A 5/7's shift

The ground gurgled and shifted below each of Arthur's footsteps. Black as anthracite yet soft like a feather pillow, it was like walking on a monstrous dirty marshmallow. Even then, the air was more difficult to cope with, especially with the methane leaks, geysers of gases containing sulfur and the thick stench of the rubber. Of course that didn’t make much of a difference when compared to the smog wandering from the nearby refineries and other machinery. Little of the remaining sunlight could reach the chilly area with that haze hanging around.

For as far as his eyes could were the canyons of the tar sand mine. Hundreds of dump trucks and shovels were working furiously to get as much of the gunk out of the ground for processing in a single shift. The noises of the engines, honking from the haul trucks and smaller vehicles and the general grind of the land being devoured by the hungry workforce, it was a deafening mix of sound along with a sense of depression from a lack of green.

All around the canyons were hundreds of InSinerators armed with semi-automatic rifles, each one ready to shoot anyone who dared deviate or even defy the orders given to the workers. They stood with their faceless chrome gasmasks and bionic armor. Their lack of emotions and sole desire to enforce the rules was nothing short being dreadful and inhumane. Not a peep could be heard from them, as was the sight of even a slight twitch or itch. It was tempting to call them drones with arms and legs but then again, an insult against them could be considered criminal, something no one ever wanted to be.

Beyond the armed guards that they were the numerous towers of steel all clustered around the refinery. A structure that seemed to be more than a mile wide, the facility was an intricate network of pipes and machinery. One could’ve easily gotten loss in that hot mess. The streams of smog and regular carcinogens continuously trickled out and infecting the very air everyone breathed. A large and long umbilical cord of metal connected the towers to the harbors where the final product would be shipped out.

Nearby was a gigantic lake of water and an oily sludge. Sometimes he and other people referred to it as the black hole. It seemed like a fitting name given that any waste that was ever dumped into that area would never come back. It was really a place to dump waste from the refinery after extracting the black gold from the tar sand. At least he had a respirator.

The region was home for him and everyone else he knew. Mostly a land of tar sand mines and waste dumps, the land was a treasure trove for the rich and the most independent people according to the rules of apartheid. But to him, it was nothing short of being deep gashes.

The sound of a loud fog horn told him it was time for his shift to begin. He sighed and headed to his parked dump truck. It was a filthy behemoth; the colors had long faded into a dark steel grey while the blotches of rust grew ever larger. As he climbed the fifty-five feet high flight of stairs to reach his cab, the previous driver passed him in a hurry. They likely did not want to slow down production for fear of being punished by the InSinerators. The truck was still turned on with its two diesel engines rumbling; he would need to top off the fuel tanks before getting to work.

Inside the small and unheated cab was a worn out chair and simple controls. He sat down, buckled up and looked at his blind spot screens and all around him before shifting gears and driving off to the gas station.

It was a massive machine to drive and required him to drive at a very slow speed; even with eight wheels it would be hard to stop something the size of a strip mall traveling at five miles per hour. That didn’t mean he was allowed to drive extra slow; that would likely lead to a punishment. A thunderous hum rattled him in the cab as he crossed the main bridge connecting the mine to the outside world. He saw the fuel stop on the other side and gently pulled up before switching off the giant.

“Haul truck 27 needs refueling,” He said into his radio.

He watched as two large robotic arms swung out with fuel hoses attached before hooking up to the truck’s tanks. It was the same routine as it had been for over two years and that made the wait even duller. As he waited, he watched other haul trucks drive by, some carrying the tar sands and other going back to the shovels.

Arthur had been working at the mine since he was fourteen; it was the only way to make enough money to save up for a better life. His dad had done the same as did his grandfathers and great grandfathers. It was not a heritage to be proud of but the apartheid rules put all of them in that position. Sometimes he wondered if he could get a different job without violating the system. Regardless, he was stuck as a driver and there wasn’t much he could do about it.

The meter’s digital needle slowly rose to the full mark; his truck, like all the other ones, was a heavy gas-guzzler. But the mine’s output was more than several times what was required to keep its entire fleet running each year. None of that really mattered to the young driver though as he waited to get to work.

A few minutes passed before a distinct chime sounded in the cab; refueling was complete.

His radio crackled and the same voice spoke up.

“You’re good to go Arthur. Dispatch needs you to go to shovel Beta for today.”

“Understood.”

With the flick of a switch, the entire cab lit up like a Christmas tree and a tremendous bellow erupted as the engines came back online. A shifted gear later and he was slowly off on another shift.

Driving a haul truck like his was always difficult. Not only did he have to look ahead and at his screens at the same time but he also had to make sure that he carried the sandy sludge to the dumpsite within a certain time limit regardless of the traffic backups that were frequent. Without hesitation, he increased his speed towards the shovel. It was near the center of the mine as usual.

