GUN SALAD

“We need a plan.”

The two men stood in the corner of the blasting chamber watching the miners work. It was an odd system they had; different teams of inmates were responsible for different jobs, none of which could easily be done in unison, which left many of them–Marka and Antony included–to mill about waiting for the moment they were needed.

“What do you want me to say?” Antony replied with a shrug of his shoulders. “I’ve been here, dreaming of escape, for years. You’ve been here for five minutes and you already want me to stick my neck out for you in some ill-considered bid for freedom? Just because you think you saw some broad in a cave?”

“She was there. Of that, I have no doubt,” Marka insisted. “Remember, I protected you from Randy. Do you not feel at all indebted to me?”

Antony squirmed in discomfort. The sound of sledgehammers pounding long chisels into the granite filled the chamber, absolving him of the need to reply right away. He did anyway, though–after all, once the workers had finished boring holes in the rock, it would be his turn to approach the vein.

“That idiot has struck me dozens of times. I’m used to it. Escape attempts, though, are punished harshly. I’ve seen men killed or crippled for trying.”

“So, what? We just stay here doing Copperlock’s bidding for the rest of our lives?”

“I’m not saying that,” Antony hissed between hammer blows. “I’m just saying we should exercise some prudence. Bide our time. Probe for weaknesses. Only make a move when we can be sure of our success.”

Marka exhaled sharply through his nostrils. “There is no time for that. She needs us.”

“I. Don’t. Care.”

“Dynamite crew, prep for blastin’!” hollered a voice from the vicinity of the vein. Antony shot him a haughty look and plucked a few sticks of dynamite from the pile he’d brought, then strode purposefully toward the slope leading down to the granite vein. Marka watched him go, gritting his teeth in frustration.

That man cares only about himself. Has he no sense of courage? Of loyalty?

He continued to stew as Antony and the rest of the crew made their circuit of the blasting pit, shoving sticks of dynamite into the holes bored by the previous team. Once every hole had been filled, the guard acting as foreman began to wave them off.

“Clear that blast zone!” he bellowed. “Ignition crew, you’re up!”

The ignition crew was composed entirely of guards. They filtered past Antony and his cohort with packs of matches in their hands, preparing to light the fuses, while the departing prisoners ambled up the slope. Marka looked down at his cellmate fiercely, undeterred by his stubborn refusal to meet his eyes.

However, as Antony approached, he noticed that his brow was knit in thought. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

Marka shook his head.

“Fine,” he grumbled. “Then you should know I just had an idea down there–a way we can take the mine entrance without attracting attention.”

BOOM!

A thunderous explosion rocked the cavern as a dozen or more dynamite sticks exploded at once. The ignition crew scarcely had time to clear the area before chunks of granite started raining down from the quarry’s ceiling, throwing up a billowing cloud of grit and dust. When it cleared, it would be Marka’s turn to head down into the pit.

“I’ll fill you in as we go,” Antony continued. “Let me do all the talking, alright?”

Marka clapped the man’s arm as roughly as he dared, smiling widely. “Thank you, Antony. You are a true friend.”

“Yeah, well, I’m very susceptible to sulking,” he said with a chuckle. “You’re an awful glowerer, you know that? Almost as bad as my little nephew.”

“I learned from the best,” he replied. “My daughter has mastered the art.”

“Awwwwh!~ You have a daughter?” Antony squealed. “When this is all over, I demand details. Consider it my payment for services rendered.”

“Luggers, grab your carts!” the foreman shouted, bringing their playful exchange to a sudden halt. “There’s rocks to be gathered!”

Antony took the lead immediately, guiding Marka to the assemblage of empty carts waiting by the tunnel mouth. Just as they went to roll their cart down the slope, though, the foreman moved to intervene, causing Antony to bump right into his puffed-out chest.

“What the hell’re you doin’, Sequoia?! You’re blast crew.”

Antony shrugged helplessly and gestured to Marka’s messed-up hands. “He’s hurt, chief. Can’t grab up chunks without me.”

“What in the– Are those idjits upstairs tryin’ to make us miss our quota?!” the foreman seethed. “Go on, then. And get this one to the infirmary first chance you get. I got no use for broken men down here.”

