“Open ’er up!” someone shouted from the darkness, and John snapped to. He slid the chalk into his coat pocket, grabbed the latch, and swung the heavy door outward. The creaking wheels and huffing animals drew closer, but John still could only see the glow of their lanterns far down in the dark.
His stomach clenched and his heart starting racing when the team of colliers came into view and he saw Rudy walking alongside the cart. They made eye contact, but neither said a word as the colliers and team pushed past. John’s insides felt like jelly as the team moved through the doorway. He thought he was free and clear, but just before the colliers and team disappeared into the darkness ahead, Rudy wheeled around and threw something at John. It missed, but only by inches. John heaved a sigh of relief. He was safe—until the next time.
Taking hold of the lantern, John raised it high so he could see his work. He smiled with satisfaction as he studied the fine detail of the animals and birds. In the dull glow of the lantern, the white chalk lines were stark and vibrant. The colors glowed like sunset. All of the figures stood out with shocking, unnerving dimensionality.
As he admired his work, he gradually became aware of a creepy feeling, like something cold and moist slithering up his back between his shirt and skin. He hunched his shoulders as if expecting to be attacked suddenly from behind. Sucking in and holding his breath, he turned around slowly to see numerous points of red light glowing in the darkness behind him.
Rats! John thought. Dozens of rats . . . all staring at him.
John glanced at his lunch pail, worried that the rodents were going to make off with his food, but they didn’t. Faint scuffing sounds filled the mine, and he realized it was the sound of their leathery tails, twitching and brushing across the mine floor.
John quickly realized that the rats were staring . . . not at him, but past him. He turned slowly and looked at his drawings on the wooden door, and then he understood.
The rats were mesmerized by his drawings.
Is this really happening? he wondered.
Feeling a bit self-conscious, he slid his hand into his jacket pocket, took out another piece of chalk, and started drawing again. Before long, he forgot all about his audience as he sketched even more figures of various beasts. He only stopped when other teams of colliers came up the track and needed him to open the door to let them out with the cartloads of coal.
IT BECAME A daily routine. Rudy would call John out. John would try to ignore him or escape. Then Rudy, followed by his gang of cronies, would catch up with him—unless John was able to outrun them—and taunt and slap John around until he tripped and fell or was pushed to the ground, sometimes into a mud puddle or a pile of horse dung. Only after he had gotten John to cry would Rudy appear to be satisfied. Once he had proven whatever point he was trying to make, he would smile like a moon-faced idiot through the coal dust that blackened his face and then walk away, strutting like he was cock of the walk.
One day after work, John saw his da up ahead, walking with three other men. They were no doubt heading to the saloon to, as Da said, “lay the dust.” After drying his eyes on his coat sleeve, he ran to catch up.
“Are you going home now, Da?” he asked, his voice reed-thin.
Da and his pals stopped, and they all turned to look at him. Their faces were covered by masks of black coal dust that made their eyes stand out, wide and bright. After a heartbeat or two, Da’s expression folded into a scowl.
“You been crying like a little baby again, ain’t yah?” he said.
John wiped his cheeks with the flats of his hands, smearing the coal dust across his face. He wanted to tell Da about Rudy, about how he was sick and tired of the bullying, but he saw clearly now that he wouldn’t get an ounce of sympathy.
“You gotta learn ta’ take it ’n not come running to your da for help,” Da said. “Stand up and fight back, if you be a man . . . or else take yer punishment like a man.”
With that, Da spit onto the ground and turned, walking away with his cohorts falling into step beside him. When they were about thirty feet away, Da said something that John couldn’t hear. All the men burst out laughing, and John had little doubt his da had insulted him. His face was burning with embarrassment as he turned and headed for home, knowing—at least—that he was safe from any more punishment for today . . . until later, when Da came home from the saloon.
