Hugh Howey - Half Way Home

Karl left us and walked down to the next few openings to see around the limb. He didn’t get twelve feet away before he shouted back to us: “Fucking shit, guys. You’ve gotta see this.”

Kelvin and I hurried down to join him, the three of us crowding along the edge of the opening. Karl pointed below, out past the far edge of the canopy’s overhang where the rain fell heavy and unobstructed. Through the gray veil it created, out where dawn’s storm-strained light seemed to surf down the face of the nearest mountain, we could see manmade things. Colony things.

Two tractors were parked by a module, which sat in a distant circle of mud.

“It’s gotta be the mine,” Leila said as soon as we reported our findings to the rest of the group. All nine of us huddled below the entrance to the large tunnel, eating bombfruit cut from the underhang and drinking fresh rainwater.

“I thought this planet had a major mineral and ore deficiency. Are you saying Colony lied to us?”

“No,” Leila said, shaking her head. “It’s probably abandoned. How do you think Colony figured out there weren’t any metals to begin with?”

“From the original mine,” I said.

“Bingo.”

“I think Colony even mentioned a mine site that first night,” Tarsi said, “but it said the thing was a few days drive away.”

“Maybe it is. If you have to go around the trees, that is.”

Kelvin wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and spoke around some bombfruit: “You think that’s what Mica and Peter were heading toward?” he asked me.

“Maybe.”

“What do you mean?” Jorge asked.

“Mica was interested in the mine,” Kelvin said. “She and Porter talked about minerals or something one day over lunch.” He looked to Leila. “And didn’t you say she was a geologist?”

“Do you think she escaped to find something?” Leila asked me.

I shrugged. “I don’t know what to think. Maybe—” I turned to Kelvin amd snapped my fingers. “That rumble we heard earlier, when I fell through the canopy. I know what that was, now.”

“An engine,” Kelvin said, his eyes wide. “A mining tractor?”

“I think Colony knows where Mica and Peter were heading. If that tractor is on its way, we need to get down there.”

“Slow down,” Jorge said. “If Colony’s heading that direction, we need to stay up here, where we’re safe. Besides, we still haven’t talked about how we’re gonna get down safely. We can’t spend another day walking through these tunnels hoping another earthquake doesn’t occur.”

“I’m going down,” I said to Tarsi and Kelvin, ignoring Jorge.

“Same here,” Kelvin said. “I don’t feel much safer up here. I need dirt under my feet.”

Most of the rest of the group agreed, which left the question of how we mitigate the dangers of the descent.

“I liked the idea of forming a long train of vinnies,” Tarsi said. “That way we have a lot of warning. Besides, with the rainfall there’s hundreds of them up here we could gather.”

A drop of water smacked me on the top of my head; I could feel it worming through my hair and across my scalp. I looked up at the source of the drip, the dim light of the stormy morning finally filtering through the massive leaves. The drips had been tormenting me all night, filling my head with schemes, ways of keeping the moisture out completely. I couldn’t blame the vinnies for crawling up the sides of the tunnel, trying to stay out of the wetness—

“I’ve got an idea,” I said.

I scanned the group around me, their faces barely discernable and tinged with green. “Probably a stupid idea,” I admitted.

Jorge snorted, obviously expecting no less.

“Let’s hear it,” said Kelvin.

The plan grew and altered as I spoke it. It began as a way to keep the vinnies out of the tunnel, but then it transformed into something crazy: a plan I began to doubt even as it formed. Everyone else just got excited and egged me on, which I suppose is how bad things tend to happen.

The allure of the idea was that we would be in the tunnel for as little time as possible, minimizing the chances of encountering another stampede-causing earthquake. A handful of us volunteered for the wet work, crawling out into the cold and working in the rain as it soaked us to the bone. Karl used one of the machetes to hack through the thick stems of the largest variety of leaves. The rest of us gathered them and passed them down into the tunnel. There, Kelvin and Leila carpeted the brambles with them, overlapping each leaf with the next as they created a nearly watertight flooring.

Meanwhile, using the other machete, Samson worked on the rise of the plumber’s trap, cutting it out so the water could pass into the tunnel. As he chopped the brambles up, other workers passed the removed pieces along and tossed them through the gear holes further down. Not only did this help remove the hump in the tunnel, the tossed limbs and hacked brambles would make for easy firewood if we could circle around the base of the tree and find them on the ground.

It took almost an hour to complete the work; by then, the rest of the group had rainwater funneling toward the large hole from the depression up top. The low valleys we had avoided while walking came into great use, collecting the rain and forcing it toward our tunnel. Using bits of sticks, we propped up the edges of some leaves to guide even more rain into the tunnel.

Once we were done, we gathered up the large leaves we had set aside and joined the others down past the flattened plumber’s trap. The girls had already carpeted the area Karl had cut out and a steady stream of water flowed through.

Those of us that had worked up top wrung out our clothes while the rest worked to secure our supplies. We distributed one big leaf per couple, with Kelvin agreeing to ride alone with a large tarp full of the majority of our gear.

As we worked, a train of vinnies marched past, all of them as high up the tunnel wall as their bristles could carry them. They were avoiding the rushing stream, just as I’d hoped.

Tarsi and I plopped down on the first leaf, the honor (and risk) of going first given to the person with the dumb idea. Below us, the floor of the tunnel gurgled with flowing water. I sat in front, straddling the stem of the leaf, both my hands on its forward edge and curling it back. Tarsi sat behind me, and we scooted forward, lurching the leaf inch by inch, while Kelvin and Samson shoved from behind.

At first, it felt like the entire endeavor would be a bust. I feared all of us had soaked ourselves to the core and worn ourselves out for nothing. Behind us, someone groaned as we struggled to get the contraption moving, but despite the waxiness of the leaf and the well-worn wood below, there seemed to be too much friction to get going.

Then—imperceptibly at first but growing—our scooting picked up speed. I could almost feel the bond between the leaf and wood slipping as the water eased us along. Behind me, Tarsi quit pushing and wrapped her arms around my waist. I leaned back and yelled for Kelvin and Samson to stop.

We were off. Moving at a walking pace for a few moments, and then faster. And faster.

“Whoa,” Tarsi said, her grip around my chest making it difficult to breathe. I leaned back against her and concentrated on keeping the forward edge of the leaf up. Beside us, the openings in the tunnel flicked past. The rising curve of the round tube kept me from worrying about sliding out, and the tree was so large in diameter, it felt like we were going down a nearly straight chute rather than a tight spiral. The speed, however, quickly became a real concern. Within moments we were moving along faster than a tractor could go. I tried to keep my bearings with quick glances out the holes, but they flickered past so quickly it was like seeing the world through rapid blinks.