Waiting for Rescue by Peter Edgell (audio ebook reader TXT) 📕

The outlaw felt the movement of the trapdoor and the brush of rope against his neck and chin. He began to fall.

Jeb woke.
The townsmen worked on the gallows all night, the uncertain light from the smoky torches turning them into phantasms, biblical devils. The unnerving beat of hammer on nail sounded like late Autumn stars with toothache. This did not stop Jeb from sleeping but he did pay a price. A dream.
He shivered.
The rest of the gang were close by, however, and they had never had trouble with jailbreaks before. It was just part of an outlaw's way of life.

He remembered the events of the preceding night, mostly with relish. The saloon full and booming around him: noise, laughter, long dancing legs and a handful of aces. The slicker sitting opposite laid down aces as well. Jeb knew just how many aces belonged back up his sleeve. There were too many on the table. The men stared at each other, two scorpions poised to strike. Poker is a dangerous game to play with an armed man. He shot the slicker more as a duty to the other players than for his own advantage. That was his story but the deputy was young and overzealous. He had puffed up his pigeon-chest and stuck his nose in. Between mother and marriage, the badge was his security, his immunity, but accidents happen. The hole in his chest was an accident. Unfortunately, the sheriff didn’t see it that way and so there Jeb lay. Thin moonlight slipped between the bars of the window like gentle piano keys smoothing the floor,. He closed his eyes and drifted, waiting for rescue.

Jeb woke.
"There is another way out," came a whisper. "This used to be an Indian burial ground but the White Man destroyed and defiled it. Under the bed is a trapdoor. Lift it; there is a rope attached that will take you down to the caves below. You can escape through them."
Jeb couldn’t see who was telling him this but he cared nothing for thought or thank you. He scrabbled around in the dark, opened the stiff trapdoor and was soon lying on his belly, legs dangling over the hole. He wriggled backwards and took a deep breath. He felt the movement of the trapdoor and the brush of rope against his neck and chin. He began to fall.

Grimly, the outlaw held onto the rope then began a slow descent. Thick air surrounded him. He had the curious feeling that he was moving through miniature clouds, falling from the sky onto a new world. Faint green flashes danced, baby lightning. Then he burst through, swinging out just below the roof of an enormous cavern. It stretched away, a cathedral filled with cold stark light. Freedom! Then came the whispering.

Below him, things began to stir. Things that should not have been stirring. Bones began to collect themselves together in vaguely human shapes. Half-rotted corpses started to rise. Everywhere there were signs of murder and mutilation: bullet holes and missing scalps, broken skulls and maggot limbs. All were whispering. He was the White Man and they were waiting. Jeb blinked rapidly as if this would clear away the delusion.
Terror, a screech, a bat struck him in the face.
Jeb screamed.

His eyes flicked open.
People. Sunlight. Safety. All just a nightmare... People?
"No point in screaming," said the sheriff.
The crowd sighed.
Jeb felt the movement of the trapdoor and the brush of rope against his neck and chin. He fell.

They bundled the corpse across the undertaker’s skinny brown horse and walked it out of town, past the church with its painted gravestones. Decent beds for the decent dead. The day was warm and the sky an unusual blue as they dumped the body unceremoniously through a hole that led down into the caves.
"Sleep in peace with the Indians," snorted the sheriff.
A breath of wind sighed across the entrance. It sounded like whispers. The men turned away, suddenly chilled, and headed back to town.

Publication Date: 07-11-2011

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Dedication:
For those who believe what goes around...