Push Some Steel

His eyes were fixed on the monitor in front of him. "He was the night foreman," the narrator said, "of this old steel mill. The third shift. The graveyard shift. And that it was. As over fifty people died under his care."

"His name was Walter 'Soot' James, and he demanded that his workers 'push some steel,' much more than they could handle . Many died from burns, injuries, and even exhaustion." Old black and white images of the mill, with molten steel blasting from the furnace, flashed on the screen. "One day," the narrator continued, "on a rare trip to the top of the furnace, he was overcome by fumes and fell in. He was instantly consumed by the red fires of the hell pit, as they called it." The narrator paused. "Some say the workers, full of contempt and tired of the abuse pushed him in... But no one really knows..."

The screen went blank.

"Okay, guys," the attendant said. "Just a few rules before we start. This old mill is an historic landmark. Do not touch anything. Don't touch our people and they won't touch you. Take your right hand and put it on the shoulder of the person in front of you." He followed the instruction. "And keep it there. The Hell Mill will take an hour to get through." He smiled a wicked smile. "Enjoy."

It was a quiet night, so there were only five people in this group. And he noticed that there was no hand on his shoulder. He was last in line.

It started out pretty predictable, with blinking lights, mazes, and Marilyn Manson being played way too loud. Then they entered the Mill's old turbine room. Screams could be heard around him, but he felt anything but frightened and even smiled as he passed, although at times his grip on the person in front of him became stronger.

One of the ghouls of Hell Mill, a robe clad fellow missing an arm and half of his face, seemed to latch onto him for a good while. He shadowed him, sometimes jumping in front and other times stomping his feet. But they never touched and his companion eventually just went away.

They descended some stairs and entered the trellis tunnel. "This is where they say he still resides..." went through his mind. It was wet and murky, but brightly lit. A few feet in, smoke started engulfing him. A few more feet, and the smoke became so thick that it was impossible to see three inches past his eyelids. The loud music reverberated off of the concrete walls and struck his ears like needles. There was a loud bang and a loss of light, and he fell to the floor.

The lights came back on in an instant, but he had lost contact with the person in front of him. He tried to yell for them, but all that answered was the obnoxious pounding of musical instruments through speakers surrounding him. He stuck his shaky arms out and felt around as his eyes became useless in the milky sea of white. There was no human contact around him, only the cold and moist concrete walls.

He saw a blurry figure appear in the distance. It approached him almost like the floating and morphing shadow of a cloud on a sunny day. In a second they were face to face.

"Hello?" he tried to say, but the figure didn't respond. All it did was stand really close to him so that their heads were only inches apart. But he could see no mouth or eyes. Just what he thought was a costume.

The figure nudged him with his chest, and he stepped away. The figure approached him again and pushed him, but he thought it was a part of the show. The figure pushed him through an old doorway, and he was relieved. He was being shown the way out.

His new surroundings were just as inhospitable. His feet felt wet, as water dripped from the stone ceiling above him. The music and the fog were gone, and only a faraway scream would pierce the near silence.

Then he heard the breathing.

He looked around him and saw the figure. "Thanks, dude," he said, but the figure didn't respond. He nudged him again. "Do I go this way now?" he asked as he looked up an old and rusted staircase he was obviously being led to. The figure nodded his head slightly. He looked closer. Through his costume of burnt and charred rags, he could start to make out eyes. There were no pupils or irises, just red. He shook his head and started up the dilapidated stairs, with a loud clang following his every step.

The figure never let him get more than a step ahead. "This is kind of dangerous, don't you think," he asked as he turned his head. He stopped as he noticed that the figure's eyes were burning bright and red from behind the rags. They were underscored by a sinister smile, one full of black and broken teeth that didn't seem to impede his words.

"Just move," he heard an unearthly voice say from behind the costume.

He smiled. "What?"

"MOVE!!" the figure screamed, and the word penetrated every drop of blood that flowed through every vein in his body, although he felt as though his heart had stopped. Fear inched up from his wet and tired feet to his worn and struggling mind. He looked ahead and finally realized where they were heading; the catwalk at the top of the furnace was only a few yards away.

The cold and moist night air engulfed him. He could hear voices and see lights from the celebration way down below, but it all seemed like he was looking into another world. And whatever world he was in was dominated by the figure behind him.

He felt a push from behind. "Hurry!!" he heard. "Push some steel!!" He turned around once more and saw by the light of the moon the truth of the figure. It was a man covered in charred flesh with eyes burning like the molten steel where he died. It was him, the man they called "Soot."

Every touch from the figure seemed to burn right through him, destroying his will and forcing him to the top of the furnace. There the cold air had retreated and was replaced by smothering heat and noxious gases, and he felt as though he would asphyxiate in seconds. He was pushed to the edge of the catwalk and looked down. The old furnace, which after burning for over a century was permanently shut down three decades earlier, was filled with red molten steel. The heat incinerated his skin and torched his soul. Just when he felt as though he would collapse to a fiery death, a hand turned him around.

He stared into the face of evil. He saw his own reflection in the fluid red eyes of the figure. He could see that the half of his head facing the fire was bright red. The other was ice cold.

The figure moved in close, so close that they breathed each other's air. The figure's breath was dry and stale, and smelt of sulfur. He parted his lips, and ashes erupted as he slowly said, "Push... Some... Steel..."

The figure nudged him to the opening of the furnace as he gripped a railing behind him. Overcome by fright and madness, he was ready to jump into the hell pit just to end the experience. He felt one half of his body burning, but held fast to the railing.

Then with utter finality in his expression and frightening decisiveness in his words, the figure screamed, "PUSH SOME..."

The figure's charred face, just seconds ago so close to his that he couldn't breathe, was replaced by the night sky. He heard a scream and saw flames shoot from the top of the furnace. He covered his face with his arm and fell to his knees on the catwalk.

After a few seconds, perhaps to make sure he was alive or to finally let his lungs take in the clear night air, he looked up. There he saw three men with pure anger and defiance penetrating every inch of their faces. They looked down into the pit, still erupting with flames and the echoed screams of perished evil. Satisfaction replaced the defiance on their faces as the man in front, a tall fellow dressed in decades old overalls covered in rich black soot, adjusted the brim of his fedora and turned around. They descended the stairs as he watched, then disappeared into the darkness.

How he made it down from the furnace or even back home, he didn't know. Perhaps it was a dream, he thought. But the next morning when he looked in the mirror and jumped as half of his body glowed bright red, he knew that there was definitely something to the stories of the Hell Mill.