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The silence pressed in, turning the desert silent once more.
I didn’t know what was scarier; the shouts of a man fighting for his life or the silence immediately after it.
I decided I must have imagined it and turned to continue walking—I dared not run in case I lost my breath again.
I still hadn’t fully recovered from my earlier exertion.
Then that shout came again.
Louder, clearer.
Closer?
I was in two minds about what to do next.
The shout wasn’t part of my imagination.
It was real.
And it was happening right now.
To a prison guard intent on dragging me back to the prison.
Should I help them?
Could I help them?
Before I knew what I was doing, I began to walk toward the voice.
It developed into a slow and steady jog.
The cry for help came clearer now but I was heading in the wrong direction.
I turned and kept moving.
Here, I thought.
The voice came from around here.
I peered at the pool of darkness but saw no sign of the guard.
No track in the sand, no footsteps.
A moon swept past a cloud and found a crack in its facade, spilling silver light over the scene.
Over the horrific scene.
“Help me!”
The prison guard struggled against the thick line wrapped in a vice grip about his leg as it pulled him up the gently-sloping incline.
“Don’t struggle,” I said. “Struggling only makes it squeeze tighter.”
The prison guard released his hands from the vine and raised them, ready to attack again if my advice turned out not to be sound.
But it was, and the relief was etched on his face.
The vine squeezed him so tight it’d crushed the armor plate around his leg, snapping his bones like twigs.
