Digging

The dirt on Baskor-9 is just like back home. The dry stuff breaks up in your hands like potting soil. The wet stuff is sticky, tacky, and has that same raw smell — what's it called? Petrichor. I read that in a zine once. It's the smell of newly fallen rain, the aroma of soft wet soil. When you're young, that smell reminds you you're alive. Rolling hills, green grass, sun-shower dances. Fucking eons ago. Down here, the tunnels run for miles, and that goddman smell is everywhere. And, all I can think of, when it fills my nose, is the digging, the endless digging — and useless fucking grunts like me, wasting away, scratching out this parade of holes.

"Fuse, you working down there?" It's the asshole Fishler. "We can all hear you grumbling to yourself over the comms."

"Fuck you, Fishler."

His cackling over the line sounds like the yaps of a demented crow. It makes me wanna squeeze the breath out of him. I swear, I'd kick his mother square in the ass if I ever saw her, just for having him.

"Don't fall behind today, Fuse. Taylor'll stuff your ass in a box and send you back Earth-side with a quickne—"

"Fishler, shut it." Sergeant Taylor's baritone crackles over the comms, hoarse and gravelly. The man sounds like he huffs truck exhaust before bed every night. Looks like it too. "Wilson, get your charges done," he continues, "I'm not puttin up with any draggin' ass today."

"Yes, sir," I say.

And, that's it. Every day, the same BS: I dig for hours, haul the seismic charges, set them on timer, then dig some more. The gripping drama is broken up by the unit's regular requests for Fishler to stick a mine up his ass.

This circus ain't what I signed up for. Not by a long shot. When you’re a kid, and you first hear about the Baskor-9 colony, you make plans to, one day, get there yourself. But with each passing year, it became more and more clear that I'd never be a doctor, or a nutrition specialist, or a chemical engineer – you know, the people NASA want out here. So, my shot at seeing Baskor-9 seemed slim, anorexic – until that first critter. That first buggy bastard. 600 pounds of acid-spitting ugliness sprung from the earth, like some freak, Pagan mythic nightmare, and swallowed up a young colonist whole. People were horrified. It was bad luck for her, I guess, being eaten alive while going for a hike, but it was damn good luck for me: I’d found my ticket to the rock. The Army needed people to take the long trip out here and roast these fuckers. I enlisted that day. And I got here geared up, ready to kill, ready to do my part. Now, fast-forward, what? 14 months? and I'm stuck on a hamster wheel of digging holes and setting critter booby traps.

Damn, these thermal augers, these heat drills, they're heavy. But they do give off a nice buzz while you're using it. As they chew through the granite down here, they're vibration goes right up your arms, through the top of your head, and down through your soles. Makes the days here a little easier, I guess. If you're not careful though, that relaxing buzz can send your brain on a permanent vacation. You could end up like guys like Jackson. Poor bastard. Just last week, three clicks away, blew his own ass to bits. He nearly sunk the whole base too. Probably set the sensitivity too high on one of his mines, or forgot to engage the timer; triggered the thing himself before coming back topside. You gotta stay on point down here, 'cause careless has a cost. These seismic charges can leave a definitive hole in your life.

But, I'm not gonna go out like that: flying to pieces in these long-ass, dirt-coffins; having the Combat grunts step over what's left of me, as they go down and burn the bugs themselves. Nah, no way. I should be climbing through the holes with 'em. Despite what the medical officer says, my vision's fine, and my hands are steady — steady enough to go down there and roast some of those damn things. Besides, it ain't right: the Burrow Squad busts their asses, digs the holes, sets the charges to soften up the critters, then Combat charges down into the bug dens and burns the bastards?? Nah, that's horse shit. I wanna send some of those uglies back to hell myself. I mean, shit, that's what I'm here for.

"Who the hell is mumbling on the comms??" Sarge, with his 205 pounds of saltiness and impatience, is heated again. "Fishler!?"

"Ain't me, Sarge."

"Cruz??"

"Uhh, no, Sarge."

"Wilson??"

Mumbling? Why would I be mumbling?

Fishler starts cackling over the line, and it feels like a handful electric nails down my spine.

"Shut it, Fishler," the old man snarks.

Fishler continues the dumb-ass Fishler show, flippant and brain-dead as usual. He laughs with renewed vigor into the line.

Sergeant Taylor's breathing slows, each exhale becoming heavier, measured.

"Fishler…” he grumbles, “don't make me come down there and cut off your oxygen."

Fishler's peanut-gallery-of-one finally boards the quiet train.

Classic Fishler, though. The dumb-shit. Everyday, its the same thing: he pushes someone too far. And you want to throttle him. There's just something about him. He's chewing on his food? Maybe throttle him. He's flossing his giant horse teeth in the latrine in the morning? Throttle him. He's reading messages from home on his electronic pad. Throttle him. Twice.

"Wilson," Sarge's raspy timbre is pregnant with paper-thin patience now, "do you think you can plant your trip-mines without delivering a private sermon to yourself?"

Me, mumbling? Shit. Really? "Yea, Sarge," I say.

"Good. Let's give that a try, shall we? Cruz, hustle down to Wilson's location ASAP. You two'll set the remaining charges together. Maybe we'll get back to base before sundown. And avoid another Jackson situation."

"No, no, Sarge, I'm making good time down here on my own. Cruz'll only slow me d—"

"Nobody asked you, Wilson. Cruz, get moving. That's an order."

"Yup, setting my last charges down here, then I'm off to Wilson, Sir."

Uggggh... Cruz. Fucking... Cruz. The guy can find a silver lining in a double homicide. If you look up pollyanna in a thesaurus, you'd find a picture of this guy, waving at you, shitting rainbows. A whole afternoon with him?? Pfffftt... This is bullshit. I want in on the combat squad. I swear —.

"Whoa, did you guys hear that?" My voice quivers through the comms, the words darting from my mouth without any conscious say-so.

"Wilson, is that you??" Gravelly frustration rumbles over the line.

"Yea, Sarge. I - I just heard..."

"Stay. Off. The. Line, Wilson."

There's that sound again. "I know, Sarge, I just — Ooooohhhh fuuuuuuck!!"

"Jesus, what the hell's going on down there?.... Wilson? Wilson??" Panic's gripped Sarge's voice.

"Yea... Fuck... I - I think I just fell through a soft spot in the tunnel."

"Jeez-sus. What's your status?"

"I'm - I'm okay. I think."

"Cruz, where are you?" The old man doesn't wanna lose another Burrower. Well, to be honest, I don't want to lose me either.

"I'm about 20 minutes away, Sir."

"Alright, Cruz, double time it. Now."

"I - I can't feel my legs." My trembling voice barely makes a sound. And, Christ, my back is on fire, my solar plexus... uhhh.

"Wilson, goddamit, come again, come again." The old man's in full alarm mode now. But it's all pretty spotty — static's washing in.

"I said, I - I cant feel —."

There it is again. Fuck. What the hell is that sound?