Elion

July 13, 1985. Saturday. 7:00 a.m. Shaft No. 7. The old storage sheds. They returned to the shelter as the sun rose, but no one noticed the light. A grey shroud had sealed the sky completely, and even through the open hangar gates, not a single ray penetrated—only a dull, blurred glow that made everything look flat and unreal. Zoe entered first, clutching the glowing bow to her chest. She sat on a crate by the cold barrel, hunched over, and froze. She hadn't spoken a word since leaving the sawmill. Even when Leo asked if she wanted water, she only shook her head—once, briefly, as if any extra movement might shatter her from within. Tim closed the gates. Inside grew dark, only the bow in Zoe's hands pulsing silver—slowly, steadily, as if breathing. Tim didn't cry. He couldn't remember the last time he'd cried. Maybe as a kid, when he broke his arm and his father said, "Men don't cry." He'd held it together ever since. Even now, when everything inside had turned to molten lava, his eyes stayed dry. He walked to the workbench, picked up the crowbar, set it down. Then picked it up again. Set it down. His hands demanded action, but there was nothing to act on. Leo pulled a circuit board, a soldering iron, and a coil of wire from his backpack. He didn't intend to fix anything—he just needed to occupy his fingers. He plugged a connector in, pulled it out, flipped the board, found a broken contact, and mechanically touched it with the iron. Solder melted, dripped onto the concrete. He stared at the smoking drops, thinking about how Mira had drawn light bulbs on a tree, and they glowed without wires, and now there was no tree, no bulbs, no Mira. Only this bow, which Zoe pressed to her heart, pulsing as if something still remained inside it. The silence was thick enough to cut with a knife. Outside, there was no hum, no cracking, no laughter—Elion had gone quiet. And that made it worse. Because silence meant: he was digesting what he'd taken. And when he finished, he'd return. Tim stopped. He stopped pacing, stopped touching the crowbar. He stood in the middle of the hangar, arms at his sides. "I promised her," he said into the void. His voice was hollow, as if from a barrel. "Up there, in the attic. When she said she could hear him. I promised I wouldn't let her die. I said, 'I won't leave you.' And now? Now what?" Zoe didn't answer. She didn't even look up. Leo set down the soldering iron. "Tim, it's not your fault." "Then whose? His? Yeah, his. But I stood there and watched. I held the crowbar and did nothing." He ran a hand over his face, his fingers trembling. "I should have held her back. Should have figured out what she was planning before she even left. But I was asleep. I was asleep while she walked out there." "We were all asleep," Leo said. "But I made the promise." Silence again. Then Zoe raised her head. Her face was pale, shadows under her eyes, but something in her eyes had changed. Not sadness. Not resignation. Ice. Thin, transparent ice, behind which hid a flame. "We'll avenge her," she said. These were the first words she'd spoken since the sawmill. They came out quietly, almost matter-of-factly, but they carried a chill. "We'll find his core and destroy it. Not seal it. Not make a deal. Destroy it." Tim looked at her. His eyes were red but dry. Ice was kindling in them too. "How? With what? We've got a glowing rock and a rope." "Dynamite," Leo's voice cut in. He wasn't asking—stating. Everyone turned to him. Leo set the board on the workbench, wiped his hands on his jeans. "These sheds used to store explosives. I read it in the archives: when the mines closed, some dynamite was left in the far hangar. No one hauled it out—just sealed it up and forgot. If it hasn't gotten damp, it's still usable." "That's dangerous," Zoe said, but there was no objection in her voice. Just a statement. "Dangerous," Leo agreed. "But if we want to destroy the core, we need something more powerful than a crowbar." Tim was already at the door. "Where's the far hangar?" "At the end of the hill, past the shaft. There's a door with a chain on it." "I'm going." He grabbed a flashlight, tucked the crowbar into his belt, and walked out without waiting for a reply. July 13, 1985. Saturday. 