When her fingers closed around her phone’s hard plastic case, relief coursed through her. She knew it was a long shot but punched in her security code anyway and looked at her reception bars. 

The dreaded circle with a slash through it flashed in the upper right. Although her cell phone was billed as one of the most powerful, it still couldn’t receive a signal a half-mile underground. She activated the flashlight function. The beam fell on the yellow hard hat she had been wearing, which lay a few feet away like half of a broken eggshell.

Greta examined the alcove where she had last been standing and saw what must have been her downfall: a rocky outcropping sticking out about a half-foot from the wall at head height. She touched her forehead again, winced. The rock must have nudged under her hard hat and flipped it off her head as she fell.

Not bothering to retrieve her useless helmet, she arose and started walking to the staircase. Thirty-six steps down, it would take her back to the shaft where she could follow the tram rails. She hoped she could just walk to the hoist and get out of here after a clanky three-minute ride to the surface. 

Along the way, she wondered how the tour guide could have left her. Sure, she’d been trailing behind, hidden in the alcove, but didn’t they count everyone in the tram and in the hoist? Maybe the guide had been in a hurry to get home. Still, it was no excuse.

Despite the ache in her head, after climbing down the stairs, Greta began walking faster. Being alone down here was creepy. She didn’t want to look at the reddish-gray walls too closely. They seemed to be closing in. Instead, she concentrated on the lights ahead.

Once, she thought she heard a soft scratching and the fall of pebbles. She stopped and said, “Hello? Hello?” 

Her words echoed down the shaft. Nobody responded.

As she continued, she made the mistake of wondering who – or what – had touched her shoulder before she got knocked out. Yes, the touch had been light, but definite. She shivered and loped toward the hoist.

Finally, she reached it – a cage-like elevator with a metal gate in front. She paused, breathing hard, trying to remember how the guide had operated it. She recalled hearing a series of beeps and buzzes–some sort of signal. She located a panel of buttons on the side of the hoist and reached toward it. 

The lights went out.

Her breath caught, then she started hyperventilating. They must be closing down for the night! Didn’t they know she was still down here? Heart pounding, she punched a button, even though she knew it wouldn’t do anything.

Greta fought to control her panic. She bent over, a hand on the hoist frame to anchor her. Was she going to have to spend the whole night down here? The tours ran Monday through Saturday, 10 a.m. until 4 p.m. Was she trapped until tomorrow’s first tour? 

Greta straightened. She wanted to yell up the hoist shaft, alert someone that she was down here, but her breathing wouldn’t allow it. She gulped air, trying to slow her respirations. As she gradually calmed, she noted the cold seeping through her lightweight coat. The mine was 51 degrees year-round. She zipped her coat and remembered seeing a few miners’ jackets on hooks near the hoist, probably left to provide “atmosphere” for the tours.

She peered at the bars on her phone again, hoping her reception was better because of her proximity to the hoist shaft. No such luck. At least her battery was charged. She shined her phone’s flashlight around, locating the jackets. She chose the smallest and put it on. It smelled of must with a metallic tang of ore dust. The sleeves dangled past the ends of her coat sleeves, flopping over her hands. She rolled the sleeves back and hooked the metal clasps down the jacket front.

She surveyed the hoist area, her home for the night, looking for some way to communicate with the land above. Was there an emergency phone? Only empty tour cars and two wooden benches huddled along the rocky walls met her gaze. The benches would be warmer than a metal rail car, so she made her way over and sat on one.

A soft sob escaped her. She’d decided to major in Geology because rocks fascinated her. The forces that formed them were unique and their shapes and minerals so varied. Rocks were constant and undemanding. 

Greta wanted to share her wonder with children as a middle-school Geology teacher. She loved kids, especially her cousins, ages three and five, who listened with wide, innocent eyes as she explained what the Earth had looked like when rocks were created so long, long ago. 

She never wanted a child of her own, though. The thought of giving birth gave her the willies, with all that pain and pushing. Besides, when she was young, her neighbor had died in childbirth. She had witnessed the stark desolation of the family afterward–the father trying to raise the baby on his own, always calling Greta’s mother for help. When she grew older, Greta babysat the motherless child; the girl was clingy and hollow, shaped by her mother’s absence.

A half-mile below the earth’s crust, Greta wiped her eyes with the jacket sleeve. Her dorm mate Felicia wouldn’t miss her. Felicia was at a party and if she came back to their room, she would be so out of it, she wouldn’t notice Greta was gone until late tomorrow morning. 

Greta’s parents would be of no help. They lived half a continent away in Florida. And she didn’t know where her boyfriend Dennis was. Or even if he really was her boyfriend. They’d been hanging out for about a half-year but hadn’t even kissed yet. 

Greta wasn’t sure why Dennis hadn’t made a move. Part of her was relieved; she knew she wasn’t ready. She wanted closeness but was too worried about getting pregnant to pursue anything more physical even though she had access to birth control. Their casual relationship wasn’t the kind where they kept track of each other’s movements. 

