Filius Aesalonis

     Kent Wheelock used his filthy sweat-soaked pink sleeve to wipe the streams running down his face. The futility struck him as fresh drops of sweat rolled into his almond eyes which closed against the stinging salt. Hard time in quarry country always meant death. He cursed his bad luck; if he hadn't spent the last month slowly starving he could easily have overtaken the two imbecilic guards. As it stood, he was dehydrated, emaciated, and exhausted from shoveling his own grave. He needed a break. Every so often he paused taking in deep breaths.