Cinders

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A steady shower of ash fell down upon the hillside. It came from the factory below. The factory itself was a large set of buildings, spanning over several acres. The buildings were worn down from years of use and lack of care. Inside, coal was processed to form whatever the operator of the place decided the consumer needed. One room of the factory held only two workers at a time. This was the receiving room, where the coal was shipped on a train whose tracks sat about three feet lower than the floor. A train would come streaming in, its doors would open, and the two workers would shovel the coal out and either put it in the giant furnace that sat at the edge of the floor, mere inches from the point where it dropped down to the track, or they would heap it into another train cart that sat on tracks on the other side of the room, on level ground with everything else.

Only two workers worked down there at one time. I remind you of this, dear reader, because years of working in a dimly-lit room, inhaling the cinders and ash from the oven, and having communication with only one other person, could affect a man.

These workers had to be replaced often, for as the press was told at least, accidents kept occurring. Only the workers on floor directly above the room knew what was happening. The workers in the room itself would know as well, but they usually did not last long enough to notice anything astray. I say 'usually', my reader, because one man did manage to keep his sanity down in the hole for longer than the norm. He was an elderly man, sporting white, wispy hair and extra weight around his middle.

This man was down there several times longer than any other man had ever been, and he was revered by the upper-floor as an oddity. For years, he had worked there in the dim light, the unsettling quiet, and the ever-present ash and cinders that were constantly filling his lungs. Never had a man kept his right mind for as long as this man had. Why had he not fallen like the rest of them? It was because he did not care. He did not care for his sanity or his life. It had diminished year after year to the point where life and death seemed one in the same down in the pit.

If it was not modern day, there would have been talk of witchcraft being involved. Some people still did, but nobody paid attention to them. The man himself disregarded his coworkers, preferring the silence of solitude to the chatter of those whom did not understand. They just did not understand.

That man was me.

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A bright light flashed across the dull room, illuminating the rusty train carts sitting in one corner. I was not used to such a light - a light from the other room. Two figures appeared in the open doorway and closed the door behind them. I recognized one immediately. He was the general manager of this floor and the one above. He stood tall and stiff, as if being down here was a punishment worse than hell. I could not say I disagreed with him. The other I took in and felt immediate sorrow. He was a mere child to my eyes, no older than twenty. I looked at the manager again, appraising him with a hardened expression. He gave a firm nod and turned back to the door, leaving the trembling youth behind.

The man before me, if I could call him even that, was looking around the room with open curiosity and nervousness. I took a gloved hand and set it on his shoulder, drawing his gaze.

"Relax, son. Just keep your head, and all will be well."

Those words seemed to calm him down slightly, though I could still see a twinge of fear in his expression. I handed him a shovel and pointed to a cart. "Put the coal into the furnace. Be sure that the fire doesn't get too big."

He nodded and began working. The two of us worked this way in silence for a day and a half, only leaving once during those hours to go sleep at our homes. On the second day, the young man straightened up and looked at me. I raised a brow in speculation, giving him the signal to speak. He opened his mouth and closed it again before shaking his head and returning to work.

The third day, he did it again. And the fourth. And the fifth. Each occurrence saw him changing his mind about whatever he wanted to say, and return to his work. I knew what he wanted to know though. It was what every worker wanted to know after hearing about this place.

After a further week and a half, I finally heard the man's voice. It was a quiet and undemanding voice - one that would never draw him attention in the normal world. Then again, we were not in the normal world, so it caught my immediate attention and my apprehension. So often had I answered this question. And he did - he asked it just like I was expecting. No one could resist the temptation of that question for long.

"What happened to all the men down here?"

I avoided his eyes and kept working. I did not want to tell him, for nothing ever happened until after a person knew what to expect, feared it, and let it consume all.

"Hey! Are you deaf, old man?"

Finally, I looked up. He was looking at me with a morbidly fascinated expression - one that should have never reared its ugly head on that child's face. He was dooming only himself.

"What happens down here?" he asked again.

I shook my head. "Just keep your head, boy, and all will be well."

"What do you mean?"

"Exactly what I say. Enough chatter - the next train is coming," I said, finishing the conversation. Ten seconds later, a train came speeding into the room, slamming on its breaks with a loud wail, its doors flying open to reveal mountains of coal. I headed toward the train compartment, its floor level with the room's from how low the track sat, and began shoveling coal out, instructing the youth to move it to the cart on the far side of the room. I could feel his blue eyes boring into my back, but I ignored it. It was better this way.

It was silent for another three days, the man not repeating his question nor asking a different one. The only sounds were those of the train carts, our grunts from the heavy lifting, and the constant roaring from the furnace as it spewed out cinders and ash.

On the fourth day, I noticed a difference in posture of the young man. He was rigid, both his back and shoulders stiff as he shoveled. He had a troubled look on his face as he stared purposely at the coal. I stopped my shoveling, stooped it onto the ground so I could lean on it, and watched him. His movements were mechanic. His mind was elsewhere. This did not bode well.

"Who told you?" I finally asked.

He froze and peeked at me from over his shoulder before returning to work, even more mechanically than before. "One of the men on the upper level," he said conversationally, "It's gotten me thinking, actually."