Arriving home, John couldn’t help but notice how pale and fragile his mother had become. She was sad and preoccupied, and she flinched at every little sound. He was sure he was the source of her sorrow and worry. He wished he could talk to her about how bad things were getting, but somehow neither of them could bring it up. It seemed as though Da was drinking more every week. And if he didn’t drink enough to pass out the minute he got in the door, he would be in a towering rage. And he would hurt Mama.
Since John’s wages went to Da, John had no money. There was no way for him to escape with Mama and Shep.
Maybe we never talk about anything because there’s no way out, thought John.
ONE NIGHT IN late November, John woke up to the sound of Shep yelping and howling in the backyard. He tossed the bedcovers aside and ran downstairs, his heart racing as he flung open the back door and saw Da mercilessly kicking the dog. John leaped off the steps and started toward them, but before he got there, his father kicked Shep so hard the poor dog went flying in the air until he fetched up at the end of his tether. Shep howled once, sharply, in agony as he tried to crawl back to the protection of his doghouse, but there was something wrong with his back. His hind legs kept flopping about on the ground. After a few heartbreaking seconds, the only sounds the dog could make were soft grunting noises as though he was choking back his pain.
“No! . . . Da! . . . Please!” John shouted, tears blurring his vision as he ran over to Shep. He placed himself dangerously between Shep and Da. Tears streamed down his face as he shouted: “Stop it! . . . You’re killing him!”
Da swayed drunkenly as he regarded his son with a wild, unfocused glare. He reeked of whiskey fumes and rancid sweat.
“S’ already dead,” Da muttered thickly, and then he hawked up a ball of snot and spit it off into the darkness.
Sobbing so hard it hurt his chest, John gathered Shep up into his arms. The dog was shaking and breathing with a deep, watery rattle, but only for a few moments more. With a deep shudder, he let out a long sigh and then was still.
“Useless goddamned cur, if you ask me. You, boy. Get back in the house,” Da said, and then he lurched away, weaving from side to side as he tried to make it up the steps to the back door.
John buried his face in his dog’s fur and cried for a long time. Shep grew cold in his arms. Snow began to fall, sticking to his hair and Shep’s coat. The flakes felt like tiny hot pinpricks when they landed and melted on the back of John’s neck.
In the morning, before dawn, Mama made John a bowl of oatmeal for breakfast and slipped an extra potato into his pocket for lunch. Her face was downcast, but she said nothing about Shep, whose snow-covered body lay motionless in the backyard. Da came downstairs and, leaning over the slate sink, stared out the window. John couldn’t tell if he was looking at Shep or if he even saw him. Finally, Da hawked up and spit into the sink.
“Damned stupid dog,” he said, and then, with a strange, glazed look in his eyes, he turned to John and said, “Hurry up boy. We can’t be late.”
DAYS TURNED INTO weeks, and weeks turned into months. Toward January, John caught a cold, which settled into his lungs. His thin body was racked by coughing spasms that brought up mucus that was black with coal dust. His eyes glittered with fever. Mama made beef tea from marrow bones to help him regain his strength, but it didn’t seem to help much. He knew if he didn’t go to work for even one day he would lose his job. And then Da would beat him for the money he wasted on the new boots he got John for work.
His only comfort at work was that he kept drawing, and it wasn’t long before the door and walls of the mine were
festooned with a wild menagerie of creatures. As the weeks and months passed, he would take handfuls of dirt and scrub some of the figures away, only to replace them with pictures of wilder, more vicious-looking beasts.
The only other constant was Rudy, who continued to torment him. John had long since stopped wondering why Rudy singled him out for such abuse. In a way, it was just like the way Da mistreated Mama, as if she were the cause of all his misery. It never failed that when Rudy passed by in the tunnel, he would shove John if he got close enough or throw something at him—usually a fist-sized lump of coal or a mule turd. Usually, Rudy missed, but the threat of being seriously injured was a daily torment—a torment even worse, John thought, than sitting alone in the mine with only rats for company.
But one day while John was still light-headed from his fever, Rudy hit him full in the face with a lump of mule dung, blinding him. Rudy’s laughter was so loud it echoed in the mine shaft while John shook his head wildly and wiped his eyes with his sleeve. The turd had been fresh and left behind a rancid stink than made him gag.
