by Douglas Black

Created on: December 11, 2010

The Price of Freedom
Under a dense canopy of evergreens and mighty oaks, Jordan Roberts; aka, the Madonville Bandit, fled further into the deep veil of night. His heart was pounding hard, each thud against his ribs burned with a ferocity that nearly stole every breath he tried sucking into his lungs.  It was an incredible feeling to be outside again; free-being a man on the run was an adrenaline rush, which was worth waiting for. Compared to the fifteen years of hell waiting for him under lock and key, he would risk everything, even if meant spending his last days in solitary confinement—he’d rather be gunned down in a hail of gunfire, then to be held up like some rat in a cage.

How long had he been running now; an hour, maybe even more? It didn’t really matter; since it wouldn’t take them long to discover his empty cot; and the gaping hole he had cleverly concealed beneath it. It had only taken nearly three-years to complete his subterranean passageway; the same one that burrowed deep enough that he found his way into the Travis County Penitentiary sewer system. It was a clever plan, well thought out, and painstakingly executed, right to the last detail, which now he was basking in his glorious genius.

 In the far distance, between the dense trees, he could see the abandoned farmhouse; just like Samantha had said there would.

Everything was falling into place, like nothing could possibly go wrong. This time tomorrow, he would be lounging on a secluded beach, sipping margaritas, and melting away under a hot Mexican sun. He could almost feel the hot rays, and the cool tide lapping at his toes. Finally, after nearly two hours of solid sprinting; his pace slumped, slowing until all he could maintain was barely a light jog.  Ahead, as he drew closer to the old house, he noticed a large clearing.  Despite his growing confidence, he wasn’t about to get lulled into a false sense of security—he was too smart for that.  Jordan hesitated by a large fallen Maple tree, surveying the large open-space ahead; looking for anything that might look even a little out of place.

Between his deep raspy breathes, he listened closely; half-expecting to hear the baying of hound dogs closing in behind him. But, the evening was dead-quiet, save the night song of a hundred crickets; softly chirping at the full moon. Everything was perfect—a little too perfect, but there was no sign of anyone else around. 

Like a cat,

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