Red Sky: Chapter 42

I was now in the other mine and ahead of schedule. I crawled through the secret tunnel in a little under three hours leaving me plenty of time to find the elevators.

Staring into the blackness, I held a freezelight in each hand and stuck two more on my uniform. The knapsack was off my foot and on my back, a pickaxe, hammer, chisel and shovel inside. I had a couple of sheets of paper from the cafeteria. I tore off a piece and dropped it below the exit to the secret tunnel and started walking forward, blindly groping around each corner, leaving a little piece of paper at every turn.

My journey didn’t last long. After the third turn, I was greeted by a pile of dirt higher than my head. Lifting the two freezelights, I found a large gap between the top of the pile and the ceiling. The dirt had fallen from the support above and accumulated over a long period of time.

I put my foot in the mound. It didn’t sink. I brought my other foot up to start the climb. As soon as that second foot hit I fell backwards, the dirt of the mound turning into a sliding walkway.

I put my right foot back into the mound. Again I brought my left foot up. And again I couldn’t get traction, the grains of dirt moving my feet backward with every step forward.

Thinking, I wandered far back from the pile of dirt, almost fifiteen meters. Like a long jumper I would get a running start. I reached the mound in full stride and jumped as far and as high as I could. I made it halfway. I lunged for the apex and fell short, sliding back down the mound, little pebbles of dirt following me.

I got up and walked back the fifteen meters again. I needed to run faster to get to the top. The uneven surface of the tunnel didn’t help. I tried smoothing out a runway, but the surface remained a poor running track. Two of the freezelights lit my path as I readied myself for a second sprint. I was going to sprint and leap like I had never sprinted and leapt.

I stumbled forward. My ankle twisting upon takeoff and I only made it to half the height of my first attempt. Pebbles rained down on me for a second time while I sat at the base of the mound catching my breath.

Again I got up and walked back. Past the fifteen-meter mark. Past twenty meters. I was already tiring. With each sprint I would have less energy not more, the top would continue to get farther away no matter how long of a run I took.

Hands on knees, I looked down the tunnel. Ready for attempt number three. A stupid mule running into the same wall over and over again.

The chisel poked into my side. I took the chisel out of the knapsack and stared at it. Other ideas floated through my brain. I slung the knapsack back on. The chisel stayed in my right hand. I was holding it like a stake with the hammer now in my left hand. I rocked back and forth. Once. Twice.

I was off down the path, speed building on top of speed, boots churning up soil and rocks. I veered to my right and leapt halfway to the top like my first leap. My feet slipped again. In one fluid motion I jammed the chisel into the wall and swung with the hammer. Dirt flew from the wall like the dirt flying from the bottom of my feet. The chisel held. I looked back and saw the hammer tumbling down the hill.

With both hands on the chisel I pulled myself up and reached out with my left hand, desperately grasping for the top of the mound. It crumbled under my weight. I dug my fingers in deeper, they hooked, disappearing into the brown. With great faith I took my right hand off the chisel and swung it to join my left on top of the mound. Now I had two hooks in the top. I pulled myself up, fingernails clinging for life. I somersaulted over the top falling end over end hitting the ground hard on the other side.

I brushed dirt from my uniform and stared into the abyss. I had made it past my first obstacle even if it had cost me a hammer and a chisel. I stood up, cracking my back, preparing for a long walk through a dark maze.


*


I never thought the pit could look so beautiful. Three elevator doors stood in front of me. Three beautiful, long-forgotten doors. I sat down in front of them, legs heavy, heart beating rapidly, after traversing the mine for hours. The breadcrumbs had worked. I had made it to the pit with an hour to spare.

Without a chisel I would have to use the pickaxe to remove my wristcuffs and collar. There was a notch where the lasers connected when the bracelets were activated. That was the weak point. If I hit that notch with the axe the bracelet would crack and I would be able to slither my wrist out. I found a large smooth rock to serve as my chopping board. I held the pickaxe over my left wrist with a tight grip from the top of the handle. On the count of three the axe was going to come down.

Ka-thunk.

My first blow wasn’t hard enough. I instinctively held back, not wanting to chop my hand off. I would have to take a stronger whack at the notch in order to break it.

