Those Who Favor Fire by Lauren Wolk (easy readers .TXT) 📕

of the Belle Haven mines. North of that there was too much granite for mining or, everyone supposed, a mine fire to spread. There were other, parallel tunnels to the east and west of the fire, but so far they were cold and empty and, everyone supposed, far enough away to be safe. It was to the south that the danger lay. On its way toward Belle Haven, the burning tunnel eventually intersected with the other tunnels. Once the fire reached this intersection, it would spread east, west, and carry on south toward the western edge of town. Mendelson had dug the trench well north of this intersection, to cut the fire off before it could contaminate the entire grid. So, although it was deep, and it sloped gradually up at either end to accommodate bulldozers and trucks, the floor of the trench was only about as large as a basketball court. The burning mine tunnel lay just beneath this floor. This was to have been the day when they would hit the tunnel, slice right through it, scoop out a gap where they’d made their cut, plug both portals with clay, and thereby prevent the fire from traveling any farther south. Once they had contained the fire, they would go back to its origin and begin pumping in water, or fly ash, or maybe just seal off that end, too, let the fire suffocate. These had been their intentions.

Mendelson looked down into the trench. At first he saw nothing. Rocks, clay, occasionally a squiggle of coal. Then, from the floor of the trench, he noticed an exhalation.

It was simply a small puff of smoke, and Mendelson suddenly imagined some mythic figure—Paul Bunyan or perhaps a breed of insect-man—sleeping on his back just beneath the dense soil, snoring smoke from his muddy lips in puffs like the one Mendelson had seen from above. In a moment there was another small exhalation. He waited. Another. The fire had come too quickly. And there was nothing for it now but to turn away from the sight.

The miners stood a few feet away. For all his years of training—as a wrestler, then a soldier, then an engineer—Mendelson was not able to still a momentary spasm that moved like ill wind across his face. The miners, seeing it, at once forgave him for his inadequate trench. Their pity rose clearly in their eyes.

“Fuck off,” Mendelson said, and left them standing at the edge of the trench.

They were, for the second time, thoroughly offended by the anger that Mendelson had acquired in his youth and tended ever since. They were not, now, inclined to be so tolerant.

“No call to be rude,” one of them said, more mildly than he felt. “We warned you this would happen. Nobody’s fault but your own.”

“When you’re ready for a second go, let us help,” another said. “We know about this mine.” But he did not try to hide the contempt or the fear that he—that all of the miners—were feeling.

Mendelson never even bothered to look back. He got into his truck and drove to Randall, called his superiors in Harrisburg, told them the bad news, and then spent the rest of the day in his motel room, thinking about how to go at the fire next.

It was what he would spend part of every one of the next dozen years doing: thinking about the fire, plotting, planning, swearing promises, wondering about the endless possibilities that waited underground.

And for those dozen years, it would be the habit of the people of Belle Haven to treat Mendelson with a mixture of pity and loathing. To shy away from him, set him apart, at best offer him the packaged friendliness generally bestowed on strangers. Those who tried harder got no thanks for their trouble.

This was why, whenever Mendelson made his infrequent trips to the Last Resort, for reasons he himself could not quite articulate, he drank alone, sang only to himself, and always went home thirsty.

Chapter 14

        An hour after arriving at the Last Resort, Joe realized he was enjoying himself. He’d met some people, had some beer, come to like the look of girls in hats, and heard some of the best jokes he ever hoped to hear.

“I got another one,” Ian said, twisting with glee. “Two guys are on safari when one gets bitten by a snake, right on the end of his manhood. Falls to the ground, writhing with pain. Yells to his buddy, ‘Quick! Get help! Get a doctor! Run!’ So the other guy runs like hell until he reaches a village, finds the doctor, tells him what happened. ‘First,’ the doctor tells him, ‘you have to make two cuts, like a cross, where the snake bit him, and then suck out the venom.’ Back the guy runs, just as fast as he can. When his friend sees him coming, he says, ‘Thank God. Did you find a doctor?’ ‘Yep,’ says the other guy. ‘Well, what did he say?’ says the first. His friend looks at him, shakes his head, says, ‘Sorry, but you’re going to die.’ ”

Joe was laughing, his heels on the rung of his stool, turned so that he could watch four young women belting out “Stand by Your Man,” when he felt a current of clean, cool night air pour over him. He turned toward the door of the Last Resort and saw Rachel step inside, Angela with her, both of them smiling.

He had not given her a thought for hours now. He did not know her last name, her politics, or whether she liked to dance. But he remembered that she had a small, crooked scar on the back of one wrist—her right wrist—and that her ears were unpierced. The sight of her made him feel as if he’d smelled lilac for the first time. She looked as if she were made out of forest: her hair and eyes, even her skin, fashioned from different strains of wood, different shades of brown from almond