Abandon

by Blake Crouch

“You buggered me. How’d you get out of the mine, Harriet?”

  “I been here since long before you came, hidin from injuns.”

  “You shouldn’t have left your mama.”

  Stephen reached forward, wrapped the cloak tighter around her small frame. “You’re shivering,” he said. “Let’s see if we can remedy that.” He stood up and took the little girl’s hand and led her over to the stove. Inside, balled-up sheets of the Silverton Standard and Miner awaited a Sunday service that would never come. A wicker basket full of dried-out fir cones sat under the closest pew, and Stephen took a handful and arranged the kindling and shoved in two logs. One strike from his machero did the job. He left the iron door open, and soon the flames raged, sending out eddies of heat, throwing firelight on the walls, the cold plank floor, the vaulted ceiling.

  “Scoot up close, sweetie. I want you to get warm.”

  Harriet extended her hands toward the open door and Stephen sat behind her, setting his hat on the floor, tying his hair up. He pulled a small bottle out of his pocket.

  “Here, sip this tincture of arnica,” he said.

  She unscrewed the cap, took a swallow, handed the bottle back.

  “What are all those dots on your face?” she asked.

  “Nothing.” Stephen wiped the sticky specks of her father’s blood from his brow, his cheeks, his mouth. Then he reached into his greatcoat and withdrew the single-action army revolver, opened the loading gate behind the cylinder. Three cartridges left.

  Is this Your will, God? That I shoot Your child in the back of the head. Because I will do it. I am your faithful servant, but please. Please. If there is any other way . . .

  “I’m hungry,” Harriet said.

  “We’ll get something in our bellies here in a minute.”

  He coughed to mask the sound of the hammer thumbing back.

  “I got a doll for Christmas, Mr. Cole.”

  Stephen blinked through the tears. “What’s her name?” He choked on the words as he put the revolver to the back of her head.

  “Samantha. She has red hair.”

  He knew he’d be sick after, fought off the urge to jam the barrel down his own throat. Is this Your will? Speak now or forever—

  “She has two dresses, and my favorite thing is to comb her hair.”

  When Stephen touched the trigger, it came—peace flooding through him, warm liquid light. “Thank you,” he whispered, and slid the revolver back into his coat.

  Harriet glanced back, said, “You’re cryin again.”

  “It’s okay. These are happy tears. God is so good.”

  Harriet cocked her head. “Where are all the injuns?” she asked.

  “How old are you, Harriet?”

  “Six years.”

  “I think you’re old enough to know something. Last night, God spoke to me. He told me that His judgment was coming down upon Abandon, that I was to be the instrument of His wrath, His brimstone and fire.”

  “So there weren’t ever any heathens?”

  “No, although at times today, God allowed me to believe there were. He let me see the heathens when I was standing at the Sawblade. Let me believe the lie. Showed me how to use it.”

  “Then where’d everbody go?”

  “Do you believe in God, Harriet?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does your father ever get upset with you? Like when you’re disobedient? When you don’t listen to what he says?”

  “Yeah, when Mama’s gone, he hits my bottom real hard with the metal part of his belt.”

  “But that’s his job to punish you when you misbehave. In the same way, God is the father of Abandon, and all the people who live here are His children. But do you know what?”

  “What?”

  “The people of this town were very wicked.”

  “Why?”

  “They were greedy. Sinful. They didn’t love God. Thought only of themselves and what they wanted. They were obsessed with gold, and some of them were very evil and did terrible things to others. They took what didn’t belong to them. Caused incredible pain.”

  “That’s wrong. You’re supposed to be nice.”

  “Yes, you are. And that’s why God decided to punish everyone who lived in Abandon.”

  “What about Bethany and Mama?”

  “Even them.”

  “But they aren’t evil, are they?”

  “Listen, Harriet. We can’t start questioning God. Why He chooses to punish some but not others. We might not understand, but that’s our shortcoming. We can only love and obey Him.”

