Page 20 of Hell Bent

“I’m good,” one guy said. The others agreed, which confirmed my idea about the suits, but Kristiansen said, “Yeah, take us around.”

Howard said resignedly, “OK. Let’s get you hard hats and high-vis jackets,” and took us out there.

The sky was even darker now, the rain falling harder. Ilooked around at blazing lights, felt the mud already building up on my shoes, and asked, “One shift, or are you doing more than that? It’s a big space.”

“One shift,” Howard said. “Four buildings, a million square feet in all. Ten hours a day, seven in the morning to five-thirty at night, six days a week, and it’ll still take a couple of years more.”

“That’s some real work,” Kristiansen said, “in the mud and all.” He was right. Nobody’d even poured concrete yet. It was just a warren of trenches carved into the earth, with crews in mud-caked boots and mud-smeared jackets and work pants laying down what looked like extra-large PVC pipe, then fussing around with it. Awkward, in work gloves in the cold rain.

“It’s not exactly playing for the NFL,” Howard said. “Incentive pay, though. That’s how you get almost three hundred guys showing up sixty hours every week.”

“What are they doing now?” I asked.

“Mostly electrical,” Howard said. “It’s all about electrical with a data center, for obvious reasons. Got to pull all the wire through below ground before you can pour a foundation. Stub it up where you’ll make your connections, and then you can pour concrete. We’re tight on time right now. Could go to seven-day weeks, but I don’t like to do that. Guys don’t work well without a day off.”

“Makes Sebastian and me feel kinda spoiled,” Kristiansen said.

Howard didn’t say, “You ought to,” but he sure thought it. He said, “They’re glad of the money. If they want to work indoors, they can find that, but they won’t be getting two hundred bucks in incentive pay for every full shift. Twelve hundred extra a week, which means they’re not calling in sick unless they actually are, and they’re not heading home early, either.” Kristiansen whistled, and Howard said, “These thingsare going up everywhere. Too much competition for labor, so you’ve got to offer more and get guys from all over. The South doesn’t pay that good in the trades. Got guys from Arkansas, Mississippi, you name it, working out here. They’ve got a meal tent over there, that big thing you saw near the parking lot. Heated space, tables and chairs, even microwaves for them to heat up their lunch if they don’t want to eat out of the gut truck. Holiday pay for Christmas and New Year’s, and they get tomorrow off, too, since Christmas Eve’s a Sunday, even though we’re stretched. That part’s the union. They’re living high for electricians.”

“There’s a reason I run fast for a living,” Kristiansen said, and Howard snorted.

“I’d like to see what they’re actually doing,” I said. “Can you show us?”

Howard didn’t ask, “Why?” The investors—or the potential investors—were always right, apparently. I didn’t explain that I wanted to see whether it looked like corners were getting cut to get this thing done. He said, “Sure. Let’s head over here, and I’ll grab a foreman to explain it to you.”

Kristiansen muttered to me as we made our way carefully through the maze of trenches, “Too much like real work. My family’s more in the blue-collar line. That’s my only claim not to feel like a tool out here. How about you?”

“Same,” I said. “From what I hear.” He glanced at me, and I said, “Single dad, though he’s gone now. My mom took off early on.”

“Ah,” Kristiansen said. “Yeah. Parts of my family suck, too. Thank God for football, huh?”

Howard stopped a yard away from a trench where five guys in muddy work clothes moved around like beavers building a dam and shouted, “Foreman! Up here.”

They all looked up. Safety goggles, hard hats, a few beards, and a whole lot of mud.

And somebody else.

Alix

“Management heading over,” Royce Cartwright muttered.

“So? We’re doing our jobs. They can watch us work if they want to. Doesn’t matter to me.” I kept on pulling wire, crouching rather than bending to lessen the strain on my lower back, because the bundle was heavy. Frank had called in sick this morning, which meant I had to fill the gap, and ever since I’d started here, my muscles had been telling me that I wasn’t in shape for this anymore. Too much computer time, and running in the mountains or lifting in the gym didn’t come close to pulling wire for ten hours a day, even with a tugger and a feeder, which you bet I was utilizing.

“Dude,” Royce said, “you have way too much faith in management. Of course, they promoted you already, so maybe they’re just stupid.”

“Ha,” I said. “Take over here, will you? I need to see how Artie’s feeding this wire.”

“Foreman!” I heard from above. “Up here.”

I didn’t swear. I said, “One sec,” then yelled, “LouAnn!” When she turned, I said, “Go give Artie a hand feeding that wire, will you?”

“Oh, he’ll love that,” she said. “He thinks having breasts drops your IQ twenty points.”

“I don’t care whether he loves it,” I said. “Go do it anyway.” With that, I climbed out of the trench and headed over to where the construction manager, Howard Waters, was standing with a couple of guys who, despite the hard hats and work jackets, were much too clean to actually be working. Shareholders, probably. Board members, something like that.

I didn’t worry about being singled out, because despitemy aching muscles, I was doing a good job. Hey, they’d made me a foreman after a week on the job. OK, the foreman had quit, and they’d had to slot somebody in who had their license and decent experience, but still. I knew what I was doing.

“Yeah?” I asked, not pulling off my gloves, because my hands were sore, in that way they get when they’re numb and cold and you’re forcing them to work anyway.