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“So a riot starts. One of his guys actually had been a fireman. He showed the others how to use the hoses. Next thing you know, they’re serving as a real fire brigade.
“The Kurians had him make other ‘fire teams.’ The ironic thing is he’d started out as this would-be revolutionary or anarchist or whatever you’d call him, killing rich men, or formerly rich ones, and just a few years later he’s using water hoses on desperate people.
“Turned into a real mean old bastard right up until the end. Still convinced he was changing the world? Who knows? He had no problem killing ’em, poor as well as rich.
“In the end, they just want power. That’s what it’s always been about.
“Funny thing is, he knew what it was like pre-2022. My old man said everything they say about that time’s a lie.”
• • •
Director Prapa paced the mine like a caged wolf for the next few days, finding fault everywhere. We spent three days tearing apart drilling gear for cleaning and maintenance ordered by Prapa; then the foremen came down and reported that the director was furious with the drop in production.
With the purge looming, everyone felt that he was certainly on Prapa’s list. Word of my loss in the ring spread and I began to get speculative looks. They were probably wondering if I was large enough to feed two Reapers.
“He’s really mad about the loss of his four-wheeler,” Sikorsky said. He had the best connections in the mine office. “He had to sell it to pay gambling debts. And his boat. And the tow rig. Now he either gets to drive a mine pickup or his wife’s natural gas wagon.”
Rage chuckled. “I heard that was just some bait in the water to let the sharks know the real meal is coming. Wonder where he’ll get the rest of the money? Can’t borrow. Nobody in Coal Country’s rich, except the Maynes family.”
Perhaps as a threat, Prapa took to wearing his militia uniform to work, with his old Youth Vanguard decorations in a neat little row under the lighter patch that used to hold his name tag. It seemed he felt that, for him as director, having to wear his name would fall in the area of lèse-majesté.
Some men look like a sex crime waiting to happen no matter what uniform they put on, and Prapa was one of those. He tried standing with feet out and arms clasped behind; he tried carrying a walking stick; he tried sporting a shoulder holster with bullets slipped into the bandolier’s loops. The men still snickered when he passed. Whoever he was trying to impress, it wasn’t the miners. Were there other eyes watching Number Four? If so, why would they be impressed by his strutting?
Smelling faintly like mothballs and the witch hazel his wife used to mask the mothball odor didn’t help, either. Men of substance didn’t smell as if they’d been sleeping in a basement footlocker.
When the lift dropped to the mine level during my shift four days after the fight, the witch hazel odor told me Prapa had ventured into the dark face of Number Four. I had a premonition of trouble. I’ve only had a handful of such feelings in my life that I can recall, but each time they have proved correct.
I’d been five hours at the coal face and had an appetite that wouldn’t reject raw dog or cooked rat. I’d smelled stew cooking in Aym’s commissary cage as I’d passed it while travelling to the face, and I’d finally found time to sample it. She’d given me a double portion and fresh cider in my canteen.
“Cider’s going to be running short until the fall again. This is the last of the overwinter supply,” she said, filling my stainless reservoir up. “Sorry if it’s a bit vinegary.”
“Sweet. Sour. Both good,” I said.
“Wish I could have a radio down here,” she said. “Help pass the day. Sikorsky promised to rig something, but he can’t find parts.”
“I could read to you,” I said.
“It might look odd, or blow your big smart Grog act.”
The lift began to whine. “Those pulleys need oiling again,” I said.
“Tell me about it. Drives Crumb nuts. He hides whenever it’s in use.”
“Prapa,” I said as the lift banged down to the tunnel.
I sat down with my back against the bench outside (I was too big for the rather narrow bench itself, but the wood was better than cold rock), and I went to work on the stew. It wasn’t bad, though I suspected it had been made from horse meat.
“Our yellow Grog’s stuffing groceries, I see. No fear of a sandwich in that one.”
Prapa looked down. Crumb was nuzzling his ankles and purring.
He stomped on the cat, or kicked it, hard. I didn’t see the actual blow. I heard something snap, and the cat clawed away from Prapa, one rear leg bloody with exposed bone scraping awfully against the ground as it moved.
“Crumb!” Aym shouted. “What?—”
Prapa, sick of the yowling, pulled his revolver. Aym recognized the sound of a hammer being clicked back and threw herself toward him. He stiff-armed her, knocking her into her kitchen cart.
The loud report snapped painfully off the tunnel walls, making the gun seem three times as loud.
