a coal miner's old age. Over the years, the myth gained credibility as the old-timers closed in on their dying days. People were disappearing. Sick people. Sick miners . Last night had been Gerald Harris's time. The Collectors entered the Harris household with the promise of eternal life. He wondered what ultimate price they would exact as compensation for such a gift.
He couldn't see a thing, and only the shuffling ahead prevented him from colliding with the Collector leading the way. They had yet to say word one to him. The two trailing miners dragged their shovels and pickaxes, grinding the metal against the cold stone with every stride. In their silence he felt alone, as if he were a blind mole burrowing down into its den. They were moving at a generous clip, yet he couldn't hear their gusting breath. Maybe they didn't need to breathe. Gerald considered himself, and yes, from the gentle pull of his lungs in his chest, he was still breathing, still alive. But these other three men… being stuck in a lightless tunnel with these unbreathing, undead … Collectors, Gerald felt a surge of panic, the tight clench of claustrophobia. Thirty-six years in the mines and he had never felt so trapped; never to such an extent had he ever felt the weight of the world above him, the gravity of the cold stone earth pressing down as if to crush him.
He then heard a grunt from behind, a discordant friable voice lost in an undead chest cavity. Did their blood still flow? he wondered. Did they have any thoughts other than to dig, shovel and pick their way through this lightless Underground maze? Again, the grunt sounded from behind him, insistent and irritated. Ahead, the shuffling sounds ceased.
The sweat clinging to his skin dried unnervingly. He realized he was no longer crawling. He had stopped in order to catch his panic-stricken breath, questioning why he had so willingly followed these monsters into their lair, knowing it was far too late at this point to change his mind. There was a scraping sound from behind as a shovel was thrown forward, followed by a cold pinging sound as the shovel slammed into his right ankle. He screamed, his voice absorbed by the surrounding tons of solid rock. White hot pain burst from the impact and up his leg. After the initial pain subsided, all he heard was the Collectors' angered grunts. He couldn't find his voice--he choked on any words forming on his lips--rubbing the barbs of pain from his ankle. He blinked in the darkness, searching for clarity or understanding to this situation, but was left wanting. A shovel prodded his calf, urging him on.
"Okay, okay." Wondering if his ankle was broken, Gerald pressed on, following at the pace of his Collectors, not wanting to further anger them.
He lost all sense of time, but hours had passed, surely, since he first entered the dark tunnel. He hadn't coughed since they reached a certain level below ground, a level at least a half mile deep by his educated guess. In fact, he didn't even feel the urge, which had rarely happened in the last decade. Hand over hand he crawled through the lightless void, his knees going numb and his calloused hands sanding down to more sensitive layers for all the friction, yet with all the motion and effort, still no coughing.
He inhaled deeply, his lungs expanding to what he thought was their physical limit, then expanded more, taking in more chilly air. With every fraction of an ounce of additional air, his energy was building, and he could have sworn he felt a tingling in his chest. A good tingling. Warm and… healing. Yes, healing. A wood fire was close, and also, the warm doughy sweetness of… apple pie? In the darkness, Gerald Harris, though tentative and beyond confused, felt a smile crease his lips.
16.
Cooper finished the last of the dishes, and was wiping down a water spill around the sink's edge. How did she do that? he wondered. Thea Calder was beautiful, but he'd encountered beautiful women before. She
He couldn't see a thing, and only the shuffling ahead prevented him from colliding with the Collector leading the way. They had yet to say word one to him. The two trailing miners dragged their shovels and pickaxes, grinding the metal against the cold stone with every stride. In their silence he felt alone, as if he were a blind mole burrowing down into its den. They were moving at a generous clip, yet he couldn't hear their gusting breath. Maybe they didn't need to breathe. Gerald considered himself, and yes, from the gentle pull of his lungs in his chest, he was still breathing, still alive. But these other three men… being stuck in a lightless tunnel with these unbreathing, undead … Collectors, Gerald felt a surge of panic, the tight clench of claustrophobia. Thirty-six years in the mines and he had never felt so trapped; never to such an extent had he ever felt the weight of the world above him, the gravity of the cold stone earth pressing down as if to crush him.
He then heard a grunt from behind, a discordant friable voice lost in an undead chest cavity. Did their blood still flow? he wondered. Did they have any thoughts other than to dig, shovel and pick their way through this lightless Underground maze? Again, the grunt sounded from behind him, insistent and irritated. Ahead, the shuffling sounds ceased.
The sweat clinging to his skin dried unnervingly. He realized he was no longer crawling. He had stopped in order to catch his panic-stricken breath, questioning why he had so willingly followed these monsters into their lair, knowing it was far too late at this point to change his mind. There was a scraping sound from behind as a shovel was thrown forward, followed by a cold pinging sound as the shovel slammed into his right ankle. He screamed, his voice absorbed by the surrounding tons of solid rock. White hot pain burst from the impact and up his leg. After the initial pain subsided, all he heard was the Collectors' angered grunts. He couldn't find his voice--he choked on any words forming on his lips--rubbing the barbs of pain from his ankle. He blinked in the darkness, searching for clarity or understanding to this situation, but was left wanting. A shovel prodded his calf, urging him on.
"Okay, okay." Wondering if his ankle was broken, Gerald pressed on, following at the pace of his Collectors, not wanting to further anger them.
He lost all sense of time, but hours had passed, surely, since he first entered the dark tunnel. He hadn't coughed since they reached a certain level below ground, a level at least a half mile deep by his educated guess. In fact, he didn't even feel the urge, which had rarely happened in the last decade. Hand over hand he crawled through the lightless void, his knees going numb and his calloused hands sanding down to more sensitive layers for all the friction, yet with all the motion and effort, still no coughing.
He inhaled deeply, his lungs expanding to what he thought was their physical limit, then expanded more, taking in more chilly air. With every fraction of an ounce of additional air, his energy was building, and he could have sworn he felt a tingling in his chest. A good tingling. Warm and… healing. Yes, healing. A wood fire was close, and also, the warm doughy sweetness of… apple pie? In the darkness, Gerald Harris, though tentative and beyond confused, felt a smile crease his lips.
16.
Cooper finished the last of the dishes, and was wiping down a water spill around the sink's edge. How did she do that? he wondered. Thea Calder was beautiful, but he'd encountered beautiful women before. She
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