“It don’t get any easier, does it?” the man inquired.
“No, it doesn’t,” Walker replied, as he brushed dirt off his already filthy trousers. “I keep hoping the stinks will find this thing and put us out of our misery!”
Dark humor was the order of the day, so those around Walker chuckled appreciatively. He knocked on the panel that separated the tunnel from Cubicle 2 inside the aptly named “shit shack.” Then, having heard no response from within, he lifted the section of paneling out of the way and put it to one side. Once he passed through the hole one of the donkeys lifted the barrier back into place. That gave Walker an opportunity to pee before zipping his trousers and stepping out into the cold morning air.
Prior to the invasion, the pit had been an operating sulfide mine from which the owners had been able to extract 8.4 percent zinc and 0.7 percent lead. And that, according to the mining engineer who had been killed in the Tunnel 3 cave-in days before, was a very rich find.
Like most open-pit mines the “stink hole,” as the prisoners called it, consisted of a groundwater-supplied lake at its center, and a circular roadway that rose corkscrew fashion up through the terracelike levels that had been excavated in the past.
Once removed from the mine, the raw ore had been fed into an assemblage of buildings up top, where it was systematically roasted, smelted, and converted. Except that rather than ore, the Chimera were feeding people into the former smelter, none of whom were ever seen again. The choice of which prisoners to take was left largely to Collins. That was why most people sought to avoid the collaborator in hopes of escaping what could be a fatal glance.
It also explained why most of the people who sat bundled in blankets, ambled about, or gathered around “the boil” were so dispirited. Because the odds of their being taken off to the processing plant were good, and even if they lived long enough to crawl through one of the tunnels to freedom, the prisoners knew that most—if not all—of the escapees would be caught and executed.
But depressing though the situation was, people were people, and with death only a whisper away, there were those who sought to advantage themselves by forming and being part of so-called committees. Groups that were very similar to gangs, all vying to control resources like food, medicine, and clothing. And they were very much in evidence as a shadow drifted over the pit and a loud thrumming noise was heard.
The cry of “Dump! Dump! Dump!” went up as the Chimeran ship slowed its sideways motion and a black rectangle appeared in the shuttle’s belly. Walker knew what was going to happen next, and ran to the rally point where Harley Burl stood waiting. Others were assembling there as well, all members of the Fair and Square Squad, which was dedicated to dividing all resources fairly, rather than allowing the competing committees to take possession of them and therefore the entire pit.
Speed was of utmost importance as boxes of supplies began to tumble out of the shuttle. Some splashed into the slushy lake where they sank or floated, depending on what was in them. Others exploded on contact, spewing their contents far and wide. And a few made it to the ground intact. Those were considered to be the most significant prizes—even though the prisoners knew some would turn out to be nothing more than a cruel joke. Because there was often little rhyme or reason as to what sorts of things the Chimera chose to drop.
In the recent past the prisoners had been on the receiving end of crates that contained basketballs, auto parts, and luggage. But there had been big boxes full of cereal, canned fruit, and canned dog food as well. The latter being highly valued because of all the protein contained in the cans.
So every crate was worth battling for, even if the contents were uncertain, and as Burl led his squad out to do battle with the committees, makeshift clubs were swung, fists flew, and even teeth were employed as the melee got underway. Walker, ex-Marine that he was, sought the very center of the battle.
A man wearing a homemade eye patch took a swing at the Secretary of War, only to have his arm blocked as Walker hit him in the mouth. The committeeman’s lower lip split open, blood dribbled down his chin, and he was forced to fall back, along with his cronies. The battle was over two minutes later as Burl’s men drove the gang away from the booty they were trying to claim.
Then, true to their motto of “fair and square,” the squad hauled the boxes to a central location where the entire community could witness their activities, and began the process of evaluating their haul. Once that effort was complete everything that could be logically distributed was, including three hundred pairs of socks, fifty tubes of toothpaste, and a hundred straw hats. Food, and anything that could even remotely be considered to be medical in nature, was kept together to be rationed out to the entire population, including the committeemen. Chimeran drones, which never took sides in such battles, hummed ominously as they crisscrossed the air above.
Once the work of processing the dump was complete, Walker was about to look for his wife, when Burl intercepted him.
“There you are,” the big man said. “I’m glad I caught you.”
“Yeah?” Walker replied. “What’s up?”
“Porter tells me the guy you hit in the mouth—Tolly is his name—was seen talking to Collins.”
“So?” Walker demanded. “The committeemen suck up to Collins all the time. It never does them any good. The bitch would sell her own mother for a stick of gum. She couldn’t care less about them.”
“That’s true,” Burl agreed soberly. “But Porter says that as Tolly was speaking to Collins, he was pointing at you. So keep your head down and stay out of sight for a while. We’re all going to heaven—but why hurry?”
Walker laughed, promised Burl that he would be careful, and went looking for Myra. She wasn’t hard to find. Almost from the moment they had arrived she had involved herself with the stink hole’s meager medical facility. It was a rudimentary operation housed in what had once been the supervisor’s pit shack—a wooden structure that sat on skids and could be towed from place to place as the mine deepened.
Sadly, the “med center,” as it was called, had been set up and maintained by a succession of doctors, dentists, nurses, and in one case a pharmacist, all of whom had been marched up the spiral road to the Chimeran processing center on the flat land above. It was presently being run by a midwife, a retired Navy hospital corps-man, and Myra. She hurried over to give her husband a peck on the cheek as he entered.
The couple had always been close, but with death hovering all around, expressions of affection had become more frequent. Myra’s face was thinner now, and there were perpetual circles around her eyes, but they still brimmed with life.
“You’ve been fighting again!” she said accusingly. “I know because the casualties show up here.”
Walker grinned. “Who, me?” he protested as he looked around. There were fifteen or twenty patients crammed into the building—at least three of whom were dying of amoebic dysentery. The rest were getting treatment for cuts and bruises received during the recent dustup. A couple of committeemen were present and glowered at Walker as their injuries were tended to. He ignored them and turned back to Myra.
“Let’s have dinner together,” Walker said. “I’ll take you to the best restaurant in town. To hell with the cost.”
Myra smiled brightly.
“But I don’t have anything to wear!”
“They’re very understanding over at the boil,” Walker assured her. “Dirty, blood-splattered clothes are in this year.”
“Well, in that case, I would be delighted,” Myra replied gravely. “Give me five minutes to finish what I was doing and I’ll be ready to go.”