Zero Hour

THIRTY-EIGHT

After a twelve-hour shift of breaking rocks and loading the rubble onto the endlessly moving conveyor belt, Patrick Devlin felt as if he’d been beaten with a club, run over by a truck, and forced to breathe in smoke all day.

He was surprised by the grace of a hot shower, even if it was a communal one. The water at his feet was dark sludge from the dust covering his body. A hearty dinner of seal meat and some kind of wild bird surprised him further, but then those things were in abundance on the island, and starving workers slowed down the production line.

After dinner, he was led to a room carved out of the rock. Bunks four high were spaced along two of the walls. Most of them were empty.

As the door was locked behind him, he spotted Masinga and the South American, playing cards.

“Which bunk?” he asked.

“Pick any of them,” Masinga said. “There’s plenty of space.”

He threw his stuff on one of the bunks and then sat down by the other men. “Why is it so hot down here?”

Masinga played a card. “Because we’re in a volcano,” he said. “Where do you think the hot water comes from?”

“Geothermal?”

They nodded in unison.

Devlin looked around. There was no shaft leading to the surface here, only a thin grate above the door for ventilation.

“How far down are we?”

Neither man answered. The South American played a card. Masinga looked at it briefly and then reached for it. Devlin slammed his hand down on Masinga’s. “I said how far down are we?”

Masinga threw the table over and grabbed Devlin by the shirt, hauling him up and slamming him into a locker.

“You think you’re the first one here with plans to get out?” Masinga shouted. “The men who run this place aren’t fools. They know that a death sentence awaits them for the things they’ve done. To think of escape is a crime, to talk of escape will land you in the torture chamber. And to actually try… The rule here is simple: one man fights back, three men die.”

Devlin shook loose of Masinga’s grasp. “So you just put up with it until they work you to death?”

Masinga glared at him. “My father spent twelve years in a South African jail for his political activities. He survived by putting up with it until salvation came from the outside. That’s the only way any of us are going to see home again, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let you get us killed with your rabid tongue before that happens.”

Devlin stared at his two roommates. “Maybe that’s how you’re going to play it, but I’m going to get out of here or die trying.”

The South American spoke next. “There are informers everywhere,” he warned, “even among the men. Maybe even Masinga or me. So if I was you, I’d watch what I say. And who I say it to.”

Devlin took a deep breath and came to a decision. “They brought me here on a ship. I’m going to find my way back to it at some point. If either of you are going to rat on me, then do it quick and put me out of my misery.”

They stared at him with sullen eyes. Finally, Masinga reached over and righted the table. “And what do you know about sailing a ship, my friend?”

Devlin sat down and grinned at his fellow prisoners. “Just about everything,” he said.