I held the pickaxe over my left hand a second time, gripping it from the top again. My knuckles where turning pale, veins appeared in my hand I didn't know I had. I counted to three. I wasn’t going to hold back.

Ka-chink.

The bracelet cracked with a strong blow. After two more seconds my hand was free. It was the first time my left wrist had been exposed to the air in over two years. My skin was lighter where the bracelet had been. I caressed the skin; it was sensitive, tickling like a soft belly with each touch. One down. One to go.

In the mine I always felt confident using either hand. Most of us did. It was necessary to trade off from one hand to the other in order to survive the eighteen-hour work days without cramping. But now that I was staring at my right wrist holding a pickaxe in my left hand, the point of that axe focused on a tiny notch that was growing tinier by the second, I began to lose confidence in my left hand. It started trembling.

Why was my left hand shaking?

I put the axe down on the ground and shook it to get it to relax. I wiped the sweat from my palm on my uniform. I picked up that axe again whispering encouraging words to my left hand along the way.

The axe was over my right wrist ready to strike. I closed my eyes.

Bad idea. I thought the better of it and opened my eyes and focused on the notch. The more I concentrated the smaller that notch became. My left hand started shaking again. Why was it failing me now?

I threw the axe to the ground and clamped down on the notch with my teeth, trying to bite it off. The notch was too strong. I heard a crack and it wasn’t from the wristcuff. It was one of my incisors giving in under the pressure. I spit out a piece of tooth and sat down.

I was tired from the walk and the crawl and the search through the new mine for the elevators. I had slept only a couple of hours over the previous two nights. Now that I found the elevators my body was heavy, my legs, arms, head, had the weight of a planet on them. I wanted to rest. I had an hour. My body was begging me for sleep. But as my eyes closed, I used all of my willpower to keep them open. I’d had few worse ideas in my life than to take a nap at that particular moment. I don’t know if it’s possible to force adrenaline to flow through one’s body, but I was going to make it happen. I needed my body to float again. It was either going to come alive or I was going to lose a hand.

The axe was hovering over my right wrist. I wasn’t going to give my left hand time to shake. What was the worst that could happen? I had two hands. Even if I lost one, I would still have another.

CLICHINK.  

The sharp point of the axe came down with a hard imprecise blow that echoed throughout the pit. Holding the cracked bracelet in my left hand I yanked my wrist free. It was still intact. Bleeding but intact, a trickle of blood oozing from the fleshy part of my wrist. I had survived the removal of the bracelets with two working hands.

I inspected the collar. This was the part of my plan where there was no plan at all. Despite all of the hours I had spent inspecting that collar at night, I had never come up with a solution. The screw confused me. The lack of a mirror or anyway to observe what I was doing worried me. There was no notch to aim for, only the tiny hole on the left side where the airtag had been inserted. The rest of the collar was a series of symmetrical ridges and smooth plating.

I put the tip of the axe against my neck and tried to pry the collar loose. But I couldn’t find enough space anywhere on my neck. Dejected, I sat back on the ground.

Maybe I could keep the collar on. I looked to the elevators. The clock in my head was down to a half an hour. It was so tempting to give up on the collar. Procrastination is the enemy of any good plan. Procrastination had defeated me many times in life. I wasn’t going to let it win now. That collar was coming off even if my head came off with it.

How far could the pickaxe go into my neck without killing me? I felt my skin around the collar. Maybe one harsh blow near the airtag hole would be enough to crack the collar apart just as the notch allowed me to crack the bracelet apart. My neck was going to be damaged when I pulled out the screw or whatever fixed the collar to my neck anyway, so what difference did it make if I had a hole on the other side as well. At the very least, it would ensure I would lose an equal amount of blood from both sides of my body as I bled to death.

A kind of mania overtook me. A foolish belief that striking my neck with a pickaxe wasn’t going to kill me if I placed it in exactly the right spot. As far as bad ideas go this one was only slightly better than my plan to take a nap. I tore my pants to create two long strips of fabric that might stop the bleeding. I tied knots into them for the holes I was soon going to put in my neck and laid them next to each other on the ground. Looking at those two dirty yellow strips camouflaged against the dark brown dirt didn’t give me any confidence. But the mania held.

