When he opened his eyes, he was in the comfort of a tunnel. Vol and Stock had moved him there to try and lessen whatever pain he had. Stock was leaning against the tunnel wall; Vol was sitting next to him.

“I know,” Vol said, “that this is hardest for you.” Christ turned his head away. “But I think it’s time to tell us what happened to you down there.”

“You were there,” Christ said. “You were there.”

“Not for all of it,” Vol rejoined.

“Let’s go back up,” Christ said. Nothing was worse than this. He’d rather dig for his entire life.

“No, Christ,” Stock said. “Tell us.”

Christ looked at the two of them, and then began.

“You know that when you woke up, you had nothing. There’s not much worse than that. You had nothing but the clothes on your back, the shovel in your hand. But you, at least, had me awake with you.

“When I awoke there was no one else there; I was the first. The first to sit up, unable to move or speak. The first to find that all he could remember was the word ‘dig.’ The first to see the bodies, your bodies, sprawled everywhere like mummies on the ground.

“I tried to wake you. Some animal instinct in my called for it, and I tried to wake a companion. I shook you and shook you. All of you. All twenty. But no one awoke. All this time, I was trying to remember anything but ‘dig.’ Anything but that. I finally got one out: Christ. Saying this like a mantra to myself, I tried to explore the place I’d been born into.

“It was a cavern; rectangular, plain, dark. Hot. Finished with my exploration of my surroundings, I explored myself. My shape was odd to me. Two legs that I taught myself to walk on; two arms that I shook bodies with. Eyes that were always wet; a mouth that could make sad cries; and a head that I made bleed on the walls.

“Time passed. Hope died, and I began to dig, like that hellish implanted instinct told me to. But I never got far, because I was disorganized, confused. I’m sure that, in those hours, I was deranged.

“‘Christ,’ I kept murmuring, because that was the half of my vocabulary that I wasn’t afraid of.

“And then, one day, Stock groaned. I was instantly at his side, and soon the others began to wake. I was no longer alone. My joy was immeasurable as I met each one of you with the word I loved. Then you each gave me the word you could remember, what was important to you. In this way we became friends, and my derangement ended. More words came to my mind, and somehow we learned to communicate.

“But then there were the ones who never woke up.

“And it had just begun for the rest of you, as you know. The men each went through something like I had. Confusion, emptiness. Violence erupted as fear spread. Hope died again.

“Then one day you had the idea to dig up, Vol. And Stock got the men to follow his leadership. And since then, we’ve been digging. Hoping—even praying—that we’ll get out. We were out.” Christ sighed, finished.

“But where are the things we left behind?” asked Stock. “What were those things?”

“I didn’t tell anyone what they were,” Christ said, “because I am afraid.”

“Telling us the hardest part is over,” Vol said. “Can’t you say? If you tell me, I’ll get them, and you won’t have to.”

“Supplies, aren’t they?” asked Stock, even though his definition for ‘supplies’ was vague. Everyone knew that there was something down in this cavern, but no one except Christ knew what they were.

Christ shook his head. “Tools,” he answered. He stood. “And I know how to get to them.” Setting his jaw, he walked towards the cavern.

“Wait,” Stock said, surprised at the turn of events. “I thought you were all scared. What’s all this bravado?”

Vol didn’t bother to ask what bravado was. “Christ, you don’t have to. Just tell me.”

“I couldn’t, even if I wanted to,” Christ said, turning back to his friends. “I wouldn’t know what to call them. Just,” he said, his voice becoming softer, “just come with me, won’t you?”

The other two nodded, and followed him into the cavern.

The cavern was enormous. The ceiling was easily two heads higher than Stock, who was tallest among them. It was long, and when they spoke their voices echoed. The grisly dead lay like statues and the mounds around them stood like formless sores on the cavern floor. Christ kept walking.

Out of habit he began talking; he always did because it was a gift to share thoughts and to break the monotony of digging. “How much longer do you think the men will wait for us?”

“Indefinitely,” Stock reassured.

