by Smitty
“It’s wet,” he mumbled, working with a patient fury. Innocuous.
Guards scowled. The forty prisoners in the castle bailey were to work on pottery for their own use, and for Geneva Convention reasons of fair treament, they were told. They knew a trace element in the clay was killing them.
He shaped his piece with shaking hands. It’d been obtained and smuggled in at great risk while they were out burying the dead. They’d little time or energy. He looked at his conspirator, pale and feverish, who’d the detonator.
Nodded.
Ran to the wall.
Guards yelling.
Charge set.
(BOOM)
Freedom!
—
via Darleen