Nothing like an explosion to remind me that I’m alive.

I jumped out of bed fully clothed—old prison habits—and put on my sneakers. I grabbed my shoulder pack and staff and ran out of the house.

I looked to my right—west—in the direction of the blast.

I stood for a moment to decide. Do I want to go check what caused this? Is it still safe to stay here?

Raised voices and cries of alarm sounded in the distance. I wanted to stay hidden, but curiosity won me over. Time to peek at the newly wreaked havoc. Reality happens to be stranger than fiction. Depending on what it is, I may have to admit this is becoming my new normal.

Lurking in ninja-style, I sourced the blast to the decommissioned iron mine.

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The entrance in the hill grew far wider—as if two school buses had rammed the entrance side-by-side. Scaffolds and train tracks went in and out of the place, lacing it in a network of wood and iron. The floor near the opening glistened wet and red with rusted iron deposits.

Another ground-shaking boom sent a gust of debris out of the entrance.

I tried slowing my breaths, not knowing what or who might be there. Unless I was here to steal dynamite, this probably wasn’t going to help my situation. Yet I was dying to know what happened.

Soldiers directed miners out as if escaping a war zone. Except there was no sign of the enemy.

In the chaos, I was nearly invisible. I huddled over to the entrance.

To my surprise, teenage miners, with their orange vests and goggles sitting atop their white miner helmets, rushed out like startled ants. Each carried combat weapons, not shovels or pickaxes.

Squinting, I saw traditional weapons like swords, staves like mine or spears, scepters or wands. But one thing was common—a purple glowing gem. Maybe the explosion was an accident, but why did they all have weapons?