No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written permission of the author or the author’s designee.
The Edge of Hell is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents either are the culmination of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, places or people, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Journey of the Daggers: The Complete 2012 Trilogy (2012)
How would it feel to be scattered across the rocks? Fifty feet, jagged edges, no mercy for a drunken teenager. A few swigs of whisky under the blazing Arizona sun and suddenly, Brian Poletree had sprouted wings. Or at least his thick, flabby arms felt feathered.
"He won't do it," a kid behind Brian said purposely loud to another. "Poletree Chicken. A dish best served cold." The boys laughed.
"I'll do it," Brian snapped and lifted the bottle to his lips. Sour mash pushed his courage and his wide bare feet to the edge of the cliff. His bloodshot eyes made final calculations. He'd need a running start, a leap of about ten feet out, and the hope that the others were not lying about the Salt River's depth below.
"Come on Poletree. Get your fat ass out there. You're holding up the line." Jimmy Peters jumped up and to his friend, Johnny St. John, whispered, "Watch this."
Brian backed from the cliff's edge as Jimmy stepped onto the hot sand behind him. A tattooed hand slapped hard on Brian's reddening shoulder. "Man," Jimmy said, "let me explain something to you. You see all those people down there?" Brian looked at the tubers floating in arbitrary masses like clumps of discarded black doughnuts. "No. Not out there. Down there." Jimmy shoved Brian forward. Tiny pebbles skittered over the cliff's edge and echoed within the rocks and water below.
"Those people made a bet with me...made a bet with us that we'd chicken out. I told them, 'Naw, Poletree's no chicken. And as for me and J. Saint J., we speak for ourselves.' But they didn't believe me, Poletree. They really thought you'd chicken out." Jimmy's grip tightened. Johnny St. John stood and swigged from his whiskey bottle. "I've put my trust in you, Poletree. You're not gonna let me down...let us down...are you?"
Jimmy removed his hand leaving the five-fingered grip printed in red on Brian's shoulder. "No. I won't let you down, Jimmy." Brian lifted the whiskey, drunk slowly. "Shit no. I'm not gonna let any of us down." He turned his back to Jimmy Peters; a drop of whiskey spotted his hairless chest.
Johnny St. John staggered to Jimmy's side. "What'cha gonna do, man?"
And then Jimmy pushed, lightly, to cause the fat boy some fright. He'd not intended to push Brian over the edge, and it was beyond his wildest nightmare that he was being pulled in the grip of the fat boy's flailing arms.
Ocean of sand; heaven of sapphire. The beautiful, postcard panorama Brian saw before plunging toward the rocks did nothing to suppress the whiskey-bile rising in his throat, the nausea, the headache. He floated in mid-air for the smallest second. Somehow, he'd lost his wings and he grasped the thick, hot air for support.