“Good fer yer, yer no good cock-knocker,” Rudy said as he hoisted his lamp up high to get a good look at John. And for the first time, Rudy saw—or noticed—the figures John had drawn on the trapdoor and mine walls. He stopped short and gaped at the drawings that seemed to surround him. Even as his mule team lumbered steadily ahead, Rudy looked at John, his eyes narrow with hate.
“Doodlin’ on th’ walls, eh?”
John was too scared to do anything more than nod.
“You know, I’m goin’ ta have ta report yer. Yer’ll catch hell for defacin’ company prop’ty.”
Filled with a sudden surge of rage, John bent down and picked up a jagged piece of coal.
“Yer in some deep shit now, boy-o. The boss finds out, he’ll be firin’ yer sorry ass.”
Without thinking, John cocked his arm back and flung the coal lump at Rudy, hitting him squarely on his cheek. The sharp edge tore a deep gash, and blood began to flow freely down Rudy’s face.
“Yer wee piece of shite!” Rudy roared, and he started toward John.
Trembling with fear and rage, John backed away, moving from the trapdoor, deeper into the depths of the mine.
“Get yer ass up here, McIntyre!” one of Rudy’s teammates shouted as the cart continued to rumble along the track, but Rudy ignored him. Sputtering like an enraged bull, he strode steadily toward John. His balled-up fists looked as big and hard as sledgehammer heads, swinging at his sides.
As John drew back farther into the tunnel, his pulse was racing so hard that his throat started to ache. His lantern was on the floor by the trapdoor. Its faint glow made Rudy’s approaching silhouette appear huge. The coal carts, still rumbling along the track, had long since passed through the door and were out of sight. John heard one of the miners shouting to Rudy, “Never mind the lad, you numb shit! Get back to yer carts!” as they were swallowed by the blackness.
Rudy ignored the warning and rapidly closed the distance between himself and John, who cowered back against the wall.
As Rudy cocked back his fist, a rat darted out of the darkness and ran straight toward him. John had an instant to wonder if his brain might be playing tricks on him because of his fear, but the rat didn’t look like any ordinary rat. It was the same shape . . . and the same size—maybe a bit bigger, but its body was outlined with a shimmering white glow that looked like thick chalk marks come to life.
Rudy stopped in his tracks, his eyes following the creature. He shuffled his feet a little, as if afraid the rat was going to crawl up his pants leg. Behind him, in the dim lantern light, shadows stirred and moved with the same eerie glow.
John gasped, noticing distantly that the air in the mine suddenly smelled . . . different . . . peculiar. John suddenly felt like a vise had encircled his chest and he wheezed, trying to draw in air that wasn’t there. Rudy apparently took these as whimpers of fear because he started to laugh a deep, cold laugh and moved close again, his fists clenched. John looked past Rudy and saw huge rats and fanged wolves stalking along the floor and eagles soaring through the dusty air. All of them were outlined with white light, and they glowed with bright, vibrant colors as they came swiftly up behind Rudy.
John was frozen with fear and disbelief. He barely noticed the deep, grinding rumble that had started to shake the walls of the mine. The support beams overhead shifted, and rock and grit began to sift down from the ceiling between the rafters. Within seconds, thick black coal dust filled the air, blotting out the faint glow of John’s lantern, which he’d left by the trapdoor.
It took John a moment or two to realize what was happening. His worst fears were confirmed seconds later when the deep concussion of an explosion shook the mine. More dirt and rocks fell, and from somewhere deep in the mine, a man’s voice shouted “Fire damp! Run for—”
And then the voice was silenced.
The ground kept shaking, knocking both John and Rudy down. As John scrambled to get to his feet, trying to orient himself, dense, choking vapors with a stench of rotten eggs filled the midnight-dark air. The walls closed in.
That was when the screaming began.
Loud and shrill . . . and so close.
At first, he saw nothing through the billow of dust.
