The pickaxe digs into the crevice. I twist it back and forth until it comes out. Finally it comes free, along with a small chunk of ore. I pick it up and examine it, then try to set it on my pile, only to discover I no longer have a pile. Someone has stolen my ore.

I look around and note the slave next to me, 957, has a suspiciously large amount of ore. But then the horn sounds and I cannot do anything about it. I drop the pickaxe and bend to gather my single chunk. The mine superintendent is not going to be pleased with me but I force myself to stand still as he moves along the line.

He stops at each worker, counting their ore, complimenting or punishing, marking their tally on their chest with a piece of charcoal. The older workers have the most, of course, but they have also lost all hope. They stand without expression, gaunt dirty bodies and soulless eyes, reacting neither to praise nor punishment expect an involuntary yelp at the feel of the switch.

The superintendent comes to me, sneers at my offering, raises a couple of welts on my thighs with the switch accompanied by cries of pain from me, tallies my ore with a single line on my breast, moves on to 957, who gets much praise. I don’t even need a bucket - I carry my chunk to the smelter, dump it into the pile, then resume my place.

The horn sounds again, and we shuffle in a straggling line to the dining area. On the way there, I take advantage of a turn in the path, stop, wait until 957, who is right behind me in the train, is next to me. I whisper words I have not spoken in I have no idea how long. 957’s body flies into the rock wall. I look at the cracked and bleeding skull and the slowly dying eyes without remorse. Guards run up, murmur about slipping and accidents, disconnect 957 from the train, drag the body off. The train continues to the feeding room. I take my place, kneeling in front of a trough. There is little to eat – a few wilted greens, what looks like it was once possibly a carrot. I wolf it down.

Once the meal is finished, we shuffle to the bathing room. We take turns on the chamber pots, then are chained standing along the wall. Men douse us with buckets of water, rinsing away a layer of black dirt, which seems pointless to me but, of course, I don’t say anything.

On, then, to the sleeping cell. I kneel on my pallet of straw and wait for someone to lock my collar to the ring on the wall with a length of chain, then settle into the straw. I sleep lightly; small sounds wake me from time to time. Some undetermined time later I feel a touch on my back.

I lift up, push my hips back, but then feel another tap. I understand. I turn, lift myself to my knees, open my mouth, sit still as the guard shoves his cock down my throat. I sit and try not to gag until the guard’s spunk spurts out. Some of it dribbles down my face. Some of it I swallow with my next mouthful of saliva. When it’s done, I crumble back to the straw and fall into a fitful sleep.

The horn seems to sound before I manage much sleep. I lift myself up and kneel. A man comes by presently, detaches the chain from my collar. I stand and wait until all the workers are in line and chained together. We shuffle back to the mine and take our places. When the horn sounds, I strike. The pickaxe digs into the crevice. I twist it back and forth until it comes out. Finally it comes free, along with a small chunk of ore.

Next Chapter

Previous Chapter

Start at the Beginning