"Welcome to Death Row" by Luc Grayard

I jumped up out of the train, my arms pushing me up to the hard metal roof. I slid my revolver in front of me and pulled myself farther up, laying my stomach on the cold iron. Crack the gunshot pierced even the loud wind blowing on my face at 50 MPH. I looked up. Cutting through the glare of the late afternoon sun with his fat body stood Deputy Anderson, holding a shotgun.

“Train robber, put dem’ hands in the air,” he shouted at me.

This was the man that had arrested my brother just last week for train robbing. I wasn’t about to get arrested the same way as my brother did, so I rolled off of the train. Time slowed as my body dropped towards the hard, dry earth. My lips opened in vain for a scream, only to realize my mouth was as dry as a brick in a sandstorm. I for the first time felt the wind in my hair and clothes, it was almost painful. My hands groped for the clouds trying to find some distant non-existent hand hold in the dessert clouds. For the first time in my 20-year long life, I noticed the pure and utter beauty of the sky. The clouds like lovely statues in a perfect land of perfect light blue.

My back struck the ground, shooting unbearable pains up my spine into my head, chest, and arms. I bounced over the bullet-proof ground, sharp rocks slashing through my leacher jacket piercing into my skin, and tearing back out. It felt like 30 hunting rifles had shot my back at the exact same time.

I skidded to a stop, my sand packed ears were filled with a loud screeching sound of metal on metal. I craned my neck out of the large roots of the tree my head had landed on, looking for the train. I fell back to the ground. Even moving just one toe felt like breaking a rib. My head was sore as if stabbed with a knife; it was agony, hell even just sitting there, not your version of hell, but the Devil’s hell, true agony. I couldn’t even imagine moving.

I cried, not just for my own life, but for the life of my brother, the real train robber. He was condemned to be hanged in two days. Only 1,000 dollars could save him from the horrible fate placed on him by the devil. Tears rolled down my bloody face. The thick liquid trickling from my nose turned thinner, dripping into my open mouth.

“Oi, where’s that little criminal?” It was the sheriff.

My soft tears turned to choking sobs. He would murder me; no, worse he would torture me. In my amateur escape from the train I had killed his best friend, a rich grocery store owner who was on the beautiful, scenic train ride. I prayed to god for the first time ever, hoping that once more I would see my brother again…