  Her bottom lip began to quiver. “I wanna see Mama.” “Come on, sweetie. Listen to me. God told me not to punish you. That He loves you. That your heart is good. He wants me to take care of you.”

  “What about Mama and Daddy?”

  “You need to shuck that question. Don’t ask it again.”

  Harriet turned away from him and stared into the flames. Stephen put his hands on her delicate shoulders. “Let’s walk to my cabin,” he said. “I’ll build another fire and make us supper.”

  “Did God punish Samantha?”

  “No, sweetheart.” “She’s alone and scared at home on my bed.”

  Stephen stood up, so tired that he felt he could lie down on his pine-bough mattress and sleep for thirty years.

  “We’ll stop by your old house and get her.”

  Stephen helped Harriet up and took her by the hand. Then the preacher and the child walked out of the church together.

  The night was clear, the moon full and rising.

  Infuse me with a peace that passeth all understanding.

  Pinpoints of starlight twinkled, among them the rusty bulb of Mars.

  Abandon lay dark and silent in its canyon, and from high above, Stephen heard a faint sound like a distant stamp mill.

  They were beating on that iron door inside the mountain.

  2009

  SIXTY

  A

  bigail approached the iron door—no handle, no doorknob, no keyhole. Lawrence came up and pushed against it and yelled Quinn’s name.

  She tried to rein back the fear in her voice. “Did that just happen?”

  Lawrence backpedaled, then ran at the door and drove the heel of his boot into the metal.

  It made a clatter that resonated through the cavern and died.

  He collapsed on the rock and squeezed his ankle, wincing from the pain. Around the door’s perimeter, the rock had been worn down, chipped away. Abigail shone her headlamp over the surface of the metal. It was covered in marks of desperation—dings and numerous indentations, as if someone had assaulted the door with an assortment of implements. She saw bullet grooves, scattered dimples created by buckshot. In the middle section, a large swath of metal had been dented in, and she imagined only a boulder carried by a group of men could have made such an impression in the indomitable door.

  June wandered over from the chamber. “What happened?” she asked.

  “Quinn locked us in.”

  “Why in the world would he do that?”

  “No idea.”

  June spent a moment pushing on the door. She suddenly screamed Quinn’s name.

  “Save your energy,” Abigail said. “I think people have tried everything to break it down. Even ramming a boulder into it. And they, um, they obviously didn’t make it out.”

  “Oh my God. We’re gonna die in here like the rest of them.” She staggered back and began to hyperventilate. “How is this . . . how is this—”

  “Okay, hang on.” Lawrence struggled up off the rock. “Let’s everybody just take a breath. We can all get horrified and hysterical, but how’s that gonna save our lives? We’re still gonna be right here when we finally calm down, locked inside this mountain. So let’s skip the part where everyone freaks out. Most important thing now is light. It’s as important as oxygen, and it’s running out. We only need one headlamp going. Turn yours off. I’ll keep mine on.” Two headlamps went dark. “All right. Backpack
s. Let’s find out what supplies we have to work with. I think I left . . . Fuck.” Lawrence ran over to the alcove and swept his headlamp in the vicinity of the ten burlap sacks. “It isn’t here. I left my pack near the gold, and now it’s gone. I had some rope. Batteries. Water.”

  “Mine’s gone, too,” June said. “I left it by the door before we walked into the chamber. All I have is Em’s camera.”

  “I still have mine,” Abigail said. She unclipped her hip belt and knelt down on the rock and unzipped it as Lawrence provided light. “So, I’ve got . . . not much. Gloves. Hat. Note pad. Roll of film. Two granola bars. Matches. Two water bottles, but only one’s full. Damn, I thought I had extra batteries.”

  “All right, let’s sit down and talk this out. I’m turning my headlamp off for now.”

  They sat together in the perfect darkness, fifteen feet from the iron door. Abigail closed her eyes, took a few deep breaths in an attempt to slow her heart and settle her mind.

