Death on Tour - Janice Hamrick [73]
At the bottom of another short flight of stairs, we passed through an archway and unexpectedly found ourselves stepping onto a wooden bridge. The floor fell away into darkness on either side. I balked and clutched my purse. Saying I did not like heights was sort of like saying mice did not like snakes.
Kyla moved forward without me, then turned back. She took one look at my face and rolled her eyes. “Oh, get a grip,” she said. “It’s only about fifteen feet high.”
I gingerly took a step forward and peered over the edge. She was right. Fifteen or twenty feet to the bare stone below, although that was bad enough. The bridge was a wooden plank walkway lined with a flimsy railing atop matchstick posts that were supported by a couple of very thin cables. A murmur from the people behind me shamed me into taking a hesitant step forward. The bridge seemed sturdy enough. At least it didn’t move. I stayed right in the middle, sweaty hands fastened on my bag.
“I wonder what this room was for,” said Kyla, leaning over the railing with careless ease.
“They call it the well chamber.” I was pleased that my voice sounded only slightly squeaky.
“Dear God, did you memorize the guidebook? Besides, it doesn’t look like there was ever any water here.”
I made the mistake of glancing down again to see and felt almost sick. I quickly focused on the back of Kyla’s shirt and took a deep shaky breath. I heard her snort.
“You’re doing fine,” she said, encouraging, if somewhat patronizingly.
We were just passing the midpoint of the bridge, my eyes already focused on the far side, when the lights went out. I froze with terror. Someone, I hope not me, gave a little scream, and everyone else began talking at once. I couldn’t remember how far the edges were. At first, everything seemed pitch black, the kind of black you see only in caves when the guide turns off the lights and tells you to try to see your own hand in front of your face. I shut my eyes and couldn’t tell the difference. Gradually, however, I could make out the dimmest of dim lights behind us, streaming down from a higher corridor. People were passing the word back, and soon we heard shouting in Arabic. I could feel my heart hammering in my chest.
“Well, this is fun,” said Kyla. She sounded more annoyed than anxious.
People were starting to shift and move around. Probably no one was thrilled to be stuck on the bridge, suspended over a dark chasm. A couple of people moved past me back toward the light, and I was forced to inch a little closer to the rail to let them pass. Just then, someone pushed me hard.
“Hey!” I gasped as I fell back against the rail. It was more solid than it looked, thank goodness. Besides the fear of falling, my main emotion was outrage that anyone would be rude enough to shove.
But I knew I was in trouble when that same someone grabbed my purse and almost yanked it off my arm. I was able to clutch it to me just in time, mostly because my arm was threaded through the strap. I jerked back hard. A second later, I heard an odd ripping sound and felt a small sharp pain along my forearm. My purse instantly felt empty, and I heard the sound of small objects falling to the stone. I let go of the bag and struck out as hard as I could. My fist caught someone with a glancing blow. It was promptly returned and with far better aim. A sharp punch connected solidly with my stomach. I staggered back against the rail again, gasping for breath.
“Jocelyn!” I heard Kyla shouting a few paces away.
The attacker kicked my feet out from under me, and I spun and fell hard. The cables that made up the lower part of the railing bowed alarmingly, and my feet slid off the bridge. I screamed. In the utter darkness, I clutched at the cables, all my attention focused on not sliding under the wire into the dark pit below. My attacker kicked again, narrowly missing my face.
Kyla began shouting for help. People behind us milled about in the darkness as the tourists farther down the passage