Trapped

He didn’t know why, but the sound of the water dripfalling from the roof of the cave down into the pool was getting annoying.  He grumbled to himself, like any old coot should when lying awake on a night in the lows.  Here he was, sleeping right near a larger sight a water than he'd seen since leaving the Orphanage and he was annoyed by it.  Mother would have laughed.  He looked over at the boy.  Strangest thing he’d seen during all his meanderings.  Whatever had come afore and what was yet in coming, this was a time where none slept good sleep out in the rough, especially in the lows.  Yet there he was, just a sleeping and a dreaming like the cave was a castle.  Thomas closed his eyes and rolled over to face the other side of the cave, sharp edges from the rocks dulled a bit by the clumps of tumblebrush he’d pulled up earlier.

Sleep had never been unfaithful afore, but sure as the plinking dripfall of the water was still at it, sleep was standing him up as sure as he was lying down.  He cursed under his breath, frowning at the memory of fresh made soap in his mouth.  Mother Rose never taken any guff offen any at the Orphanage, even him.  She’d been ‘spectful enough not make him do it in front of young’uns, but he’d bit his tongue sharpish around any ear after that, and tasted soap on the back of his tongue every time he cut loose a cussing when he was by his own self.

His eyes snapped open as shuffling step came shushing through the cave, finding the hacked opening at the top of the climb and wriggling in to tickle his ears.  Moving slow, he shucked his blanket and moved barefoot over to the edge of opening, sig in hand.  As more dust hushed shuffling steps made their way up the climb to his ears he was wishing dear for the rifle, but he still hadn’t worked out why it had jammed the day afore and he wasn’t risking it.  As the sound down near the mouth of the cave grew louder he looked up over the edge of the opening for a moment before ducking back down.  He was a cussing then, soft and near without sound, but cussing he was.  A mob.  Something weren’t right, hadn’t been right, since he’d left.  No one knew quite how a mob knew people was where they was.  He’d been hoping the dust and fouled up stench of the sinkswamp would erase their scent.  He looked over the boy, still a sleeping and a dreaming.  It wasn’t like the mob could get at ‘em from down there.  But down there was the only way out.  He holstered the sig and went back to his bedroll, wrapping up tight.  They had food for four more days and there weren’t nowhere to put their leavings.  He’d tell the boy in the morning.  Chasing sleep with an old man’s bitter restlessness he faced himself at the opening, making sure that the holster weren’t buttoned down.