  Lawrence said, “I know it’s creepy in here, and we’re surrounded by the remains of people who died because they were locked in this mine, but I would urge us to keep them and their fate as far from our thoughts as possible.”

  June wept softly. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry. I’m trying not to.”

  Abigail reached out, took hold of her hand.

  “We have three headlamps, and the brutal truth is, if we run out of light before we find a way out, we will die in here. We should store the headlamps we aren’t using in Abby’s pack so they don’t get damaged. We also have thirty-two ounces of water. That’s barely more than a glass each. We’ll drink in small sips, every few hours, make it last as long as possible. Hopefully, there’s water somewhere in this cave. Who knows if it’s fit to drink, but we may have to try. Same deal with the granola bars. We’ll ration them out in little bites over time.”

  “How long can we survive once the water runs out?” June asked.

  “Three days. Maybe longer, since heat’s not gonna be an issue. So now we have an important decision to make. We can’t just sit here and hope to be rescued, because even if search-and-rescue comes to Abandon looking for us, they sure as hell won’t find us in here.”

  “Maybe we could get some rocks and chip away around the door,” June said.

  Abigail said, “That’s one option, but I looked at the door, and it’s my sense that that’s the big mistake the residents of Abandon made. They tried to break down the door or to chip around it. But this is hard, hard rock in here, and I’m certain we’d die of thirst before we made any real progress. I bet that most of the people in here wore themselves out fooling with that door. Then all they could do was lie down in that chamber to die, with no strength left to go look for more water or another way out.”

  “And no more light,” Lawrence said.

  “Exactly. I mean, all the residents of Abandon couldn’t break through that door. We have no chance.”

  “Then what’s the alternative?” June asked.

  Lawrence said, “Looks to me like this is a mine that, as the men were blasting and expanding it, encroached into a natural cave. I’m sure that door is not the only exit from this mountain. I know we’re tired, but I think we have to get up right now, while we still have a little strength and food and water, and try to find another way out.”

  June said, “You’re suggesting we wander blindly through a cave?”

  “You see another viable option?”

  “What if we get lost?”

  “We’re already lost. Pretend that door isn’t there, that it’s solid rock. Might as well be.”

  Abigail said, “It scares me to death, but yeah, I agree that’s our only option at this point.”

  “Should we split up?” June asked. “That would increase our chances of finding a way out.”

  “Actually, it wouldn’t. Because we’re on the clock here in terms of light, we can only spend as much time looking for another exit as our batteries allow. If we split up, we’ll be burning through our headlamps twice or three times as fast.”

  June said, “If anyone had ever made it out of this mine alive, you’d have heard about it. Right, Lawrence?”

  He turned on his headlamp, and the others blinked in the sudden light.

  “More than likely.”

  1893

  SIXTY-ONE

  I

  t took eight miners to hoist the boulder—seven hundred pounds of solid granite that ignited back cracking and groans. They started in the chamber, fifteen yards back, freighting it slowly over the rock, carefully accelerating to jog as they neared the iron door.

  The collision was tremendous. The front third of the boulder shivered off and broke the feet of three men.

  The surface of the door had barely caved.

  The Godsend’s cager grabbed a hammer shotgun leaning against the wall, sited up the door, fired a shell of buckshot.

  As the metal sparked, other men drew their revolvers and rifles, hammers squeezing back, levers cocking, the mine exploding in a cacophony of gun-fire and filling with an acrid haze.

  When the shooting stopped, the door stood defiant, the metal covered in silver chinks but no real damage done, except for the young man who lay quivering on the floor, a hole through his cheek, blood frothing out of his mouth onto the rock in a pink geyser.

  Voices rose up, growing louder, competing to be heard.

  Stetler held up two shadowgees and hollered for silence, but no one listened in the swarm of shouting men.

  “We’re all gonna peg out now.”

  “Better save the lump oil.”

  “Keep chargin the door.”

  “Used to could go that way, but the shoot’s caved in.”

  “No food, no water.”

  “Preacher left us in the soup!”

  “Gonna run out a light!”