"Which is exactly why it happens."

"What?" He stopped and looked at me.

I stared at him for a long time, studying him. His youth showed clearly in the open curiosity he was giving to such a morbid subject. "Exactly what I said," I finally responded. "It's best to not think about it." I turned to resume my shoveling, but a hand grabbed my shoulder and yanked me upright.

"What do you mean?" he asked, staring at me intently. My resolve crumbled under his gaze, so powerful as opposed to his voice.

"It's when a person thinks about it, then it happens," I told him finally.

He stared at me, uncomprehending. I tried again. "The thoughts drive a man insane, causing him to act. Most people will keep running through their heads what they've been told over and over, fearing that it will happen to them. They just keep thinking and fearing, almost to the point of obsession. They think about it so much that it happens without their even realizing, and by the time they do, it's too late."

He never answered me, even after minutes of his antagonizing stare, but instead returned to work, going at it even faster than before. I closed my eyes in silent respect, for I knew what was now running through his mind, and I knew what was going to happen. Reluctantly, I returned to my work and left the young man to his pondering.

Over the next few days, I could not help but peek at him from the corner of my eye a few times, watching, waiting to see a change in behavior. I saw none but the additional vigor he had for shoveling that had started after our last conversation. Days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into months. During which he began ever more withdrawn, hunched over, as if defeated by the world. It would be soon. I began to see it as an inevitability, wondering 'when and how' instead of 'if'.

Maybe he would use the method so many before him had. Throwing themselves down onto the train track was popular. Or maybe he would come up with something completely different, as I had also seen done countless times. I felt sorry for him. He was still a child, and probably had once had a life outside of this room. The more I watched him, the more I fell into despair. Such a young and potentially fulfilling life to be wasted.

A metal clang filled the room, and I whipped around. The man's shovel was at his feet, and he was staring at me with a maddening intensity. "It makes me wonder," he said slowly, "If it will happen to me."

I had been fearing this.

"I mean," he continued, "It's happened to everyone else. Why not me, right? Why should I be an exception?"

I watched him silently, not wanting to add fuel to the fire.

"Hey! Are you listening to me? Do you even care that I may go crazy down here? That I might try to kill myself? Do you care? Do you?!"

I could not respond. I would not. Instead, I watched him fearfully. I could hear a train coming from the tunnel, sending vibrations through the floor and walls. I saw him give a sideways glance at the track before retracting his eyes back to mine. That was it then. He knew his method.

In a split second, I came to a decision. I had to try and save this man. With the train coming ever closer, I waved him over, changing the subject. "See those pipes up there, son?" I asked, pointing to two copper pipes about half a foot in diameter that stuck out of the top of the oven. He nodded suspiciously. He was hesitant, obviously seeing through my ploy. But I couldn't. I couldn't let him die. I couldn't just stand by and do nothing again. Not again. I thought maybe this time…

I could help. I thought. I thought. I thought and thought, my mind racing with the possibilities of success and the horrors of failure. My mind finally froze, stuck on one image of the young man before me, his body mutilated by the train. Away from the edge, I told myself. Away from the edge.

"Well," I said, trying to keep my voice light, "Why don't you climb up there - use a ladder - and clean them off a bit? They could break if they become too corroded."

He looked at me like I was crazy. "Are you nuts? That thing is hot as hell!" I waved him off impatiently, all too aware that the lights hanging from the ceiling had started to shake from the vibrations of the incoming train. I had to get him away from the track.

"Then uh... then help me. I'll go up and clean them off and you stand on the far side of the room, watching to make sure I don't miss a spot, sound good?" I blurted out hurriedly. Fifteen seconds left, maybe. After what seemed like a lifetime for two seconds, he nodded, and stepped away from the track to the idle carts on the far side of the room. While he did this, I grabbed the small ladder from the corner and propped it up against the oven. Climbing up five steps, I could reach the pipe. I could feel the heat radiating off the furnace, like it was itching to suck me in and add to its fire. Using my glove, I tried to wipe some slime away while all the time, celebrating in my head. I had done it. I had prevented a death. I finally did not just stand there like so many times before. I did it... I did it!

Then, my foot slipped.

Perhaps I was imagining it, but I could hear a rush of wind as I fell sideways off the ladder. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the youth's mouth fall open. He began running towards me, shouting out my name. At the moment though, I could not remember what it was. Did I ever even have a name? The fall that seemed to take forever gave me a lot of time to think about my life. Why did I take this job in the first place? Why did I have the urge to save that boy so much? Was it because I finally wanted to feel like I was more than just a coal worker, or was it because he reminded me of my family whom I had not seen in so long? Either way, I was comforted by the fact that he was alive and well.

I began to ask myself another question, but I never got to finish it because it was then when I landed on the tracks as the train finally arrived. It smashed my head to bits, my skull offering no resistance, effectively putting an end to my thought process. My last memory would be of the roar of the train as it destroyed my body and of the shining youth screaming from above. Such a nice boy, he had so much to live for. I was glad I saved him.

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A/n: Written for FriendofFoes' Edgar Allen Poe contest on gaiaonline.