And then he did see.
John watched in stunned silence as a wild assortment of creatures—his drawings—swarmed out of the darkness. Beady, wicked eyes glowed green and red in the darkness, and white teeth and claws flashed like lightning. Bright flashes of light hurt his eyes as he watched them swarm over Rudy, whose shrill screams rose high but were all but lost beneath the grumbling roar of the shaking earth.
The ceiling and walls all around John began to crumble. The air was a thick soup of coal dust and poison gases, too thick to breathe. John’s lungs felt like they were filled with fire. He had no breath to scream. He could only listen to the sound of tearing flesh.
There was no escape. No matter which direction he ran, John knew he was doomed. The melee of creatures he had drawn were a seething mass over Rudy’s still-writhing body, and they were between John and the trapdoor. He couldn’t go that way, and if he ran the other way, he’d go deeper into the mine where the damp had exploded. There were dead and dying men down there, he knew, and he was sure the explosion had caused a cave-in.
Rudy’s screams were now wet, choking gurgles, and it wasn’t long before there came one loud, strangled gargling sound . . . and then silence.
Now that they were done with Rudy, John was sure his creatures would turn on him . . . unless he found a way out of here.
Tears filled his eyes, and he tried to accept the stark truth that he was going to die down here . . . alone . . . and that his mama would find out soon enough that he and, for all he knew, his da had died.
A long, low howl that reminded John of the sound Shep had made the night Da kicked him to death filled the air. Then another flash of white light up ahead caught his attention. His vision blurred, his lungs burning. John wanted to move forward but couldn’t. With no strength left to stand, his knees buckled, and he dropped slowly to the floor.
Good-bye, Mama, he thought.
And then, a miracle.
A warm wet nose grazed his cheek. Through narrowed eyes, he looked up and saw that the portrait of Shep he had drawn, the first one he had ever done on the trapdoor and that he had never erased, had also come to life. A wild, flickering white light filled the darkness around him as Shep’s big, shaggy head leaned forward. And then jaws closed on John’s coat collar, tugging him forward, out of the mine.
“Shep . . . Shep, old fella,” John muttered like someone talking in his sleep.
He threw his arms around Shep, and he saw his horde of creatures retreating, their flickering, swirling outlines disappearing into the depths of the mine. A few moments later, distant screams rent the air as the creatures attacked the miners still trapped in the rubble of the cave-in.
Somehow, John fought bac
k the urge to panic. He found a reserve of strength and stumbled to his feet, holding the thick scruff of Shep’s neck. Unable to see anything in the dense darkness, he let himself be led up the shaft. The ground was silent now—an eerie silence that John knew was the silence of death.
How many miners are dead down there? he wondered.
Is Da one of them?
He moved his feet mechanically as he walked side by side with Shep. Every now and then, his dog would turn and look at him, eyes glowing unnaturally bright and jowls rising into what John knew had to be a smile.
You came for me, he seemed to be saying with his smile. And I came for you.
The dog, his body outlined with vibrating white light, panted heavily as they got closer to the trapdoor. The coal dust had begun to ventilate, and John began to breathe a bit more easily. Blood flowed back into his limbs, but all the while, he was waiting to hear the sound of the other creatures, chasing after him and closing the gap . . . ready to rip him apart.
Up ahead, frantic voices shouted commands. He released his grip on Shep’s neck when they were less than fifty feet from the mine entrance. There were lights up ahead—glowing lanterns of the rescue workers charging into the bowels of the mine to try to find and save any survivors. As John and Shep got to the lantern light, Shep’s vibrant white evanescence became fainter and fainter until—finally—it winked out like a guttering candle. John realized with a heart-wrenching ache that he was alone.
He tried to run, but his legs were too weak, and he staggered toward the faint, gray glow of daylight and the crowd of men, moving toward him. One man raised his lantern and shone it full into John’s face.
“You aw’right, there, young Schmitz?” a voice asked.
John was dazed by the brightness of the lantern light.
Dark Duets Page 43
