Lye-ing in Wait

Penn and I tried to steady our breathing. We mounted the last step and fastened the trap door of our fortress. We were in the attic of a small old barn that Sir Tim’s family was kind enough to lend to the cause. As was our custom we immediately fell to warfare. We tried other pursuits; don’t get me wrong, we really did. Basket weaving just fell through though and the guys never did take to Balinese dancing the way I had hoped. So we fell back to what we did well.
At the moment Shane, Gabe, Tim, and Foutch were outside laying siege to the small barn that had just moments before rested in the peace and serenity of the Valley. There was silence.
“Do you think it is safe?” Penn questioned as he stuck his head around a makeshift wall and looked out the hay loft at the field before us. Several bricks moving at high velocity promptly answered his question. He dove backwards and barreled against me.
“I guess not.” He panted. We quickly formulated a plan and put it into action. We hoarded a pile of rocks and signaled his preparation for action. I swung open the small door on the side of the barn and prepared to drop to the ground. We sprung. Penn began his rain of granite and basalt as I rolled to the ground. Foutch fell first and began to explain why this was unjust. No one noticed, except Penn who made a point of repeating his aim. On my descent I caught a glimpse of Tim crawling around the interior of the barn. He was no doubt making his way twords the second level where he could make an assault on our trapdoor. I grabbed for the 2x2 at my side that had served at a sword, only to find it missing. I stooped to locate it just as several rocks came to greet me.
“If you hold still it will be easier.” Gabe shouted. Penn answered for me with a marble sized piece of basalt to Gabe’s head. Gabe issued a series of expletives to make any sailor proud.
I rounded the corner and found the doorway. In front of me was Tim, slowly creeping along. I grabbed a local 2x2 and promptly made to insert it in the closest orifice. Tim acknowledged my accuracy with a sharp cry. Before he had time to respond with force I was half way up the wall and making for the window to the attic. Penn was still delivering our payload with passion. That’s when it happened.
I saw the bottle fly through the front of the barn as if time had stopped. A faint glimmer of tin foil shone from behind the dull green of 16oz.
7-UP bottle. Then there was silence. Small smoking balls of tin foil shot outwards like snarling lions in every direction. Tim was mimicking Gabe’s mastery of the nautical tongue as small projectiles launched in every direction. When they landed on solid ground they continued to issue smoke.
I am still uncertain where Shane or Gabe learned (though it never really surprised me) that the combination of lye and tin foil when mixed in water and placed under pressure creates an explosion of acidic projectiles that eat through wood, earth, flesh… you know. All I know is that my next vivid memory was Penn launching himself from the hay loft and chasing Gabe into the distance with a piece of pipe and a series of remarks about his mother and her pedigree.

© Capt C Staudinger 2006