Mining is hard work. Stone saws are heavy. Pickaxes take multiple swings just to dig into the rock, and once you get the pickaxe in the rock doesn’t want to let it go. The suits may help with efficiency, but they don’t do all the work.

Birdie was breathing heavily by the end of the first hour. The masks didn’t help. The things were great, and he would never go without his, but they were stuffy, and at points didn’t let enough air in, so he had to stop swinging.

During one of these breaks, about an hour and a half into the session he felt a tap on the back of his suit. Behind him was the cleaner. She pointed at a large chunk Birdie had dug out, and mimed picking it up to dump in the truck.

Birdie held out a finger to the woman and turned his comms on to Station 350. He tried to talk; maybe she had her comms set to the tunnel so she could speak normally. He got no response, so he went over to the dusty truck and wrote *comms 350* out with his finger. Where he wrote dust gathered in piles around the edges, and after he was done he pointed.

The woman nodded and reached up to her helmet for a minute. “Hello? Is this it?” The younger woman has a northern accent. She shortens the vowels but pronounces and lengthens the consonants. The words are clearly understood, but the accent is thick enough to know English is not her first language.

“Yeah. Did you need help picking up that block?” Birdie looked at the man sized chunk of rock and ore.

“Yes please, it is too heavy to lift.”

“Ok, let me get on a side.”

Birdie and the woman both grab a side of the fridge sized chunk and haul it over to the truck. Looking around, Birdie saw most of the rubble had been removed from the floor. Only dust and small pebbles were left behind. The cleaner had not been slacking.

Birdie hesitated before asking her name. Learning a person’s name was an important event. Especially in a death camp where most didn’t even survive a month.

“What should I call you?”

“Lara Morozov.”

Birdie found out early in the eleven years he was captured that to learn a person’s name was to have a vested interest in their lives. Birdie was done with losing friends so he rarely asked what someone was called. Either that person was a roommate because the rest of the cells had been filled, or he saw a person working like their lives depended on it. Names gave a person meaning, and either he would mourn them when they died, or he had a big part in their demise.

“Nice to meet you, Lara. Call me Birdie.”

“Birdie? Were you on the battlefield seven years ago?”

“Maybe. Seven years ago the collector job in the field was really popular. Why?” Turma, the country that had captured Birdie, was at war with Terrence. At the time, pay for prisoners was higher if you chose a job in the fields, and all other jobs had their numbers cut in half to help in the war effort.

“A man named Birdie saved me from a bomb in that war. I don’t know if it was you who did so, but I am thankful.”

“Sorry, the only person I saved in that war was an overseer.”

“I wonder if I’ll ever meet that Birdie again.”

“If they are in the prison system then you definitely will. All prisoners of war funnel down into the death camp eventually. Now go unload that in the processor, we can’t stand around talking all day.”

Birdie continued mining as Lara dropped off the load of rock and ore. The next three hours were spent in silence, while Birdie flashbacked to his time in the field.

.........

They had been digging for hours. His little group had extended the trench by a couple hundred feet. The overseer behind them was hunkered down; he sat in a little rocky alcove watching them. They were as quiet as possible as they worked; the Terence army would shoot whoever they found.

Birdie, Alf, Lent, and Flint were prisoners of the Filth Prison, and had been for around the same length of time. They were the last of those who had come four years ago. Bets were made between the group on who would be the first to die, and none of them wanted their friends of circumstances to be lost. They tried to stick together through everything.

Today, three of the four had been up early enough to get an easy job, but Birdie had gotten up later, so the three had waited for him. The only job left was lab testing. Field collection had a higher survival rate, so they decided to join in the war effort for the day.

When they got there, they were introduced to their overseer. He was one of the better ones, not whipping them or treating them like dirt, even though they were in the death camp. That didn’t mean they slacked off. Just because someone acts relaxed doesn't mean they wouldn’t just push the button and blow their heads off.

Around noon, and after they had dug another fifty feet, the Overseer got a message. The group headed back to the dugout camp. They would be joining another group to scan for and dig up mines.

