The Underdwelling by Tim Curran Page B

Against Russo himself.
    And Russo, like every man who’d worked those drifts and channels, knew that the word of those guys wasn’t worth a sip of piss on a hot day, but the media didn’t know that. The journalists and TV parasites didn’t know the difference between a stope and a gopher hole, just like they didn’t know the difference between a hard-working man and a guy like Lem Rigby who’d shown up drunk and been canned on the spot by Russo.
    No, they didn’t know what Rigby’s game was.
    They only knew that in him and half-wit Charlie DeCock they had eyewitnesses to the workings of the mine itself that would sweeten the deal and make the Hobart look guilty as hell. And already the brass were smelling those lawsuits and they did not care for the stink.
    Russo knew somebody would get dragged over the rocks on this one.
    And that somebody would probably be him.
    So he shouted. He yelled. He threatened and intimidated and raised three kinds of holy hell.
    But what he was thinking about all the while was not his job and not lawsuits and not those candyass reporters topside.
    He was thinking about Jurgens and the miners.
    Down in the darkness, far below.
    Russo had been trapped underground for thirty-six hours once, so he knew. He goddamn well knew what that score was about.
    As the air hammers chiseled and the rubble was dragged out, as hydraulic lines vibrated and steam hoses hissed and men scrambled, he said under his breath, “Don’t worry, boys. I’ll get you out. Johnny Russo is on the job and I’ll get your fine white asses out of the pit. See if I don’t. And if you’re nothing but corpses, by God, then I’ll carry you out with my own bare hands.”

 
     
     
    12
    Gasping and clawing out, Boyd came awake from a dream where he was crushed beneath a mountain of solid rock.
    “Easy now,” a voice said.
    Breathing fast, he found that he was laying on his back, his leg from the knee down numb and rubbery feeling. He could see the glow of the lanterns, but they were dimming fast. He blinked his eyes and tried to speak, but all that came out was a groaning sound.
    “He’s coming around,” Breed said.
    “Take it easy,” Jurgens told him. “One of those goddamn trees caught your leg. We got it off you, but you got a nasty compound fracture, son. Don’t try and move.”
    But, of course, Boyd did and right away the pain kicked in. It felt like somebody was driving a spike into his shin. He let out a little muted scream and settled back down again.
    “Take it easy now,” Jurgens told him. “You’re going to be fine. We’ll get you out of here.”
    Maki let out a high little laugh. “No shit, Jurgens? And how do you plan on doing that? How do you plan on getting us out of this fucking tomb? Huh?” He just shook his head. “Let me be the first to clue you in on something, Boyd. We’re trapped down here. We’re trapped in this fucking cavern—”
    “Shut the hell up,” Breed told him.
    “—and we can’t get out. We get to sit around and twiddle our fucking thumbs while our lights go out and the air goes bad. How’s that for kicks, Boyd? How’s that for company incentive?”
    “Swear to God,” Breed said, “you don’t pipe down, I’ll kick the living shit out of you right now.”
    “We’ll be fine,” Jurgens said. “Even now they’ll be digging to get us out.”
    They were all sitting around him in a little circle by lantern light and Boyd looked from face to face to face. None of them looked particularly hopeful. Jurgens told him that the cave-in had sealed the stope leading out of the cavern. But that was no real reason for concern, because the cavern was huge and it would no doubt take weeks and weeks to use up all the oxygen in there. And long before that, they’d be dug out. Boyd listened and didn’t honestly believe a word of it. Maybe if it was just the stope that had caved-in and the tunnel leading to it and even the spider hole from the drift above…maybe then, they’d