Send My Love and a Molotov Cocktail! by Gary Phillips, Andrea Gibbons Page A

silence and
see …
    A shape with pillar-thick legs, all in blocks of redblack. It was some sort of …
    Scrick.
Sniff. It was turning his way. A flick of the wrist, the chip of rock skittered, hitting ceiling and then floor, back in the direction he had come from.
    Very slow soft footsteps, as if the legs were somehow … they were coming in his direction.
    He straightened and reached above him, hands scrabbling over the rough basalt. He felt a deep groove in the rock, and next to it a vertical hole. He jammed a hand in the hole, made a fist; put the fingers of the other hand along the side of the groove, and pulled himself up. The toes of his boot fit the groove, and he flattened up against the ceiling. In the lunar gravity he could stay there forever. Holding his breath.
    Step … step … snuffle, fairly near the floor, which had given him the idea for this move. He couldn’t turn to look. He felt something scrape the hip pocket of his pants and thought he was dead, but fear kept him frozen; and the sounds moved off into the distance of the vast chamber, without a pause.
    He dropped to the ground and bolted doubled over for the far tunnel, which loomed before him redblack in the black, exuding air and faint noise. He plunged right in it, feeling one wall nick a knuckle. He took the sharp right he knew was there and threw himself down to the intersection of floor and wall. Footsteps padded by him, apparently running on the rails.
    When he couldn’t hold his breath any longer he breathed. Three or four minutes passed and he couldn’t bear to stay still. He hurried to the intersection, turned left and slunk to the bullpen. At the checkpoint the monitor’s horn squawked and a foreman blasted him with a searchlight, pawed him roughly. “Hey!” The foreman held a big chunk of blue, taken from Oliver’s hip pocket. What was this?
    â€œSorry boss,” Oliver said jerkily, trying to see it properly, remembering the thing brushing him as it passed under. “Must’ve fallen in.” He ignored the foreman’s curse and blow, and fell into the pen tearful with the pain of the light, with relief at being back among the others. Every muscle in him was shaking.
    But Hester never came back from that shift.
    Sometime later the foremen came back into their bullpen, wielding the lights and the prods to line them up against one mesh wall. Through pinprick pupils Oliver saw just the grossest slabs of shapes, all grainy black-and-gray: Jakob was a big stout man, with a short black beard under the shaved head, and eyes that popped out, glittering even in Oliver’s silhouette world.
    â€œMiners are disappearing from your pen,” the foreman said, in the miners’ language. His voice was like the quartz they tunneled through occasionally: hard, and sparkly with cracks and stresses, as if it might break at any moment into a laugh or a scream.
    No one answered.
    Finally Jakob said, “We know.”
    The foreman stood before him. “They started disappearing when you arrived.”
    Jakob shrugged. “Not what I hear.”
    The foreman’s searchlight was right on Jakob’s face, which stood out brilliantly, as if two of the searchlights were pointed at each other. Oliver’s third eye suddenly opened and gave the face substance: brown skin, heavy brows, scarred scalp. Not at all the white cutout blazing from the black shadows. “You’d better be careful, miner.”
    Loudly enough to be heard from neighboring pens, Jakob said, “Not my fault if something out there is eating us, boss.”
    The foreman struck him. Lights bounced and they all dropped to the floor for protection, presenting their backs to the boots. Rain of blows, pain of blows. Still, several pens had to have heard him.
    Foremen gone. White blindness returned to black blindness, to the death velvet of their pure darkness. For a long time they lay in their own private worlds, hugging