ore pigment, covered in a good half-inch of pulverized rock dust. When he took off his helmet, it was in his hair. It was down his back and up his sleeves. He could taste it on his tongue. It was nasty stuff.

Maki and he sat around with a couple miners named Izzy and Johnson who didn’t say much. Boyd was glad when Breed came over. Maki wasn’t happy to see him, of course.

He poured Boyd a cup of coffee from his Thermos and Boyd washed the dust from his mouth. “Thanks,” he said.

“You still a virgin, kid?”

“So far.”

“What do you think of working drift?”

Boyd pulled off his cigarette, holding it with pink, greasy fingers. “Compared to what?”

“Yeah, that’s how I feel about it, too. Not so bad, though. It’s going fast. Jurgens said we should be hitting ore by tomorrow afternoon at this rate.”

“Jurgens don’t know his ass from a fucking stump hole,” Maki said.

“You hear that, Boyd?” Breed said. “Our boss don’t know shit. Too bad we couldn’t have Maki here running the show.”

“Oh, shut up,” Maki said.

“Jurgens ain’t so bad,” Breed said.

“No, he seems okay,” Boyd said.

Maki just grunted. “You two were chatting it up like a couple old ladies at a Christmas fucking tea.”

“He was telling me about the rocks.”

“Yeah, he likes to talk about rocks,” Breed said, stubbing out his cigarette. “You got to meet this paleo guy from the University. McNair. He really likes rocks. We dug out this fossil the other day…some kind of fish with teeth like roofing nails. McNair got so excited I thought he was going to cornhole the damn thing.”

“How long you been at this?” Boyd asked him.

Breed laughed. He was always laughing. “Fifteen years, give or take. I’m just biding my time until I can get out.”

“Sure,” Maki said. “Breed’s a fucking injun. He’s waiting to get some of that free Indian casino money so he can be as lazy and useless as the rest of the tribe.”

“Don’t be making fun of my red brothers,” Breed told him. “He’s right, though, Boyd. I’m waiting to get on the list. Free money. Then I’ll spend my days laughing at you white men and putting the dick to your wives while you’re pulling your shift in the hole.”

Boyd laughed.

Maki grumbled.

One of the other miners said, “You’re a piece of shit, Breed. You know that?”

“My old man told me that from day one, brother. But way I look at it, if you’re good at something, you go with it.”

Boyd just listened as they bullshitted around about the rocks and all the marine fossils they were finding that McNair said were laid down from an ancient seabed. Of course, Breed found ample opportunity to insult Maki and make jokes about his wife’s privates.

Then Corey showed. “All right, you lazy sonsobitches, back at it! Chop! Chop!”

Breed offered him a big smile with his dirty face. “Hey, Corey? I ever tell you how much I love you?”

“Not as often as your wife does.”

6

On it went.

The work was hard, positively grueling. The charge crew would blast and then the diggers would clean the shaft out, haul out the big rocks and start shoring the tunnel up with braces and timbers so it wouldn’t fall in. Boyd was glad for the work, glad to be doing something other than letting his imagination run wild. Because it was real easy to imagine things in the drift where you couldn’t see five feet in the clouds of dust and drifting sediment, the ceiling pressing down on you and the walls closing in.

He could just about imagine what it would be like to be trapped by a cave-in.

If you weren’t crushed, you’d be sealed in a sarcophagus of rock, slowly going mad as the air ran out and your helmet light dimmed, dimmed, and then went out for good, trapping you in that thick, godawful blackness. It was no wonder his guts were crawling.

But the hard work helped. Busting your ass in there, you didn’t have time to worry about bullshit like that and from where Boyd was sitting, that was a good thing.

The boys kept blasting and the crew kept digging and then on around five AM the shit hit the fan.