Page 33 of Kings of Decay
I watched the miners, their faces grimy, their bodies hunched under the weight of their labor. They moved with a weary familiarity, their movements ingrained after years of hard work.
I leaned against a rusted support beam, the cold metal biting into my back. My gaze drifted towards the entrance, a distant pinprick of light in the overwhelming darkness.
The mine was more than just a source of employment; it was a symbol of my father's power, his iron grip on this town. He had built his empire on the backs of these miners, exploiting their labor and the land itself to fuel his ambition. And we, his sons, were pawns in his game, bound to this place by blood and obligation.
And yet, his name wasn't officially on the deed. My father was a silent partner in this place, but everyone knew, anyway.
I turned back to the offices that were lined up on the edge of the mine. They were little more than camping trailers loaded with wires and spotty satellite internet.
My homework for this afternoon was keeping an eye on our beloved Mayor and making sure he didn't step out of line while talking to the press.There was already a buzz in the area thanks to that trooper's body being found this morning. Thankfully, the wolves had taken care of most of his body, so no one doubted it was just an unfortunate accident.
Mr. Woods was back to driving his basic SUV, now that his G-Wagon was nothing but charred metal in the middle of the forest. He was dressed plainly in slacks and a button-up shirt, trying to emulate the working-class image that his voters wanted. His glasses kept slipping down his sweaty face.
The mayor stood stiffly, his eyes flicking back and forth between me and the interviewer as he spoke about his goals forthe upcoming election after Christmas. I could see the faint sheen of sweat on his brow as he spoke, his hands gripping the makeshift podium so hard his knuckles went white.
I wished Pearce had come along, but he didn't want to spend the day waiting around while some small-town mayor blabbed on about his plans for drainage and snow plows.
"And what of your competition?" The reporter asked. "There are rumors that the governor and your opponent are worried about the toll the increasing mining activity are taking on the environment."
Mr. Woods' eyes locked onto mine before replying.
Just like we rehearsed, I thought. My father already supplied all of his talking points.
"Well, the - the democrats are always sticking their nose in the business of hardworking people," Mr. Woods said.
I relaxed a fraction.Good boy, Mr. Woods.
"Our communities, our livelihoods depend on the mining industry to survive," Woods continued. "When you're out in the middle of nowhere and the mines close, there go your only opportunities for employment, for quality education for your children, for safety and security. We have to protect what we have and improve it where we can."
"And what about the rights of those working the mines right now?" A voice said.
I bristled as the small gathering of people parted for a man. He was tall and straight, dressed in jeans and a button-down shirt. His hair was a greying brown and was cut short. A scruffy beard peppered his jawline, and his eyes were icy and pale blue.
I recognized the man walking to the podium. It was none other than John, Willow's father. The chill in the air seemed to intensify as he approached, the silence in the area growing more hushed with every step he took. He was the sort of guy that working men respected. A man of the people.
I crossed my arms, watching the conversation unfold.
"Our workers need better benefits and better pay," John Moore continued. "I represent several work crews, and they've told me they need more. This isn't going to last forever, and these men are breaking their backs to turn a profit."
Mr. Woods' eyes narrowed. He looked to me for a signal.
I kept my face void of expression and waited to see how he would respond instead.
Without my approval, our mayor became nervous. "Well, improving our workers' rights is always a top priority," he said.
That answer was... serviceable.
Willow's father, however. I would need to keep an eye on that guy. We didn't need the out-of-state middle manager getting too big for his boots and thinking he could change the ways things were done. That meant trouble for all of us. Especially him.
Chapter twenty-three
Willow
Istared across the narrow street,looking at the nice restaurant and bar across from Paydirt. It was closed, and the windows were dark. In fact, it was closed most of the time, only opening for tourist season, which was apparently getting shorter and shorter every year.
Paydirt was the place for the locals.
I sighed and picked up two heavy garbage bags full of napkins, chicken bones, and broken glass. Tuesdays were wing nights and, therefore, the worst night to work. I was drowning in sticky buffalo sauce that refused to come out from under my fingernails, even after vigorously washing my hands.
