Prig always marched us along at a quick pace, caring nothing for the strain it put us through. The foremen down in the Pit were inmates as much as their charges, but they had a better quality of life. Prig had his own bed and two real meals a day, not the gruel and mouldering bread the rest of us had to fight for. His boots were new, though certainly not shiny, and most amazingly of all, he had socks. It says a lot about the conditions we lived in that I dreamed of owning a pair of socks.
We passed other teams, and other inmates, trudging along in the greasy gloom. Some were also on their way to or from work, while others made their way down to the arena. I had yet to see the arena so early in my incarceration, but I had heard of it. Inmates slaughtered each other for the amusement of those in charge. Sometimes the gladiators were even pitted against other things, like creatures found down in the depths. What a fucking tragic waste of life. The Terrelans could have put a stop to the arena, but they didn't care. As long as the digging was done the bastards let those in charge run the other inmates as they saw fit. Those of us at the very bottom of the pecking order were always the ones to suffer most.
Our little tunnel where we dug our lives away was on the seventeenth level of the Pit. It was far enough down that we never saw sunlight, but not so far that we were at danger from the creatures that called solid rock their home. Those poor bastards who worked down in the deep depths were often driven mad by the things that they saw in the dark, or killed by the things they didn't see. We rode the wooden lift up, not because we had earned special treatment, but because our lazy fucking foreman hated stairs. It was a lucky day for us scabs, finding the lift not in use. Prig was far more generous with his whip the days he was forced to climb to work, as though it was somehow our fault he was a fat fucker.
The tools we used each day waited for us right where we had left them. Hammers, pickaxes, shovels, and a little wooden cart with rusted wheels that squealed like a pig on the butcher's block. I could feel my nerves fraying away every time that fucking cart moved. Prig could have done something about it, ordered a little oil to ease the grinding metal, but the noise did not bother him and he knew it bothered me so he kept it just as it was. That bastard was always so quick to jump on every torment he could find, no matter how little it might be. He lived to make our misery more fucking miserable. Oh, I definitely hated Prig the most!
The marker was an iron spike, two feet long with the final quarter painted white. Each team had one and each day it was driven into the wall at the end of the tunnel. Every day we were set a target, a distance I believed Prig plucked out of his rotten mind each morning. Our shift lasted until we reached that distance, measured from the marker, and if we didn't do it fast enough then Prig would make his displeasure known with the lash of his whip, which is to say he whipped us fucking bloody. There were few jobs more dangerous than holding the marker.
"Right there," Prig said with a smirk, pointing.
I stood next to the wall and sank down onto my knees, holding the marker up against the wall in both hands and leaning as far away as possible. Prig was watching me, not the marker. A fat brown tongue licked out over his cracked lips and he hefted the hammer onto his shoulder.
"You know the job." Prig's voice sounded like he spoke through his nose as much as his mouth. "Hold real still."
The anticipation of the blow made my blood freeze in my veins and I felt a cold sweat spring onto my brow. Prig knew his stuff, I have to give the slug-fucking bastard that– he made it last. At first, he tapped the flat end of the marker, lining up his strike. Then he drew back the hammer and waited.
I had seen him hit two men with the hammer in my three months down in the Pit. The first I believe was an accident. The entire team watched as the hammer hit the side of the marker and Prig stumbled, the momentum carrying on and crushing skin and bone. I had seen blood before, of course, I had been the cause of injuries far worse, but seeing Ossop's wrist snap, the bone punching through the skin... Ossop's screams are what I remember most sharply. Even now when I think about it, I can't remember his face, but I remember the sound of his pain.
The second man I had seen Prig hit with the hammer was no accident. He did not miss the marker. You can't miss a thing if you were never aiming for it. The rotten bastard changed his swing at the last moment and that solid iron hammer smashed into the man's handsome face. It was brutal fucking murder, plain and simple, for a reason no one but Prig ever knew. There were no screams to remember, only the smell of loosened bowels. Prig made us work with a bloody oozing corpse at our feet. I think it was meant as a message though in a language alien to me. It just made me hate our foreman even more. There was no retribution for it, no justice for the murder of a man. Two days after his death, a new scab arrived to take his place and we all forgot about the handsome man and his crushed skull. I never even knew his name. I think that scared me even more than Ossop's death. I hated the idea that I might die down in the Pit, nameless and forgotten. That my death would be even more meaningless than my life.
Prig spent a long time drawing out that first swing of the hammer, waving it back and forth as though he couldn't quite get the angle right. It was such a blatant show, he might as well have been waving his cock about. I had seen people close their eyes and await the blow, and I had seen others focus on the marker as though that little spike of metal was the most important thing in their world. Well fuck that! I have never been one to hide from my fate, whatever it might be, and I wasn't about to give Prig the satisfaction he craved.
"I am the weapon," I whispered the words so quiet no one else could hear then I turned my head and stared straight at the bastard, holding his malicious gaze. It was foolish. I was daring him to miss the marker, but I couldn't back down from that fight. Prig made my life in the Pit a living hell and not just my life, but all of those on my team and even Josef. Come to think of it I've never been good at backing down from a fight, even the ones I've already lost.
Prig's face crumpled with rage. By watching him, I was defying him. Defying the terror he instilled within us. With a roar he drew back and swung the hammer.
I felt the bones in my arms rattle, pain shooting up and down. I'm a little ashamed to admit, I cried out. It was the first time I had ever held the marker and I was not prepared for the shock of it. But I kept my eyes locked on Prig, watching him as he drew back and swung the hammer again, and again, and again. Each time I felt as though my arms would snap, bones piercing through skin just like they had with Ossop.
After four blows the marker was driven deep into the side tunnel wall. I could feel sweat pouring down my face and I was shaking, still staring wild-eyed at Prig. His little victory stolen, he quickly put us to work and was not shy with the whip that day. It didn't take long for the bruises to show, by the end of the day my hands were brown and yellow, and my teeth hurt from clenching. But I survived. My first time holding the marker, and my first time defying Prig, and I survived.
I think Prig wanted to kill me that day. I could see the rage on his face, the anger at the defiance I showed him. I know now he wasn't allowed to kill me. Not while the overseer still had plans for me.
Chapter 2
Josef was waiting for me when I returned. I was weary and bruised, exhausted and coated in a new layer of sweat. My clothes, little more than grey, fraying rags were stiff with weeks of filth, but there was nowhere to wash it off and no fresh wardrobe to change into. I might have been ashamed of how I smelled, but we were all living in the same pile of shit and none of us smelled pleasant.