The group they joined up with had two women and four men. One of the men, the overseer, was yelling at the rest of the people scanning for mines. He gave one last shout as Birdie’s group walked up. The man talked to Birdie’s overseer, then walked away shouting at his previous group as he left.

Birdie and the group of now nine prisoners worked, five without collars, four with. They scanned and scanned, finding bombs and digging them up with a bomb disposable device; the Overseer drove along behind them. About three hundred bombs and fifty acres of walking later, the ten hour workday was almost over. The Overseer had decided to give the workers a break; they had covered more ground than expected.

Having a break was nice; the eight and a half hour long day of work, without food, tired everyone out. Some of the group laid down on the trampled grass and fell asleep. Others sat and stared at the clouds. They called out shapes and had a good time. There was no food, but it was like a party for the prisoners.

“Hey, what’s that?” Flint called out. The group turned to look, wondering what he had seen. A black thing was flying over the battlefield looping around towards them.

The Overseer pushed a button on his helmet, asking for an explanation on the thing – now clearly an aircraft – flying towards them. Horror dawned on the man’s face as he got his response. “DUCK AND COVER!”

Everyone looked around for what would give them the most cover. They hid behind trees, boulders, and the bomb disposer. Bullets rained down upon the group, killing those late to respond. Alf was shot, as one of the people sleeping on the ground. Two others from the group fell as well.

“AALF!!” Lent screamed from behind cover. The two had been like family. Birdie had heard that before entering the death camp they had been in the same squad. He could see the tears filling the man’s eyes from where he hid.

Looking back at Alf, Birdie feels his stomach sink. Memories flood his brain of the good times they had together. Alf was the jokester of their four stooges. Laughter followed him. He was the one to wash away the solemn atmosphere of the death camp with his corny jokes. The one to ask Birdie to join the stooges was Alf, and now he was dead.

“This way!! To the tunnels!!” The Overseer breaks Birdie out of his reminiscing. Right, they were under attack. It wasn’t time to mourn a loss. The Overseer began running in a direction away from the aircraft.

Everyone followed, running as fast as their legs could carry them. They scrambled around and between trees and rocks. At one point Birdie caught sight of the tears flowing down Lent’s face as they ran. It flowed into his mustache and beard, soaking them. But he ran; he still had the will to live.

Birdie began to hear bullets peppering the ground behind them, and continued to run without looking back. Upon seeing a rusty metal door he pulled ahead of the Overseer, leaving the rest of the group behind him. He rammed the door open with his shoulder and ran to the side behind the door. This protected him from the barrage of bullets, and left space for the rest of the group to enter.

One by one the group of prisoners entered. Flint, a woman, the Overseer, Lent, then the other woman. As soon as the last person entered, Birdie slammed the door closed, and listened as bullets tinged off the metal.

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Inside, the tunnel was dark. Blinking green lights from the prisoners' work suits was all they could see as their eyes tried to adjust. Heavy breathing and sniffling were the only things heard as everyone caught their breath.

“Someone turn on a light.” A female voice said. There was a rustling sound, and a soft rectangular glow appeared near Birdie. After a minute, a flashlight started lighting up the surroundings.

Birdie’s eyes slowly adjusted. Around the room he saw a table with chairs, some empty shelves, and near the door was a metal security bar to lock it. When the army had taken over, it seemed they had taken everything of value.

“There’s a generator. Let’s see if it will start.” Flint says. Birdie must have missed the thing while studying the dim surroundings. In the corner sat a propane tank sized box that, looking closely, did actually resemble a generator.

Birdie, Flint, and the Overseer walked over to the box. They quickly studied the box, and upon seeing a switch in the off position, clicked it on. The generator began to hum, and a few dim lights flickered on. Clearly the thing was old, and probably hadn’t been used in years. The army must have deemed it worthless as they took everything, but luckily it still worked.

Looking around in the light was better than with the flashlight, but that doesn’t mean they could warp anything of value into the room. If anything, it looked more deserted. Birdie walked back to the security bar and put it in the slot to the door. If anyone came, they would need to blow up the mountain to enter.