Antony gave an ironic little salute and helped wheel the cart down the rest of the way. Once they reached the pile of shattered granite, he started tossing rocks into the cart without complaint. Marka noticed that he seemed to be specifically selecting the smallest, coarsest chunks for transport, and only ended up filling the cart halfway before they were rolling it back up the slope toward the line of luggers waiting to traverse the tunnel back to the surface.

“This will be the dicey part,” he whispered, directing an anxious glance toward the side-tunnel leading to the old mine. “We’ve got to get in there with the cart, but we’ll almost certainly be noticed. I don’t know how we’re going to–”

Marka grabbed a rock and threw it, relying on the two “good” fingers on his right hand to determine its trajectory. Fortunately, it struck true, beaning an inmate further up the line right in the back of his head.

“What the fuck?!” the man snarled, whipping around to confront the convicts behind him. With no idea as to who had actually done the deed, he started hucking rocks indiscriminately… And before long, a full-blown rock fight had erupted in the middle of the tunnel. The handful of guards stationed along the tunnel’s sides waded into the thick of it and started laying about with their gun butts, pounding away at the faces and hands of anyone fool enough to take up a stone. 

By the time they’d quelled the fighting, Marka and Antony had long since slipped into the side-tunnel.

“That was some quick thinking,” Antony said as they made their way down the passage.

Marka nodded sagely. “Sometimes, the best plans are the simplest.”

“Well, this next part will be anything but simple.” Antony reached into his pocket and produced a single stick of dynamite, holding it up for Marka to scrutinize.

“Dynamite?!” he breathed. “I thought the guards searched us for that?”

“Only on the way out of the tunnel, just before you hit the surface. And look at this…”

To Marka’s utter shock and awe, Antony produced a pack of matches from his pocket as well. “I figured the foreman would stop us when we tried to go down into the quarry together,” he explained. “Luckily for us, he doubles as an ignition crewmember.”

“You pickpocketed him?!”

“What can I say?” Antony purred, idly flipping the matchbox between his dexterous fingers. “I’m a man of many talents. Now, listen up: I’ll handle the man up on the ridge using this dynamite. When I come around the corner and toss it, I want you to rush the two guards on the ground with the cart. If you stay low enough, you should be able to reach them without taking a hit.”

Marka scratched his head, perplexed. “I like this plan, but… Will it not make a good deal of noise?”

“I’ve already thought of that. Just trust me, okay?”

What else could he do but nod? Marka wheeled the cart up to the end of the passage, just before the bend that would lead them around and into the guarded chamber. Antony held up a finger–a silent command to wait for his signal–and cocked his head, apparently listening for something.

A moment later, he heard it; they both heard it:

A distant voice yelling “Ignition crew! Get down there!”

Only then did Antony strike a match and bring it to the dynamite’s wick. He gave a nervous nod. It was time.

And they would only get one shot at this.

The two men charged around the corner, taking the guards by surprise. Antony rounded it first, sending the lit stick of dynamite sailing toward the sharpshooter above. All that experience as a member of the blast crew paid off; it detonated seconds later, before the shooter could even react, and in tandem with the fresh wave of explosions erupting from the quarry.

The gunshots of the two guards ahead were similarly masked by the sudden confluence of noise–even the sound of bullets striking Marka’s cart were drowned out in their entirety, right up to the moment he slammed it into the chest of the one on the right. The unlucky man went tumbling down the shaft head over feet, having no doubt suffered a shattered rib or two from the impact.

Marka hadn’t thought far enough ahead to know how he’d handle the other one. And, when the last guard standing lifted his pistol to take aim at his chest, he came to heartily regret it. By now the blasting was through, and all was quiet. As if getting shot weren’t bad enough, the discharge of the prison guard’s weapon was sure to blow their cover!

He took a deep breath. If this was how it was meant to end, then so be it. He had tried his best, and that was worth something. He lowered his hands and welcomed the inevitable barrage, holding his head high in the face of his imminent demise…

…Only for the sleek, pink handle of a familiar-looking weapon to streak down toward the guard’s unguarded noggin at the very last moment.

---

ATTENTION READERS

I have a very important announcement to make:

I, Dischtopia, am getting MARRIED this week!

Therefore, I will be taking some time off to see to some final preparations and--of course--to enjoy my honeymoon following the event.

For this reason, no new chapters of GUN SALAD will be posted until Monday, October 2nd, at which point I will resume my regular pattern of releases.

Thank you for reading, and for your understanding. I look forward to seeing you all again in October :)

-Dischtopia