The Deep Section

The air grew heavy, thick with a silence that pressed in on us, a stark contrast to the muffled scrabbling and groaning that had been our constant soundtrack for hours. We were deeper now, much deeper, than any of us had ever ventured voluntarily. The beams of our headlamps, usually so reassuring, seemed to shrink, swallowed by the oppressive darkness that clung to the rock walls like damp moss. Mine number 4, the one Bubba had worked his whole life, felt like a child’s playground compared to this. This was the old section, the one they’d sealed off years ago, long before even Hank had retired.

“You sure about this, Bubba?” Jesse’s voice, usually steady as a rock, held a tremor that mirrored my own unease. He gripped his crowbar tighter, knuckles white.

Bubba didn’t turn. His silhouette, etched against the faint glow of his own lamp, was rigid. “We gotta know what we’re up against, Jesse. If these… *things*… are down here, we can’t just pretend they ain’t.”