“Hey OVERSEER!!!” Lent yelled.

Turning towards the voice, he sees the man grab the Overseer by the collar and hoists him up. There was a maddened look in Lent’s eyes, like he wanted to kill someone. “I thought this place was safe. You said it was an army controlled zone.”

“It should be safe.” The Overseer mumbled.

“Then WHY is my BROTHER DEAD?? A SAFE PLACE should NOT have ENEMY AIRCRAFTS coming after PRISONERS!!!” The man had turned red as he yelled, and not one person thought he was in the wrong. Even the Overseer seemed to not be struggling as much as he should be.

“I don’t know.” The Overseer uttered, seeming to piss off Lent even more.

“GIVE me ONE REASON. ONE REASON I SHOULDN’T KILL YOU!!!” This time Lent was going too far. It wasn’t the Overseer’s fault they were being shot at, no one would have themselves attacked to kill prisoners. They would just set off the bomb collars.

“LENT! THAT’S ENOUGH!!” Flint yelled, and Lent turned to him.

“ALF IS DEAD!! He’s DEAD Flint. I’LL WIPE this LITTLE SHIT OFF THE FACE OF THE EARTH.”

“I’M PISSED TOO!! That DOES NOT MEAN this LAZY COCKSUCKER…” Flint pointed at the Overseer in Lent's grasp. “KILLED HIM!!”

Lent looks at the face of the man in his grip. The man who had just led him to safety, and had been shot at along with him. “I’m sorry.” The emotion filled his cracking voice as he got it out. “But Alf. Alf…” Lent breaks down into tears again, choking on them as he lets the Overseer go.

“I’m sorry Sir. Alf was like a brother to Lent. Thank you for not killing him for his outburst.” Flint gives a short bow.

“That’s ok, I understand.” He looks down at his hands. “I’ve lost people in the war and lashed out towards superiors.” He sighs. “I was just the easiest target.”

………

It was evening by the time they left. The tunnels were a dead end, having caved in sometime since the last group had been there. So they had decided to leave when the sun would cast long shadows, hiding them from the air.

………

They had been traveling for half an hour, walking beneath trees and crawling through the long grass. They made themselves as small and silent as possible. No enemies had come knocking, but there was always a chance someone would come looking.

Birdie hauled the metal door with him, strapped to his back. Flint had decided they needed to protect the Overseer, and as the stronger person, Birdie had gotten that job. Flint and Lent had put aside their mourning for a minute to help Birdie rip the door off its rusty hinges. It was a tool to complete the job he had been given.

They were not with him at the moment, Lent and Flint. They had gone back to the bomb disposal truck to give Alf a proper burial. It was dangerous, but Lent insisted on burying Alf. Flint had gone with him to watch his back and give him a shoulder to cry on.

With a heavy heart Birdie trekked. He followed the Overseer closely, his head on a swivel. He was paying attention to the surroundings, but as he walked he wondered how Lent and Flint were doing. Had they been attacked? Was he going to be left alone again? Why hadn’t he woken up earlier? Was it his fault Alf had died?

He almost missed the clicking sound, caught up in his questions and regrets. He had heard it, though, and jumped forward to grab the Overseer. Concussive force slammed into his back, and he and the Overseer were thrown. A tree was the last thing he saw before he blacked out.

………

Birdie woke up more comfortable than he had been in years. The air smelled of antiseptic, and he could hear carts moving to and fro. Looking down, the bomb collar was still on his neck, but the number of days had decreased. There was a six where there had been a ten, but at least he was still alive.

A nurse walked in soon after he awoke, decked out in a blue uniform that cut off at the elbows and knees. She checked his vitals and then turned to him. “Can you understand me?”

Birdie nods, getting a splitting headache which forces him to stop. “Yes.” His voice comes out rough, and it feels like sandpaper as he speaks.

“OK, good. The doctor will be down soon to see you, so stay put.” She smirks and pulls on the metal bindings around his wrist. “Cya.”