A few minutes passed; the smog and haze had turned into a fog that blocked his vision. Without being able to see far ahead of him, the only option left was to be safe and drive slowly. Anxiety gripped him as he went slower than he wanted to. The speedometer read ten miles per hour. It was always a challenge to find just the right speed under foggy conditions. Maybe he should’ve tried twelve or eleven miles per hour although eleven might overwhelm the brakes. He was just a few minutes from the shovel.

He gradually nudged the throttle forward, hoping to find a balance. If there was something that the trucks needed but didn’t have, it was cruise control. Too bad he couldn’t suggest it to his superiors; that would’ve been an illegal insult according to the apartheid laws. It was stuff he had to put up with despite the negative repercussions.

Compared to Arthur’s truck, the shovel was a true monstrosity. It was a bucket-wheeled excavator that could fill two trucks at the same time. The bucket wheel’s diameter itself seemed almost as big as his truck. It would take less than a minute to fill each hauler. However, it would take several minutes before Arthur would be loaded up; there was a long line of other haulers waiting to be filled.

He watched as several other burdened trucks swiftly moved past him; their loads of tar sands typically weighed over three hundred tons, just like his payloads were. Despite the enormous weight, everyone was expected to get to the processing area within ten minutes after being loaded up. The pressure and workload was immense but he still had to do his job.

Arthur parked his hauler underneath one of the two depositor booms. A steady flow of tar sand quickly pressed down on the suspension and filled the dump bed. He glanced over at a clock in the cab and counted the seconds.

Ten seconds

Twenty seconds

Thirty seconds.

A loud honk rang out; he was fully loaded. Time was ticking as he started to race back to the facility. Both engines were surging with power as the lumbering giant rolled quickly across the mine.

Riding in the dump trucks didn’t seem as glamorous as being an excavator operator at the mine; the cabs of those machines were said to be warm, had a more comfortable chair, less cramped and far less difficult to use. Despite the reduced workload, they were being paid far more than Arthur was. He probably could do a good job as an excavator operator but their wasn’t any open positions for him to apply for. Even if there were, the competition would fierce and difficult for a man as young as him. All he could do was be glad with what little he had been given.

"InSinerators" was the nickname given to the guards by the lower classes as Arthur recalled:

“They sin by the use of fire to satisfy their demonic hunger for pain and suffering of all below their rank.” It was a truth communicated only in secret.

Despite InSinerators horrific nature, it was the leaders of all that truly struck fear and rage into the lower people classified by the system. Hoarding vast amounts of food and resources, wielding unprecedented power over mankind, exercising brute force on any opposition to their image and refusing to bestow tranquil treatment on their people, the supreme elites earned only the labor and hatred of the people.

Five minutes had passed already and he wasn’t near the dumpsite yet. The fog was becoming thicker as Arthur maneuvered through the black canyons. He wondered what the place would look like if a fire broke out considering the gas leaks and the exposed tar sands were both good fuels. Hopefully he would never be in that situation.

The bridge came into his sight as the fog began to lift. The line of loaded trucks was moving quick but for the InSinerators, probably not fast enough.

Two minutes passed and he crossed the bridge leading back to the dumpsite. In a few minutes he would need to be offloading his mountain of tar sand. The vehicle in front of him was moving slower and slower; something wasn’t right.

As he anxiously watched the seconds tick by, the dreadful thoughts of being punished by his superiors for being late filled his mind. It wasn’t his fault that he was being held up from doing his job. The apartheid rules would argue differently. His radio came back to life.

“Attention all drivers! There appears to be a stuck truck at the dumpsite. Please remain in your cabs as we fix this anomaly.”

“Great…” he muttered.

Creeping along, his massive earthmover continued to distort the ground around his tires. Although there were eight total, the weight of the tar sands was still extreme. Hopefully the haul truck wouldn’t get trapped.

Five minutes passed; there were just three trucks between him and the dumpsite. The fog had dissipated dramatically but the air still reeked with foul odors. At least he could see farther ahead of him, including the workers on the ground. They looked like mites waiting to surround an unsuspecting person; of course the InSinerators made things uneasy. Soon enough, it was his turn.

Gently as he always was, Arthur drove the haul truck right alongside the earthy embankment and parked right next to the gap where the tar sand would begin its trip through the refinery. He honked his horn and pressed the button.

The whole weight of his vehicle shifted to the right. A single screen showed the dark substance tumbling down a steep slope and straight into a metal drain; even from his spot, Arthur could hear the gritty material being chewed up by massive rock crushers; it sounded like a ferocious tumbler popping skulls.

Soon enough, his bed was empty and needed to be refilled. There was no time to waste though; quickly he sped off to collect more tar sand. But there was a strange new odor in the air.