“Not much longer,” Vol countered realistically. Eventually the men would become impatient and go into the east tunnel, find that they were not there, and then demand an explanation from each other. None of the trio said it, but they all knew that violence would likely result.

“How much, though?” Christ asked. “The regular camp time?”

“A few hours,” said Vol. There was silence for an instant.

“Vol,” Stock said, “I don’t remember what an hour is.”

“It’s sixty minutes,” said Christ, remembering it himself. “Remember clocks?”

“Clocks?” asked Vol. But Stock did.

“Had one in my office.” He stopped walking. “My…office…,” he murmured. “Office, employer, work. Do you remember work?”

“Work,” repeated Vol. He had stopped, too. “I worked…with a volcano.”

“I worked, too,” said Christ, but he didn’t stop walking. “But I don’t remember what. Let’s keep going.”

They obeyed. It was getting hotter all the time, and Christ began to undo the fasteners on his shirt. He peeled the garment off, exposing his shoulders and the black piece of metal that was nestled in the small of his back. “You know,” Christ said, beginning another conversation as he rolled up his shirt. “I’ve always wondered what these were.”

“I call it a machine,” Stock said. “But I don’t know what it is.” Vol admitted to having never wondered.

The ground sloped downward, and at first they didn’t notice it because they were used to steep inclines. Suddenly streaks of orange came into view, on the floor in front of them. “Put your shirts back on,” Vol said suddenly.

“It’s so hot, though,” complained Stock. “Why, Vol?”

“Because. It’s magma. Put your shirt on.”

“What’s magma?” asked Christ.

“Gloves, too,” Vol said sternly.

They made their way through the veins of lava as quickly as they could because Vol told them they’d be burned if they stayed too long. As it was, they were being burned enough. To keep up some sort of morale, Christ began to speak again. “It’s not much longer now,” he said.

Stock had a question. “What was it you said before you passed out, Christ?” he asked. “Oh something?”

“Oh God,” Christ whispered, as if to say it too loudly was a crime.

“God?” asked Stock.

“God,” answered Christ, and then something changed in his face. “God. Listen, do you remember religion? God? Church? Anything?”

Stock was silent. Vol slowed his run and spoke in a hushed voice. “I was Lutheran.”

Stock shook his head and passed Vol. “Don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. “Come on, we’ve gotta make it back, you know. Save some skin to be toasted on the way back.”

“No, no,” Christ said. “This is too important. Stock, you said it yourself. You had a clock in your office. Vol used to be Lutheran. Why ‘had’? Why ‘used to’? I don’t remember either of you being anything but what you are now…unless you were those things when you were asleep.”

“Dammit, Christ, keep running,” Stock bellowed. All three began to run again, but Vol kept talking between panting breaths.

“You don’t think there’s been something before this, do you?” asked Vol. “Some other place?”

But no one responded because at that moment an explosion of molten yellow lava shattered the rock at Stock’s feet. Stock yelled and clutched his leg, which was covered in glowing magma and smoking. “Come on!” yelled Christ. “Only a few more feet!” They hauled Stock the remaining distance.

There, on the ground, was a metal panel covered in dents made by Christ’s shovel so long ago. Now he raised his shovel again and brought it down on the panel, moved by the groaning of Stock in the background. For him, Christ thought. For God, for friends, for freedom. For everything: for companionship, for communication, for understanding. For an end to pain. For an end to the trap.

Then one corner of the panel stuck up through the warm, tarlike rock floor. He wedged his softening blade underneath it and heaved. The panel came up with a horrendous shrieking screech. Not wanting to kneel and burn his legs, Christ squatted and reached through.

His hand met warm stone, smoothed. He kept moving his hand, and found a latch. “It’s a box,” he announced to his companions, though he hadn’t formed the thought in his mind from what he had known. He fumbled with the latch for a moment, then it came open. Hurriedly he reached inside the box and pulled out what was inside. And the instant it was in his hands, he knew that there was something before this life; it all flooded back. Every memory of his family, his friends, his education, his job, his house, his car. All the little things. He knew that there was something, and that this was a trap.

He held a piece of paper in his hands. Printed in thick black letters were two words: DIG UP.