Greta turned off her phone light and curled up on the bench, drawing the jacket tighter around her. It was going to be a long night. She’d better get double extra credit for this tour.

She fell asleep only to get stuck in a nightmare about inky black water. She was swimming, but the water was so, so cold. Her arms and legs grew leaden. Slowly, she began to sink, down, down into the blackness. Her lungs were running out of air, squeezed by a tight pressure. She fought to break the surface, but her arms and legs wouldn’t obey . . . 

Greta awoke with a start and a yell. She took great gulps of air, relieved to find her chest unencumbered. But the darkness . . . the darkness was unabated. An irrational urge to flee from its oppressive weight made her leap to her feet and run blind down the shaft. 

One of her feet hit a tram rail and Greta’s ankle turned. She fell heavily to the muddy ground, panting hard. She lay there, sobbing between breaths. 

Gradually, she stopped crying and her breathing calmed. She took her phone out of the jacket pocket and turned on the light. She was only about 25 feet away from the hoist. Her panicked run had seemed so much farther in the dark. 

Greta crawled over to the wall and leaned against it for support as she gingerly felt her ankle with hands covered in red mud. It was swelling already, an angry red lump growing by the second. At least the ache in her head had lessened.

Greta sighed. Great. Just great.

Then she noticed something gleaming not far away, shoved against the wall. She dragged herself over a few feet and shined her light on the object. A tin of sardines and a few small plastic packages each containing two saltines lay there. 

Who knew how old the food was? Maybe some miner had dropped them back in the 1960s, the last time the mine was active. She was hungry, though. Solid food in her stomach might make her feel better.

Greta wiped her dirty hands on her pants and inspected the can–no signs of swelling or breakage. She couldn’t find an expiration date. She probably didn’t want to know, anyway. 

She rolled the tin open with the old-fashioned key on the end. The fishy smell of its contents made her empty stomach growl. She opened the saltines and dug a chunk of fish out of its olive oil bath, placing it on a cracker.

It wasn’t that bad. Perhaps like wine, sardines got better with age. But as she ate, she realized her meager supper was going to make her thirsty. Did mines have water fountains? Probably not.

Greta finished her meal and limped back to the hoist, this time with the guidance of her flashlight. She wasn’t going to make that mistake again–running blind down a tunnel in the dark. She couldn’t believe she had done that. She sat on the bench and turned out her light, putting her phone in airplane mode to save the battery. 

Here she was, stuck so far underground not even cosmic rays could penetrate. This thought reminded her of the university physics lab that had been built in the mine. From her research before the tour, she suspected it was on this same level. Researchers from the University of Minnesota had been looking for decaying protons or dark matter or something. She knew the lab had been dismantled, but what if that area offered another way out? 

Her tour group had already been to one end of the shaft on this level without passing the lab. It would make sense that the lab lay in the other direction. 

Greta sighed. Did she want to do this? Staying by the hoist felt safer. Besides, her ankle hurt. She lifted her leg up onto the bench trying to limit the swelling. For a half-hour she debated whether to stay or go. She decided she didn’t have anything else to do. It was worth at least trying to find the lab. Maybe she’d get triple extra credit.

She turned on her light, wincing as she stood on her wounded ankle. It was twice its normal size now, and an angry purple. She shined her light around, trying to see if anything was available to help her walk. She spied a shovel down the tunnel in the direction she intended to go and hobbled over to it. She was able to brace the handle under her armpit. Walking with the shovel was awkward, but it took partial weight off her foot.

She had traveled a dozen yards when she came to another metal spiral staircase going up. She slowly climbed, shovel clanking with every move. Heart pounding at the top, she stopped to rest a few moments. She shined her light around this new area, but it looked much like where she had just been: full of rocks, dirt and a tram car line. It was just as dark, too.

Greta continued down the shaft, eventually noticing a door off to one side that said, “Emergency Exit.” Her spirits rose. With a moment’s hesitation, Greta tried the door. It opened easily. Her phone light showed a flight of stairs going up. Did the stairs lead all the way to the surface? It would be a long trek, but she was motivated.

Shovel under her armpit, Greta started to climb. Having nothing better to occupy her mind, she counted the flights as she went. She passed a door labeled “Shaft #26,” and kept going. Her tally reached ten when the flights ended at a door labeled “Shaft #25.” It didn’t look like she was going to be walking out above-ground. She swore silently and pushed at the door, her mouth dry and salty. 

This level looked more disheveled than Shaft #27. Rocks were strewn about, condensation dripped from the ceiling, and a musty smell pervaded the air. She wasn’t sure how this place was safer in an emergency. No lights, either. Maybe it offered refuge if the lower levels flooded or if they caught fire.

