He couldn’t remember a time when he’d seen so many stars.
Growing up in Chicago, stars were in short supply. The city’s own illumination, coupled with pollution, meant that astronomy was a hobby for those with telescopes. But kneeling outside on the ground, somewhere in the Great Plains, Herb could see millions of stars. They were so bright that Tequila’s eyes shone like they had an internal light.
It was startling. And beautiful.
And the wrong time to run.
Herb was used to the bone-gnawing cold of Midwestern winters. The kind that got inside your jacket and tore at your bare skin underneath, had become so commonplace that Herb often forgot to wear a hat, even when the wind-chill was ten below.
Outside the land train, without a shirt or shoes, it felt ridiculously cold, even though it was probably no cooler than fifty-five degrees. Herb had gotten used to slowly broiling in the furnace of Mexico, and being half-naked, emaciated, exhausted, and in pain, made the cold all the worse. The winds cut like knives. The teeth that Herb was grateful to still have chattered together.
It was the wrong time to run.
There would be other chances.
When it was darker.
When it was warmer.
When they were closer to civilization, because as far as Herb could see, in all directions, there were no lights from towns or houses or even cars.
Wrong time to run.
“Fuck that,” Herb said. “Let’s do it.”
Using the hand snippers he’d swiped from the Cowboy’s vest and shoved down his pants during his Oscar-worthy screaming performance, Herb cut the wire on Tequila’s chin, and then cut is own.
Pulling out the wire felt terrible, and at the same time felt amazing.
“Gimme the pliers,” Tequila said.
Herb complied, and his friend picked up his kettlebell and walked over to the nearest slave. Herb heard him whisper, “Free yourself and pass it on,” before handing the man the snips.
When Tequila returned, Herb wiped away a tear with a shaking hand. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I was so anxious to get away, I didn’t think to help any of the others.”
“Neither did I,” said Tequila. “But the more people escaping, the harder it will be to catch us.”
Good point.
Herb squinted at the plains around him. The ground was cold and hard, lots of rocks, not the best terrain for bare feet. Not much cover, either. Some bushes, and mountains in the far distance, but a whole lot of flat everywhere he looked.
“Where’s the Cowboy?” Herb asked.
“In Car #4. There are still four cars to air out. Two minutes per car, we’ve got about an eight minute head start.”
“Can you run?”
“Watch me.”
Tequila hobbled ahead of Herb, into the cold, cold night, and Herb followed.