The dirt falls from the walls as my pick ax digs in. Someone comes by, nearly crawling under us, with a shovel to remove what I pull from the walls, shoveling it into a cart that's set on a track that leads out of the tunnel. Once filled, it's wheeled out of the tunnel and put somewhere. I don't really know what happens to the dirt once it's out of this dimly lit place. Day in, day out, all we do is dig this tunnel, or that, or the other. These tunnels are for expanding the city, I think, because every so often the guards bring in people to put up support beams and add more lights, sometimes pouring in liquid stone they call "concrete."
I keep digging and digging, paying little attention to the people digging around me or shoveling the ground. My mind is focused solely on my pick ax and the dirt it's cutting into. This is something you get accustomed to, especially if you are an "ant" from birth, like me. From the time you are old enough to walk and control your movements, you're taught to either dig or work in a factory. That is why they call us "ants." We were named after an insect that spends its whole life tunneling or working to support their communities. Though, I am glad I was chosen to work in the tunnels. They collapse from time to time, even explode when we hit gas pockets and we don't turn off the oil lamps we use. It's still far safer than the factories that are full of loud machines spurting out toxic gasses and fumes that burn your lungs and eyes.
Plus, if you aren't careful enough, the machines will rip your arms off. I have seen people that march back to their bunks, holding bandaged and bloody stumps that were once fingers, that were once arms. It can be pretty gruesome some times, but it's just part of our lives. I don't even pay it much mind any more, since I've been seeing it my entire life. Still, I can see myself holding bloody bandages that cover the spot from which my arm was torn. Not just cut off, but ripped off. I keep digging and digging, tunneling a little bit further than my fellow ants. My hands are on my pick ax, my feet are in ill fitting boots that were given to my by our second class guards so that I don't need my legs amputated and I may keep digging for them, though, my mind is millions of miles away.
I know there are worlds outside of this tunnel and our bunks. I know there is because the guards bring in new prisoners; new ants. Some of them have accents that are not often heard and tell stories about their richer lives, and how they became an ant because they couldn't keep up with work, their families, and all the money that they needed. Apparently, when you can no longer afford to feed yourself or keep your home, you are taken out of society and made to be an ant, working in tunnels and factories for the society.
One of the guards yells down the hole "back to the bunks." It echos down the tunnel for all of us, and we all know what it means. We march out of the tunnel in single file lines, dropping off our digging tools in the big metal container on wheels that sits outside the tunnels enterance. After dropping off our tools, we have to get into our lines. Each line is composed of five people standing single file, hands at their sides with their eyes forward. there are 10 lines that stand right next to each other. This makes up a group.
We have five groups, so in total, there are 250 people working the mines on any given day, or at least this one. We all have specific orders we must stand in as well. I am the third person in the second row of the fifth group. The person that stands right in front of me is tall. Like the rest of us, he is covered in dirt that mixes with sweat, making mud. There are 20 guards that moniter us, five of which are counting the people in each group. "All here" calls one guard, and the other four reply "same." Each line, starting with line one of group one, then line two, and so on, starts to march in a single-file line down the big, dark, dirty hall we always do, and at the end, there are small builings that are called bunks. The bunks are full of beds for us ants. The beds are piled up to fit a certain number of people.
There are five beds stacked on one another, and each bed has a number on it, corresponding with our numbers so we know where who is supposed to be. Each group lives in a section, meaning, in the corner of the room, there are ten stacks of beds that fit five, then in another corner there is the same orientation, then in another corner it is the same orientation, then the same in another corner, then in the center of the rectangular room, there is another set with the same orientation as well, so everyone from one mine is in one bunk. There are too many bunks for me to count, but there are a lot of them, so there must be lots of us.
Amazing to think about sometimes. Why are there so many of us living like this when, acording to the non-born or new ants, there are people that live in absolute luxury, that eat food in sickening ammounts five times a day, that have gigantic homes full of things that you could never even imagine. Why do we live like this when there are other people that live like that? Most, if not all, of us have done nothing to get stuck in this position.
We are all tired from a long days work in the mines, though, not all of us are able to sleep. It is harder for me to slip into slumber than it is for most. My thoughts keep me awake for hours, whilst others are unconscious the second their grimey body makes contact with the bed. Eventually, I fall asleep, yet have no dreams. Why do I not dream? Others talk and move when they sleep. I don't talk, I don't snore, I don't move, and I don't dream. Not long after I wake up, we are called for our morning meal. A guard comes in and wakes us all up by yelling, and the ones that are not aroused by the guards booming voice are shaken awake by a fellow and/or smacked awake with a butt of a gun by a guard.
"Up, up up!" yells the guard. We march single file out the door, then to a new line. At the front of the line, there is a larger man in guard uniform that hands out trays of food. We all get only one tray, and it has nothing but scraps and moldy leftovers, though, we can't complain. It's food, and anything edible is welcome to any of us. Most of us don't complain about the clothes either. They may be old, worn, and ill fitting, but at least they keep us warm and somewhat protected. We ants only get leftovers and rejects from the higher classes. From what I hear, first class passes or resells things to second class, they do the same to third class. Once it's of no use to any citizens, it is passed to the ants. Everything we use is old, with the exception of our bodies, though that is only true for some of us. The old and weaker ants that can no longer effectively work in the mine are sent to their deaths, or to factories. The ants that work in the factories have the benefit of bringing back some of the factory rejects. I am still young and strong, and I will stay that way as long as I can.
We ants have a rather crucial roll to the higher classes. We do the digging for expanding the country, we make their clothes and toys and games in factories, some of us even do the cleaning and are used for medical research. Not to mention all of us do it with little cost to the country. If we get killed in the factories or digging, they don't have to pay compensation, because we are not real people to them. We are an expendible work force. Factories can pay people to bring ants into their factories to do all the labor. We don't get work breaks like the third class workers that work there do, nor do we even make a pay like them, because we are not real people. I don't know why we are not real people.