8:50 a.m. Shaft No. 7. The far storage shed. This hangar was smaller than the other two and stood apart, dug so deep into the hillside that its back wall was practically bedrock. The chain on the door was rusted, but it hung there mostly for show—the lock crumbled to dust when Tim yanked it with the crowbar. Inside smelled of saltpeter, damp wood, and something acidic, like from a dead battery. The narrow flashlight beam picked out rows of wooden crates stacked along the walls. Faded lettering on the lids: "Dynamite. Handle with care" and below: "Property of U.S. Bureau of Mines." Tim approached the nearest crate, pried the lid with the crowbar. Nails screeched, the board gave way. Inside, in wooden compartments, lay cylindrical sticks wrapped in waxed paper. Dynamite. Old, but not damp: the paper was dry, the wax uncracked. Tim carefully took one stick, weighed it in his hand. He'd expected it to feel heavy as stone, but it was surprisingly light—like a piece of stiff cardboard. "Shit," Tim whispered. "Please don't blow up in my hands." He pulled out a few more sticks. Five. Six. Seven. Enough to collapse the whole shaft if placed right. He hadn't thought about detonators. He rummaged in the crate—at the bottom lay coils of fuse cord and a box of blasting caps. All intact. Someone had once prepared this depot for work, then simply walked away. Tim packed the sticks into his backpack, wrapping each in rags he found in the corner. The fuse and caps went into a separate pocket. He zipped the pack, slung it over his shoulder, and walked out. At the door he stopped, staring at the grey sky. Somewhere up there, in the lilac haze, Elion was hiding. Tim squinted and said into the emptiness: "You hear me, you bastard? I'm coming. And I won't stop." The sky didn't answer. Only the hum underground grew louder for a second, then faded again. July 13, 1985. Saturday. 10:15 a.m. Shaft No. 7. The old storage sheds. When Tim returned, Zoe stood at the workbench, studying the mine map. She'd spread the blueprint over a pile of tools, weighed down the corners with the stone that pulsed in time with her heartbeat, and traced her finger along the lines of the lower horizon. "You got it," she said without turning. Not a question—a statement. "Got it." Tim dropped the backpack on a crate. "Seven sticks, fuse, caps. Enough to blow half the mine." Leo looked up from the sensor he'd been trying to revive for the last half hour. The device beeped, detecting the proximity of explosives, and he hastily switched it off. "Seven sticks is a lot. If placed right, we could bring down the whole lower horizon. But we need to know exactly where to put them." "Right here." Zoe jabbed a finger at exploratory working number twelve. "Where it says 'It breathes here.' This is where the miners found something in '28. Something that shut the work down. If the true core is anywhere, it's there. A blast at that point might destroy it." "Or wake it up for good," Leo noted. "We've been over this." Zoe turned to him. "We know the false core is a trap, and Elion wants us to blow it to free himself. But we don't know what happens if we blow the true core. Maybe it's his prison. Maybe the blast destroys it." "Or maybe it sets something even worse free." Zoe looked at him for a long moment. Then she picked up Mira's bow from the edge of the map and pressed it to her chest. "Leo, she gave up her memory. Her life. Everything she had. And the last thing she said through that body was, 'Go down.' Not 'run.' Not 'hide.' 'Go down.' She wanted us to finish this. And I will finish it. Even if I have to blow myself up with the core." Tim stepped forward and stood beside her. "Me too." Leo looked from Zoe to Tim, then at his own hands. The green scar on his wrist still glowed—dimly, but visibly. He clenched his fist. "I won't back down," he said. "But we have to be smarter. If we just plant the dynamite and blast it, we could die, and no one will know if it worked. We need to prepare." "We don't have time to prepare," Tim argued. "He's digested Mira and now he's sitting down there somewhere, full and pleased. If we wait, he'll only get stronger." "I'm not saying 'wait.' I'm saying 'think.'" Leo walked over to the map. "Here's the ventilation shaft. We go down it to the lower level. Follow the drift to working twelve. Find the core. If it's there, we plant the dynamite and get out." "And if it's not there?" Zoe asked. "Then we figure it out on the spot." Tim nodded. He pulled a coil of fuse cord from the backpack and laid it on the workbench. "How long does it burn?" "I don't know. There's no marking. Maybe a foot per minute. Maybe faster." Leo examined the cord. "We need to test it. Cut a piece, light it, time it." "Then we lose some cord." "Better lose cord than lose our lives." While Leo worked on a test piece, Zoe rolled up the map and tucked it into her backpack. She moved mechanically, like a robot, but her fingers trembled slightly. Tim noticed and said nothing. He just walked over and took her by the elbow. "We'll get her back. The memory, the soul—I don't know what's left of her. But if there's a chance, we'll take it." Zoe looked at him. The ice in her eyes cracked, but she blinked fast and pushed back the tears. "Do you really believe that?" "No." Tim smiled weakly. "But I want to. And that's enough." Outside, the sky cracked again—another fissure, another dose of lilac smoke seeping toward the ground. But here, in the concrete hangar, they couldn't hear the crack. Only the hum under their feet, growing louder and louder, as if something enormous was stirring in the depths. And the glowing bow in Zoe's hand pulsed in time with that hum—faster, faster, like a heart afraid it wouldn't be heard.