Chapter One
In a space less than five feet high, Amos Blevins rode a shrieking, convulsing mining machine that clawed coal out of a worked-out vein more than fifteen stories underground. The walls left behind barely supported the roof.
A mountain of rock hung suspended above him as he tunneled away at its base. The mine was murky, dense with black dust and barely lit by a few lights and headlamps. To reduce the risk of coal-dust explosions, the walls were coated in chalky limestone, making them look frozen—like a black-and-white photo of an arctic night.
Ears covered, Amos felt the machine's roar more than heard it. Sound waves bathed him from every direction. They made a drum of his sternum, massaged his organs and fought the very rhythm of his heart—on occasion, making him gasp.
And always there was the dust. It could swallow him up and nearly drown him. Like most miner men, he couldn't work with a mask or respirator because it clogged far too often. He hated the dust that filled his mouth, clogged his breath, and hardened his snot.
But sometimes, being enveloped by the dust made him feel as if he'd joined the mountain in some intermediate stage between existence and oblivion. The feeling brought a blend of sadness and wonder, the way he sometimes felt standing over a dying buck.
The mountain seemed to wake up, struggle, and surrender its black soul.
He backed the machine's studded drum away from the coal, and the effect was broken. He figured he'd cut forty feet from the last crosscut, twice what the law allowed. He pulled the giant machine away from the wall and, as always, did it a little too quickly.
He knew that he was no more likely to get crushed in a roof fall while backing out than while digging ahead. But he'd known a guy who was killed while in reverse. The men with him had said that, with just a few more seconds, he would have lived. Amos didn't want to die like that. He wanted to be fully into the mountain when it gave way so there'd be no doubt, no what-ifs for Glenda.
Coal mine roofs stay up in part because miners leave behind columns of coal as supports, making the mine a series of tunnels and cross tunnels that, when mapped, look like city blocks. More support comes when men on roof-bolting machines drill yard-long screws into the ceiling, cementing several layers of overhead rock together.
Amos sat in the small operator's chair stuck under a canopy on the side of the machine, which was the shape of a huge brick with a studded roll on its front. Barrel-chested, he wore black coveralls, a miner's helmet, headlamp, and a coat of grime that blacked out the gray in his shoulder-length hair and full beard. The whites and shiny wetness of his eyes were the only contrast to the dull black that enveloped him and erased the creases from his fifty-year-old face.
Amos knew he didn't have to worry about backing into his helper. The kid stayed well behind him, never venturing under unbolted roof. Made the job harder for Amos. He didn't have anyone just over his shoulder to guide him. The kid was jumpy as a cat. Amos had heard that his girlfriend had just given birth to a son.
No man can work every day in terror. Either the kid would quit or he'd give himself up to the mountain. Amos wished that he'd get on with doing one or the other.
Amos backed the miner left into the crosscut. Steaming, the drum smelled of battery acid and barbecue. He put the miner into forward and headed right, across the face of the coal.
Amos glanced behind him and saw Rob Crane drive up on a wide, low-slung cart. Rob was one of several scoop operators in the mine who ferried coal from Amos's machine back to the mine's conveyor belt.
Amos signaled with his hand that he was continuing on, and Rob nodded and then broke into a wide grin. Amos raised his hands in question. Rob pointed at the kid and then laughed. Amos shrugged.
It was a running joke in the mine. Amos often brought game for dinner, which turned the kid's stomach. Today, he had packed the grilled half-carcass of a possum, an animal akin to a huge rat. At dinner, he had cut away portions of the eighteen-inch stalk of bone and meat with a pocket knife, blood and grease dripping into his beard.
As usual, the kid had stared at Amos with a mixture of fascination and horror. The rest of the crew had watched in silence, waiting. Finally, the kid said, "Jesus," and crawled off to eat his dinner elsewhere. Several crew members had chuckled, but Rob had hooted with laughter that kept on bubbling out of him.
His laughter wasn't the only thing that set Rob apart. Rob was black, a rarity in Appalachian coal mines.
Amos watched Rob's mouth appear and disappear as he laughed, and Amos smiled despite himself. Amos turned the machine into the coal face to continue mining. He looked around again. No sign of their foreman, Mike Barnes. Wondering what Mike did all day, Amos started the machine's drum spinning and edged the miner forward into the coal. The roar began again.
Amos began at floor level and gradually moved the drum up five feet to the roof. When the teeth started to spark on the rock layer above the coal, Amos eased the drum back down and moved the miner machine forward. Rob edged his scoop forward and coupled with the miner so that Amos's machine would disgorge its coal.
Amos made it about twenty feet into his cut when a block of coal about the size of a stove shot out of the wall and grazed the miner's canopy before it crashed into the machine's tail and rolled on toward Rob.
Amos turned to see where the block had gone. He saw the rock first and then Rob, somewhat to the side and underneath it, slapping it with his left forearm.
And behind the scoop he saw the kid, pinned to a mine rib by a column of water. Amos realized that water was pouring out of a hole in the mine wall, pushing him back against the canopy's supports. Amos fought against the pressure but couldn't get out. He put both hands on the canopy support before him and pulled against the force of the water. He slid his left leg out of the seat, ducked his head out from under the canopy, and was immediately swept back.
He slammed feet-first into Rob's scoop and was lifted up onto its side. Amos righted himself and edged along the machine to Rob, who had stopped pounding on the block and sat staring at it.
Amos braced his legs against the nearby rib and pushed on the block. Nothing. He grabbed Rob under the arms and pulled. Rob looked up at Amos, surprise on his face. Amos stopped and looked down.
Rob's coveralls were torn at the waist, and Amos could see that his legs were beginning to tear away. As their helmet lights lit up the gash, Amos saw a tangle of yellow, white, and red gristle.
He put a hand on one of Rob's shoulders and then moved, hand over hand, back toward the kid. At the end of the machine, Amos crossed to the wall of the mine, clawing at the coal to brace himself. Crouched under the low ceiling, he edged along the wall and raised his arms to shield his face from the spray. Soon, he could barely make headway against the force of the water. He finally reached the kid's hand and pulled. It wasn't enough. Amos edged closer and brought his left arm across his body and grabbed under the kid's left armpit.
Without an arm in front of his face, the water hit Amos with its full force. He couldn't breathe. He figured he had one chance to pull the kid free before they both drowned.
Excerpted from Hazard by .
Copyright 2010 by Gardiner Harris.
Published in March 2010 by St. Martin's Press.
All rights reserved. This work is protected under copyright laws and reproduction is strictly prohibited. Permission to reproduce the material in any manner or medium must be secured from the Publisher.