Dieselpunk: An Anthology by Craig Gabrysch Page A

you. Have your guns ready, who knows what these perverted Communists might try.”
    As instructed, two of Mudd’s henchmen clambered down the ladder. Alan listened to the sound of the men’s boots as they climbed, trying to estimate the depth of the hole. Twenty-four times he heard hard soles on wooden rungs before the climbers reached the bottom. Guessing a twenty-four foot climb, he secured his grip on the lantern and followed Mudd down.
    The ladder rested on a flowstone plateau among the litter of more discarded equipment. Hammers and picks lay about, looking as if they’d been tossed through the aperture above. Several shattered crates attested to the workers’ carelessness; their sawdust packing tracked into the muddy floor. Combing through the wrecked boxes, Alan came up with a stick of dynamite, fused and ready for use. His heart started at the sight.
    The shotgun-wielding enforcer swore, pushing his hat back and wiping his forehead on the sleeve of his jacket. “It’s amazing the fools didn’t blow themselves up, throwing that stuff around!”
    Alan met the man’s eyes, sharing the sentiment as he gingerly returned the explosive to its resting place and backed away.
    Alan stood, turning the lantern on his surroundings while waiting for the rest of the men. A vast gallery spread out from the plateau. He guessed its mist-shrouded ceiling rose at least a hundred feet above the cave floor. Great stalactites hung in masses from its vault, dripping water into unseen pools with melodic plops. A distant rushing told of an underground river and dark rapids somewhere far under the mountain. The acetylene lamp’s beam died in the fog that formed ghostly banks across the cavern. He could make out clusters of stalagmites, their redwood-sized trunks creating an underground forest that dominated the cavern floor. The hammering echoed around the stony chamber, but proximity overcame the tricks of the cavern.
    “It’s coming from that way.” Alan aimed the lantern at the forest edge.
    Without comment Mudd pushed past, beginning the descent with his makeshift army trailing behind. Alan watched the men go, biding his time among the discarded tools while they filed down via switchback folds of flowstone that draped over the edge of the rise. Alan surveyed the underground realm once more as the last of the troop of brutes began their descent. The sound that led them to this dank cellar had stopped and an oppressive silence hung in the misty air. Drawing a deep breath, he started down.
    Shells littered the cave floor, washing up to the foot of the flowstone rise and stretching off into the cavern in such profusion they formed head-high dunes and snaking drifts. Crunching through the piles, they made for the vapor-shrouded stalagmite grove. Their progress churned the fossil drifts, turning up specimens that sparkled like fool’s gold or burned lurid red in the light. The sight of so much history, eons casually heaped on eons, made Alan wonder about Mudd’s assertion that the greed of the miners had driven them to abandon their posts. Maybe they had been struck by a kind of gold fever, descending into this buried hell to grub fossils by candlelight. Maybe the old man knew more than Alan wanted to admit.
    He thought on the possibility as they descended a sandy hill into a shallow creek that snaked through the petrified groves. The opposite bank rose high and a faint glow silhouetted its undulating crest, suggesting the quest had drawn near its end. Mudd crouched in the cold, sluggish water, motioning for his men to gather around.
    “I’m paying you to teach them a lesson. If that requires shooting a few miscreants, so be it.” He shot a glance at Alan. ”Remember, these Red bastards brought this on themselves. Your job is to write it that way.”
    Alan nodded weakly.
    “Alright,” Mudd turned his gaze on the clique of armed men. “Let’s get this done. I want it nice and orderly, no messy remnants to deal with.”
    Alan