Butch coughed up the last of his tobacco smoke as the screams escaped the mouth of the mine.
“You hear that?” he looked at Red. The bug-eyed man gripped his rusty pickaxe tight across his chest.
A low vibration started in their boots; an explosion deep in the tunnel. Hot air and dust erupted, knocking them to the ground. Through the cloud, Young-Johnny came running, face bloodied, and a fine rope trailing behind.
As he reached daylight, the rope glinted then snapped taut, pulling him backward off his feet. Arms flailing, trying to grab ahold of anything, Johnny shrieked, “Spiders!”