Slimy, disgusting crap, but better than nothing. The Laborer hefts the [b]Hunk of Knotted Roots[/b] in his hand, considering how best to use what amounts to little more than kindling. 

The cigarette hangs in his mouth, nearly burnt out, as he watches the old man fail once more to make any proper headway on loosing his chains. He would laugh, were he not tired, his head pounding, drips of blood still trickling down his forehead. Instead he looked over at the woman, who was scrabbling around half-blind with her bare foot. Equally bizarre, but then he'd just been scrabbling in the dirt like some filthy rodent for nothing more than slimy tinder and a rotten relic of modern americana. 

Besides, the woman found the single most promising development of their short waking experience thus far; a small key, rusted but solid in its antiquated construction. 

Something in seeing that key jostled the Laborer and sparked a new-born zeal for survival in him. He looked at the old man, puffing after his exertion, and then at his own chains; the significant difference in slack between his and his co-convict's chains afforded him more leverage. 
He wondered if there was a way to heat the chains and weaken the metal. Perhaps then, they may become more amenable to bending and breaking?
>Examine