Missing Miners

The radio crackled, a hiss of static that felt louder than usual in the sudden quiet of the foreman’s office. Bubba leaned closer, his calloused fingers tapping a restless rhythm on the scarred metal of the desk. “Come on, boys. Give me something.” Nothing. Just that same, insistent static, like the mountain itself was breathing a sigh of indifference. He keyed the mic again, his voice rougher than he intended. “Deep Vein, this is Bubba. You copy? Over.”

Silence. A cold knot of dread began to tighten in his gut. Deep Vein. That was the crew working the furthest reaches, the newest seam they’d been pushing into for the last six months. Good men. Men he’d sweated with, men he’d shared lunches with, men who’d seen their kids grow up in the shadow of these hills. And they were supposed to check in every hour, like clockwork. Especially now. Especially with… everything.

He glanced at the clock on the wall. Almost two hours since their last scheduled check-in. Two hours too long. He tried another channel, a general frequency for mine operations, hoping maybe their comms were just acting up. “Any unit, any mine personnel, respond to foreman’s office. We have a lost contact with Deep Vein crew. Over.”