I stood up. Then sat down. Then stood up again. Finally, I sat on the chopping rock. It seemed the right height to provide balance.

I pointed the axe at my neck, aiming it at the tiny airtag hole on the left side. I held the pickaxe tightly with both hands from the bottom of the handle. In order to generate enough force I was going to have to let the head swing far away from me and back again, which meant I wouldn’t have as much control as I had with the bracelets.

I practiced.

It wasn't going to work. I switched to one hand. I didn’t feel confident about any part of this plan.

I practiced again.

It still wasn't going to work. I had trouble reaching the left side of my neck with the pickaxe in my right hand. The axe kept wanting to hit at an angle. I switched the axe to my left hand. That disobedient left hand which started trembling as soon as it was holding the axe again. But it was the only way I could hit the airtag hole straight on. My mania hadn’t subsided. I was so focused on the task of stabbing myself in the neck I didn’t think about any of the obvious repercussions. I just wanted that damn collar off.

I had one shot. I looked down at the bandages as they waited for my blood. I swallowed and clenched my jaw. My neck muscles tightened. This was it. The axe head swung away from me.

Wait. I stopped.

Is it better to have my neck muscles tightened or relaxed? I needed them relaxed. They would take the blow more easily if they were relaxed. I forced myself to relax as the axehead dangled in front of me waiting to return to striking position.

One shot. One swing. I brought the pickaxe up. My left hand was trembling even more now. I swallowed. Then exhaled. Then my jaw clenched again even though I didn’t want it to.

P-thhht.

The axe struck with a delicate force. My arm had resisted at the last moment just as it had when trying to take off the first wrist shackle. The axe was sticking out of my neck. I reached with my right hand hoping to find a broken collar.

I had missed. The axe punctured my neck a millimeter above the collar. I would have started to scream and swear, but I didn’t want to make any sudden movements with a pickaxe in my neck. I tried to relax before removing the point of the axe, but my muscles were too frightened to relax now. I violently pulled the axe from my skin. Blood flowed. I didn’t look down to see how much blood. I had no time. I needed to strike again before I passed out.

My left hand was still trembling. I hated that left hand with a passion. I tried sizing up the collar so I wouldn’t miss this time. But the more I focused the more that hand trembled. I couldn’t see what I was doing and I couldn’t get any sense of where the axe would go in as it drunkenly weaved back and forth. 

Fuck it. I closed my eyes.

Crack.

The second blow was much harder than the first. The axe hit with full power this time. It sounded like it hit something before going into my neck. I was light-headed. I quickly checked the collar. It was broken. I wanted to smile, but I couldn’t with the pickaxe and the blood and everything. I pulled the axe out and then with both hands pried the collar apart to slide it off.

And that’s when the screw started coming out.

Slowly, the collar slid. One centimeter, two centimeters, three centimeters. It kept sliding, the screw refusing to leave my body. I tried moving my head to the left to help the process. Four centimeters, five centimeters, this screw was as long as a finger. Finally, with a gurgle of blood, the screw ejected.

Against my better judgment, I looked down. There was a lot of red, very dark red, on my hands, the collar, bits of skin hung off the screw like ghoulish Christmas ornaments off a tree. I gagged and threw the collar to the ground. I wanted to faint.

The first bandage went on, the knot into the right side of my neck where the screw had been. It was hard to tie a tourniquet around my own neck. It wasn’t tight enough, but the blood started to slow anyway. I got the second bandage and placed the knot on the left side where the two pickaxe holes were. This one felt tighter. The blood stopped completely.

I fell back in the dirt. My eyes open, looking up to the ceiling of the mine. I had somehow survived. I'd always thought the removal of the collar would kill me, but I could still see. Elated, laughing, I made a snow angel in the dirt.

Rising like a phoenix I got up from the ground, stepped over the rivers of blood and made my way to the elevators. I still had time. Fifteen minutes by my count. I was going to make it back to the surface.


Next Chapter: Chapter 43
Previous Chapter: Chapter 41