  “Hobble your lips!”

  “Don’t know your ass from a hole in the ground.”

  “Shut the fuck up!”

  Meanwhile, Bessie McCabe stood in the center of the chamber, screaming for Harriet again, screaming until she couldn’t breathe, until she felt like she was suffocating on choke damp, the chaos only stoking the hysteria in her head.

  She overloaded, spotted the small boulder, fell to her knees, and crawled toward it.

  She heard the miners shooting again, babies screaming, someone praying nearby.

  Bessie got up on her knees, found two handholds in the rock, and, with every ounce of strength and zero hesitation, slammed her head down into the boulder. She heard the crack before she felt it, and blood ran between her eyes. When she came to, the cavern was inverted and spinning. She struggled back onto her knees, located the handholds, and managed two more blows before losing consciousness again. The next time she came around, she knew she’d done the job. A crowd of revolving, blurry faces surrounded her, and their voices and the gunshots and weeping and shouting all blended into a steady rush like the noise of a waterfall.

  Her head lay in a warm, expanding pool, and she knew it was her blood and hoped it meant the end, thinking only of her daughter now, praying the injuns hadn’t gotten her, and that wherever she awoke, Harriet would be there, too.

  As her brain seized, she went back almost ten months, to a February morning on the plains of west Kansas, she and Harriet aboard a Union Pacific train chugging to Denver.

  Staring off in the distance, she’d seen them lifting out of the horizon like a bank of clouds, thought they were coming into weather until she overheard another passenger say to his companion, “Have a look at the Snowy Range.”

  And as she died on the floor of that mine on Christmas night, she relived with a sort of bewildered nostalgia all the excitement she’d felt, watching the Front Range rise and rise as the train steamed west, a dream and a dare at once.

  She’d pulled Harriet into her lap and pointed out the window. “That’s where Daddy is and where we’re goin. That’s our future, sweet pea.”

  And she’d believed
it, too.

  With all her heart.

  2009

  SIXTY-TWO

  S

  tarting out proved simple enough. They took the only passage that branched off from the chamber, Lawrence leading with the headlamp, followed by Abigail and June.

  They hadn’t walked thirty feet before Lawrence stopped, said, “Well, guys, here we are. First choice of many.” The main tunnel continued on, at least as far as his headlamp shone, but there was also an opening in the rock nearby. Lawrence knelt down, looked through the hole. “A snug fit, but it definitely goes somewhere.”

  “Don’t you think we should stick with the larger passageways?” Abigail asked.

  “I honestly don’t—” He gasped. “There’s a skeleton in here and a pair of wrist irons. This might have been a prisoner. Yeah, let’s stick with the main passage for now.”

  So they continued on, soon leaving all signs of mining activity—holes drilled in the rock for dynamite, rusted cans of black blasting powder, empty carbide kegs, strips of railroad track, drill steels, support timbers—and emerged into a natural cave, ceasing to follow the path of any particular tunnel, moving instead from room to room, some smaller than a closet, others larger than that first cavern, and the rock formations becoming more alien the deeper they ventured. Stalactites hung down from the roof, spilling their corrosive solutions into drip holes on the floor. Abigail ran her hands over walls of breccia—fragments of rock, fossils of bone and prehistoric crustaceans cemented together in sandstone.

  An hour in, they came upon a richly decorated grotto. Lawrence’s head-lamp shone up at the ceiling, where stalactites bunched together, row upon row, like sharks’ teeth. In the center, they’d melded into a strange conglomerate that reminded Abigail of a chandelier. Against the nearest wall, they resembled a pipe organ. In a far corner, the long tentacles of jellyfish.

  They wandered into a smooth-walled tube, the ceiling just a foot above Lawrence’s head. As they progressed through the elliptical passage, the walls grew farther apart and the ceiling lowered. Soon they had to walk hunched over, then squatting, then crawling on their knees, and finally their bellies, dragging themselves through the flattener on their forearms, just sixteen inches between the ceiling and the floor.