She walked to the left. The shaft snaked this way and that. She didn’t see any signs of other people or any way out. As she progressed, the musty smell grew stronger, more acrid. The floor turned spongy. She trained her light on it. The ground was covered with something that looked like thick black worms or grubs. A tiny noise made her look up. The ceiling was covered with layer upon layer of little furry brown bats. Occasionally, one would squeak. In between the rows of bats pinkish-brown nubbins squirmed–baby bats?

Greta was too terrified to move. 

From farther down the shaft a loud noise erupted–like a metal pole falling on a metal floor. At once, the bats shrieked and began flapping into Greta’s face. She raised her shovel, trying in vain to shield herself. She waved the shovel back and forth, feeling the impact of several small bodies on it. Then she turned and hobbled as fast as her ankle would allow, her light bouncing crazily off the walls and floor. 

She stepped wrong and turned her good ankle. She fell to the ground, her phone and shovel flying. Thankfully, her phone flashlight did not shut off.

Greta sat up and rubbed her new sprained ankle, moaning and panting. Bats were still flying around her, but their numbers had dwindled. She collected her wits and crawled over to her phone and then to the shovel. Gingerly, she stood, testing her ankles. Her shoes were covered in filth. She limped on feet now, but was still able to totter to the emergency door. She escaped, shutting the door firmly against the bats. She leaned on her shovel, resting.

“Oh my god, oh my god, that was so gross!” 

Her words echoed down the stairwell. As she waited for her heartbeat to even, she thought about what to do next. She had no desire to continue down to level 25. She had zero curiosity about what had made the sound that scared the bats. Somehow, she didn’t think the sound was made by a person. She had no desire to go find the lab, especially not with two bad ankles. All she wanted to do was go back to the hoist and wait for morning. That seemed safest, extra credit be damned.

As she started down the stairs, Greta happened to look down. A bat was clinging to the back of her shovel.

She screamed and bashed the bat and shovel against the floor, more times than needed merely to kill the animal.

“Oh God, pleeease get me out of here!” she yelled.

Shovel back in position, sobbing softly, Greta clomped her way down the stairs, then down the spiral staircase. Her bench sat where she had left it, seemingly ages ago. She collapsed onto it, and elevated both ankles. Along with the filth from level 25, her shoes were covered with red muck from her fruitless trek. She would need to buy new ones. 

After she calmed, Greta stood and gingerly made her way over to the jackets, taking another off its hook and spreading it over her legs once she returned to her bench.

She turned off her phone light. As she tried to sleep, Greta thought about how unnatural mining was–sticking workers yards underground where they couldn’t see the sun for hours. They risked cave-ins, poison gas, groundwater floods, and all for what? For some rocks that could help make steel. She began to wonder if all that effort to bring rocks to the surface was worth it. She also began to wonder if Geology was her true calling. What if she couldn’t find a teaching job? They were hard to get, especially in northern Minnesota. Then she’d have to work for an oil company or a mining company. She didn’t want to do that. It was just as extractive as mining. She wanted to learn and to share her knowledge.

As she carefully rolled onto her side her spiraling thoughts turned to Dennis. Was she okay with having this non-physical, uncommitted relationship with him? No. She wanted more. She wished she had someone she could count on, someone who would miss her if she never got out of here. 

Wait. What was she doing thinking like that? Of course she’d get out of here. It might just take a while.

The image of the young bats, squirming and pale on the ceiling of the shaft above, replayed in her mind. She shuddered involuntarily. Greta understood that part of her horror in encountering the bats was from her own fear of childbirth. Her fear had magnified because she was alone in the mine, with no buffers; just her, the rocks, the darkness, and the bats.

The more she dwelled on it, the more her fear of the young bats seemed childish. What could a bunch of tiny flightless bats do to hurt her? Nothing. They were just bats. Nothing else. They were separate from her deepest fear. And was it worth letting her whole life be affected by this fear of having a baby? Maybe she should talk to someone about it–talk to a counselor once she got out of here. 

She was going to get out of here, right? She only had to hang on for a few more hours. If she slept, the time would go more quickly.

Yes, she should talk to someone. When she got out of here, she would do that. And she would talk to Dennis.

Greta fell asleep, then gradually awoke in the darkness, not sure if she was still sleeping. The pain as she moved one of her feet let her know she was very much awake. She felt for her phone in her jacket pocket, took it out and unlocked it. The time said 9:45 a.m.

Great! Soon, she’d get out of this hell hole. Her mouth tasted of old fish. The goose egg throbbed beneath her hair, but her headache felt better. She wondered when they’d turn the lights back on in preparation for the tour. She supposed the group wouldn’t come into the mine right at 10 o’clock. They had to gather and watch a movie first. She estimated that might take fifteen minutes. But then,they’d be coming, and she would be saved. 

At 10:20 she sat up, turned on her phone flashlight and looked at the elevator, full of expectation. At 10:30 she became impatient. Where were they? Why weren’t the lights turning on?

Gradually, and with a terrible sinking feeling, Greta remembered that today was Sunday.

She sat back against the wall and turned off her light. 

The darkness welcomed her.

END