Birdie waits for the doctor to arrive, staring at the white ceiling and counting squares. He had counted twenty squares, around half the amount he could see without moving his aching head, before the doctor showed up.

The doctor was a shorter man, around 5’ 6”, or 170 centimeters by his estimate. The older man had a crooked nose, a salt and pepper receding hairline, and was a bit on the pudgy side.

That didn’t stop his cheerful attitude however. The man walked into view with some pep in his step and a huge smile. “Looks like sleeping beauty finally woke up. How are you feeling?”

“Like someone keeps knocking on my head with a hammer.” Birdie rasped. “Could I get some water?”

“Ok, I’ll sit you up so you can swallow. Ready?”

“Yeah.” Birdie’s body is slowly pushed by the bed into a sitting position.

“The water will come out slowly, tell me when it’s enough.” A straw is placed in Birdie’s mouth, releasing cool, wet goodness. He groans in pleasure as the liquid flows down his throat.

“Stop.” The water was good, but there was only so much he could handle. The man pressed a button and the water dropped to a trickle.

The straw was removed from his mouth, dribbling some water down his chin. Birdie sighed at the full feeling he had. A different feeling came through, and before he could stop it his stomach growled. He hadn’t eaten anything in four days.

“You’ll get your food, but before that I need to run some tests.” The man brought a series of beeping devices to his head. Then he scanned the rest of his body, taking his blood pressure, listening to his heart, and looking into his ears. “Everything is reading well. You should be able to leave the hospital by the end of the day. Someone will be down shortly with some fast breakers.” The man left, and Birdie waited for his food.

Birdie’s stomach growled as he waited. He became more and more uncomfortable, his body protesting the prolonged period of time without food. It likely wasn’t very long before the same nurse as before showed up, but it felt like forever. She was carrying what looked like granola bars on a tray in front of her.

Birdie tried to reach out, to pick up the bars of goodness, but his hands were bound. The woman let out a snicker as she heard the manacles clank, and Birdie felt his cheeks redden at the realization that he wouldn’t be able to feed himself.

“I see you haven’t run away.” A giggle. “Good boy.” Birdie felt himself crushing on her as she got closer to him. Not many women had the effect on Birdie that this woman had. She was cute even though she poked fun at him. She was playful, and a brightness Birdie hadn’t seen in a long time.

Birdie listened to the woman talk as she fed him. The food was delicious, and good company helped that. They talked as he ate. She told him stories about how she had become a nurse; he talked about his life before prison. They were smiling and laughing, forgetting about everything in the world except for each other.

“He’s in here.” A voice said.

“Thank you.” A male voice said.

“Birdie?” He started to frown, where had he heard this voice before? It hurt his head trying to remember.

Birdie looked at the man approaching and froze. That face, he had bad memories of that face. Then it all started coming back to him. The day in the field. The digging. The miles of walking. Making jokes. Staring at the clouds, and then.

Birdie started yelling, scaring the nurse away. He pulled at the manacles, trying to rip them off the bed. Alf. Alf was dead. Why? What happened?

His wrists started bleeding, but he wanted out. The aircraft. The tunnel. The door. Where was Lent and Flint? Were they ok? Why was he in the hospital? The hike. The hiding. The shame. The click, and the EXPLOSION.

The cuffs were cutting into his wrists but he couldn’t feel it. He pulled and pulled. The memories. The guilt. The headache. There was a crack, and one of the manacles bent.

“RAAAAHHH!!!” They broke; he was free. But the anger had left him. He began crying, and continued even as guards broke in and pushed him back into the bed.

Thicker manacles were placed around his wrists, and he just sat, and cried. Why was the world so UNFAIR? He made one mistake, and a friend was dead. He had killed a man’s brother, and for what? More sleep?

It took hours for him to calm down. When he could finally see again, there was only one person next to him. The Overseer was there watching him.

“Sorry, I guess it was pretty pathetic for a man my size to be crying like that.” Birdie sniffed.

“It’s fine. Being here was the least I could do. I came to thank you, for saving my life.”

“It was my job. I couldn't fail my friends again, like I failed Alf.”