Following the guides acting as borders for all drivers to follow, the young driver rounded a corner and confronted by a stronger stench and a black shroud of smoke. A fire was burning but from what?

Arthur looked more closely and saw the source.

Another haul truck lay on its side; the tar sands it was carrying had spilled out and somehow caught fire. There were miners and other workers furiously cleaning up the mess. And then there were the InSinerators. Four of them stood silently with their guns drawn.

All were focused on a single person, probably the driver. He was on his knees begging something from the guards, most likely mercy for his error.

A shot from each rang out.

The bullets went through his skull and took bits of bone, blood and flesh with them. He slumped forward into the dirty ground, hiding their expression of terror; it would always be that way. More blood trickled from his wounds and mixed with the tar sand into a murky puddle.

He sighed and settled into his seat as he continued his shift; it was just another night at the mine. Then again, when was a shift different from the rest?

Twelve hours passed. As with each shift, the teenage miner waited to hear the sound of the shift horn. The eyelids were exhausted from being on constant alert; his limbs were fatigued from the repetition of driving his haul truck. All that he wanted to do was eat and sleep.

He had a load of tar sand that needed to be deposited; he would have to collect another round if the horn didn’t sound before he reached the site. That would’ve been an extra burden on the tired driver. Hopefully that wouldn’t happen.

He casted a blank gaze into the dawn surrounding him; a lot of workers and InSinerators were still around, either getting ready to leave their shift or making sure they did their jobs right. Screwing up and not realizing it could still lead to punishment. The guards stood as if a war was about to begin in front of them, posed to taken down everyone who was within striking distance. The miners, however, scurried along like terrified mice, picking up any loose ends and fleeing from a pack of potential monsters.

The line of dump trucks ahead of him moved steadily; still no horn sounded. There were only three rolling between the pit and Arthur. Time was running out.

A new challenge was bringing him down; trying to stay awake. He hadn’t eaten a dinner or any food since starting his shift. It was his superiors’ fault for not equiping the trucks with a place to store a meal to eat on the go. Either way, Arthur was starving.

Two dump trucks were in front of him. He watched another empty hauler drive past his vehicle. To him, the passing driver appeared to have eyes squinting and slumped forward slightly. They would need to pick up another round.

At least that wasn’t Arthur. He looked forward to going back home; getting away from the stress of working under the threat of possible death and seeing his family was always more than enough to take away his daily agony. Perhaps his mom would have a warm meal of cabbage, algae crackers and even a bit of fish. Maybe Sierra would come home from a good day at the docks. And his dad might’ve brought a smile to Arthur, given that they were both miners.

One truck was left before he dumped his load.

The horn still hadn’t gone off. As the ticking trickled into his ears, all that could be done was hope for the best but expect the worst. Beyond that thought, staying focused was needed. The haul truck in front of him started to tip its contents into the deep pit.

Each grain of tar sand that was dug up and transported to the dumpsite was an impurity in gas. There weren’t a lot of grains in the mine’s seams of the black goop but just enough that it could still have a lot of influence on how everything was run throughout the process. It took two tons of tar sand just to produce one barrel of gas. Despite how much sand there was, the oil received more attention. It was needed to run machinery and keep the mine open but the sand was useless and not needed or desired.

It was a comparison that some people would make when thinking of the supreme elites in power. He didn’t see eye to eye with those thinkers, especially when comparing the lower class to sand. Then again, sandpaper could shape anything from wood, rock or metal with effort.

Dumping was complete. It was Arthur’s turn.

Grudgingly, he once again maneuvered the packed hauler alongside the gap in the berm. His contents quickly toppled out. The exhausted driver grumbled under his breath as he drove off back to the shovel; the horn still hadn’t sounded.

Arthur’s day finally ended when he was halfway back to the pit with more tar sand. A tremendous drone from the gigantic foghorn rang in everyone’s ears and left the driver with some relief. But nevertheless, he had to drop off his load before punching out.

The minutes ticked by and so did his patience. He gritted through his teeth and drove faster, possibly too quick. Four haul trucks stood between him and the pit. Waiting was feeling longer and longer; looking at the clock did not help.

Arthur sighed and continued to wait.

Lower people who worked at the mine scurried by; despite the haze that was enveloping everyone, their ranking tattoos glittered. They looked like collars; Arthur’s own tattoo was 5/7 of the way around his neck. Dark as sin but embedded with bits of shiny particles, the visible method for maintaining the effectiveness of the apartheid system was simple and distinct. Even if someone were to paint or cover the markings, the detection devices implemented by the rulers would still be able to tell who was allowed and not allowed to enter certain areas or do certain acts. Tampering with any part of the system would lead to execution on the spot by the hands of the InSinerators.

The last of his tar sand cargo fell into the pit and off he drove to the parking lot for all the other haul trucks. At least he could finally go home.