We eat, drink, breathe, cry, expel waste, think, and feel. What makes us different than them, other than the fact we don't have all the money and flashy commodities that they do? Third class people are still people, though they are nearly ants. They get jobs slightly better than ours. Third class citizens can work in factories or perform janitorial maintanance, or various other jobs. They get amazing benefits like days off, getting money if injured on the job, lunch breaks, shorter hours. They even get actual pay, which we don't. Though, if they lose their jobs, or cannot afford their homes or families, they are sent to get branded with their number, then everything of theirs taken, then sent down to the mines. Second class citizens do not need to worry as much. They can afford to have pets, and their jobs are impressive. They do the constructing of important structures and wiring of them.
They are the construction people that come in and tell third class citizens how to lay their liquid stone called "concrete," and the walls, and where to put certain pipes and sets of wires. They get things fairly well off. They have an abundance of food and they don't even need to work too much. They just outline where things go in screens they carry with them and take notes on the workers and the structures. First class are the people that own entire industries and are widely known. They have scientists make them crazy pets that most wouldn't even imagine, they eat extravigantly, they have very flashy and expensive clothing and transportation.
They basically can have anything they desire. The leaders of this civilization are all first class. It's hard for the first class to lose their spot as first. The same is not to be said for second or third. If you are second class, one fatal error, and you may get bumped to third class. If there is an error as third class, or you lose money, you are an ant. That's something most people fear. Once you're an ant, there's no turning back. You're no longer a human being, and there's no going back.
The guards begin yelling to clean up the last scraps then get to the mines. We all begin marching single-filed once more to the mine. We march to the shed where the digging tools are stored and each grab one in an orderly fashion. The guard flips a switch, illuminating the hole we dug. Another guard hands an ant a small metal thing that, when you press down on a little button, makes a small fire. The ant the procedes down the tunnel, reigniting the hanging lamps that were extinguished after we left the day prior. This way we have a little more light to work in. We procede down the passage of cold dirt, down to where we left off. Because I'm one of the strongest diggers, I am at the very front. I immediately begin stabbing the pick ax into the wall of dirt in front of me, knocking loose some dirt and rocks. I do this repeatedly and mindlessly.
It's become as simple and mechanical as breathing. Stab the ax into the dirt, pull out, and repeat. Carving our way into into the cold earth more and more. "Engineer" calls one of the guards. That means for all of us to stop and pay attention. A small looking man wearing a white jacket and pants with a light blue tie, and safety glasses. He has a very small build; his hair is white and thin and his skin is pink and fleshy. He has no facial hair at all and he sports thick looking black gloves. In his hand is a thin, rectangular screen that is very bright looking. He points out things to the guards, talking to them very quietly, too quietly for anyone else to hear.
The guards then take thin metal sticks that have a plastic yellow flag on the end and sticks them where ever the engineer points to. "Everyone, out of the tunnel" yells out a guard. We all march in our usual single file orders out of the tunnel and wait in our groups. A line of people, most likely third class based on their clothing, skin color, and how clean they look, march into the tunnel. Some of them are carrying long coils of wires, others are carrying buckets or boxes. Few, if any, are empty handed. They walk to the engineer that stands at the entrence of the tunnel, and he instructs them where to leave what they are holding, where to go, and what they do. The engineer shows them the screen and points to certain spots to show where to go.
Right away, everyone goes right to their designated area and gets to work. I can't tell what they are doing or what is going on, because I can't see. It sounds like there is a lot of talk, much more than we are allowed. A few large machines used for transporting large or heavy materials carry large beams and pipes and other things. They are very loud, these beasts of metal. Many people man the machines, even a few women. They all seem to know exactly what they are doing, at least to an extent. "New gladiatorial challenge coming up in a few weeks, you ready?" one man asks another. "Yeah. One of these sorry beasts is going to earn me some money" the other says in a rather uncomforting, greedy sounding voice. Did he mean us? "Beasts"? Is that what we are?
The men continue talking, making it look like they're working. "The last games were brutal! Amedeus's pet destroyed them!" "You mean the ant Amedeus bought?" "Yeah! He may have only gotten one, but he chose well!" "Too true. I still think he cheated though". "What are you doing?" a guard interrupts. "Getting to work, sir" they say simultaniously. One grabs a red metal box, the other picks up a bucket, and they walk together down the tunnel, out of sight and hearing range. Is that what happens to the people that get escorted out by the guards? People just simply buy them? That doesn't sound too bad but, what is so brutal? and who is Amedeus? I cant help but think about this. I have never heard of this sort of thing before.
The guards ordered us back to the bunks, and we walk in our usual order. I try to get a glance down the tunnel to see what they are doing down there. Some poured liquid stone, others poured other things that didn't look familiar to me at all. Others put together colorful strands of wires and threaded them through, while others used machines to put up supports. I only got a split-second glance, so I didn't get to see too much of what was going on. Looks like they are making it a new branch already.
We are called to a different spot that looks like the tunnel we were just at, but before the hole is there. It is very different looking. Odd almost. "This is the new tunnel you'll be digging. You have completed your job there, now it's time that we begin a new one. We just got orders to start here. Only one group can begin, and that is group five. The rest of you must go back to the bunks, but this is where you will be reporting first thing in the morning. You will now be escorted there," says the head guard. Four guards lead us back to the bunks. Once there, we all find our bunks and go to sleep. I never started a tunnel before. They look so odd before they are dug. An almost completely straight up and down wall of dry-ish dirt.
These thoughts continue flowing in and out of my mind until I slip into sweet slumber.
