FLYER: MINE WHERE I GO
CHAPTER TWO: The Mine and the Monster Part 1
The Rebreather filtration charge blinks red. Last bar. Last bit of functional power before I’m inhaling toxic fog-stink.
My Jump Pack: same. With no structures over 100 feet, I cannot reach subtle untainted air to recharge and make the tanks work properly. The momentary leaps into fresh air from house rooftops and old business buildings simply are not enough to keep my pack fueled.
I got past most of the homes and businesses on West Fulton. I arrived at John Ball Park. Historians said the park was expansive and beautiful yet could be traversed in a short time. Standing on the corner of Fulton and Valley, before the park entrance, knowing I had to get to the southwest corner of the property three-quarters of a mile away seemed like a jaunt of futility.
How had Mrs. Pattson done it? A Vapor Suspension Propulsion Rig Model 2, her own, and old, Jump Pack stitched with duct tape and prayers, she had to have gone mostly on foot through the foul ground fog soup. Her rebreather had to have been in the red like mine was now.
But she had made it to the mines beyond the park.
#
“Errf!” I landed a bit harder than I wanted on the broken asphalt.
Above me towered the span of the ancient expressway of Interstate 196. The bridgeway stood strong even though its concrete façade was cracked and crumbled, and its steel girders rusted and flaking. The roadbed the overpass supported had long forgotten vehicle travel.
Before me, Butterworth Avenue stretched into the distance. It weaved southwestward into the boondocks filled with deep woodlands, swamps, ponds and greenways. It was what I liked about Grand Rapids, Michigan: you didn’t have to go far from the big city to find the natural world.
Except the world wasn’t looking so natural now.
Rebreather stuttering, I knew I was inhaling the putrid ground fog. Through my protective visor, the landscape took on a jaundiced appearance. Sick. Wilting. The trees had leaves, but they hung crumpled, looking drained and wrung out like dirty dish clothes.
The old gravel pit which housed the mines was not far away. A metal cyclone fence runs the façade of the area. Gapped in places, there was no real obstacle to keeping living things out.
Are the Korpz out here? Waiting for me? I thought to myself. Negative thoughts. The thoughts brought on by fog-poison. Am I meant to die out here?
The trees along the roadway appeared unnaturally bare. The limbs of many of the leafy trees looked stripped. Some broke as if a heavy weight had dragged them down. I’d not seen the fog kill a stand of trees yet…
Inside the grounds, the mine entrance yawned like a great black maw. I wanted to be swallowed, to be forgotten.
I tried to clear my head of the bad thoughts, of the suicidal thoughts. I knew it was the fog creeping into my system.
I stepped into the gaping wound in the earth, stumbled onto a small trolley. My fingers glanced across a green button. The metal carriage shuddered to life. Surprising.
My rebreather blinked red. Critical.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Pattson. I failed you.”
The world went pitch black.
#
I awakened to my rebreather beeping. The gage blinked green. All bars filled.
For a moment I could not get my bearings. Roughly-hewn stone walls, floor and ceiling surrounded me. A line of bright light bulbs ran along the center line of the ceiling, veering off to the left or right if coming to a aperture in the wall. More paths to follow.
I lifted myself from the trolley.
I survived. And the reason…
“The air’s fresh, clean. Untainted,” I said aloud, slowly lifting the mask off my face and sliding back the cowl of my suit.
It didn’t make sense at first. But then I remembered something from my early scavenger days… how toxic air settles in low spaces—unless it’s reactive. The Fog wasn’t just heavy. It was alive. A chemical cocktail that needed light, movement, and oxygen to sustain its lethal state.
Down below ground level. No UV rays. Air but less reaction. The fog died in the dark.
That’s when I heard IT. A low, snuffling growl. Something big shuffle-padding in the depths somewhere before me.
The fog died in the dark…
…but other things lived.
TO BE CONTINUED
FLYER illustration by John Muller