by Ben Stevens
Suddenly I knew what I had to do. Play dead. Easy. He thought I was dead, unless he had some insane idea that maybe he could resuscitate me for round-two of his exquisite torture. Yeah – that was probably more like it.
The spade was suddenly scraping on the coffin lid. I almost gave a scream of fear, exhilaration – I don’t know what. I fought back a wild urge to beat on the inside of the lid – perhaps it wasn’t even nailed shut… But if it was, and he heard… And if I then heard my grave being filled back in, I knew that would be the end of me. I’d just go hopelessly mad. I’d had just as much as I could take of all this…
Play dead that tough side of me reminded, almost irritably. I twisted over as much as I could on one side, let my mouth fall open in a silent scream and fixed my eyes real wide. He’d expect to see as much when he opened that lid.
Oh Christ please please please open that lid.
Yes, yes – I felt the first, tentative touch of the wind on my face! Creeping in through the tiniest gap as Digger began cautiously to lift up the lid… Let me tell you, no woman’s touch was ever better than how that breeze felt, blowing right into my coffin. (Incidentally, the hole I’d made earlier with my knife must have got clogged up with earth. Either way, it wasn’t letting in any light or air.)
Then the lift was right off, and the wind and the rain were blowing fully in. I didn’t dare move my eyes, which were fixed focused on the side of the coffin. It was dark, nighttime; Digger was above me.
‘You son of a bitch damn bastard!’ he was crying out. (Actually, his voice didn’t sound so much different than it had coming out of that speaker – like he’d a problem with his throat, or something of the sort.)
He grabbed the collars of my jacket, and hauled me straight up. He was strong, all right. For a few seconds more, I just played nice and floppy and dead.
‘You don’t die yet, no you don’t, not just yet – ’
‘Fuck you!’ I yelled, gritting my teeth as I swung my head round to face him, my hands going straight for his throat. ‘Fuck you, you sick bastard!’
I was almost screaming now, the rain and my own tears virtually blinding me as I did my very best to strangle that man. But still I got a quick glimpse of him; and some distant part of my mind realized something even as we fought…
I’d seen him before. Sure as shit I’d seen this asshole already. Just a few days before. That long, lank blond hair, cut crooked above a low brow, below which were two bulging brown eyes – almost like those of a horse, I remembered thinking at the time. Strange-looking fella, with a sort of hunchback and a crouched-over way of walking.
‘Hey buddy,’ he’d said to me, as I passed him while walking back from the store one morning. ‘Recommend somewhere good to eat?’
I’d pointed him in the direction of a café owned by a friend of mine, just two minutes’ distance away, and he seemed to peer at me just a bit too intently before he said ‘Thanks, buddy’ and walked away. Still, I forgot about that encounter almost straight away. Just figured him for being a bit of an oddball…
Now, I gave a cry of despair as I realized I had – finally – met my physical match. Oh boy, had I just. Because Digger was just almost (how can I best put this?) supernaturally strong; and as he pushed me back down into my coffin, my hands losing their hold on his throat, he hissed –
‘I’ll fill you back in, Writer-Man, and dance on your grave as you lie screaming…’
Yeah, I was giving him about as much trouble as an exasperated toddler gives its father. I figured this guy could carry a coffin – fully loaded up with a corpse – on each goddamn shoulder. Now I was reduced to desperately unloading punches into his right forearm – the one whose hand was keeping me pinned down by the throat in my coffin, and his left hand started to get a hold of the lid.
Yeah, left and right I was punching away at that damn forearm– and I told you before about the damage those punches of mine had done in the past… But they were having no effect now; that thick forearm of his might just as well have been made from iron.
Oh sweet Jesus – he was lifting up the coffin lid with his left hand now. My sight was starting to swim with the pressure he was exerting on my throat with his right; I figured he’d choke me half unconscious; then, while I wasn’t really able to do much, stuff the lid on top and maybe nail it tight shut…
The moon was above me – so bright, clear and beautiful. And this was the last time I’d ever see it. I gave a wretched cry of despair, of utter defeated agony –
And then I remembered.
I had that knife on my keychain. Lying down there by my right thigh.
And it was still open, from where I’d used it earlier.
How much earlier?
Although he was still in my coffin – kind of ‘kneeling’ on my legs – Digger had the lid almost ‘lined up’ alongside, as it were. At the very last moment, he’d scrabble aside and drop the lid before sitting back down upon it. And I’d be screaming and hollering inside, and that would be that.
But just before that could happen – and I still break out into a cold sweat now when I realize there truly was just a second or two to spare – I grabbed the knife and stuck it hard into that fucking forearm.
I’m almost ashamed to say that hearing that son of a bitch shriek like a stuck pig is still one of the most thrilling and exhilarating moments of my life.
And then I went briefly insane. Soon as that hand let go of my throat I was up and just sticking that knife in over and over again. Crying and screaming, yelling curses at Digger as he fell back, desperately holding up his hands in a useless bid to stop my frenzied attack.
I only stopped when the knife went into his jugular and blood sprayed out right into my face. I dropped the weapon, my keys, and covered my face and cried.
When I took my hands away Digger was lying on his crooked back, half in the coffin and half propped up against one side of the hole he’d dug. His bulging eyes were fully open and he was dead. He’d bled right out; I doubt there was anything more than a drop of blood still left in him.
I picked up my keys and then clawed my way up to ground level, fingers and feet scrabbling for purchase in the wet soil. I was about five feet down, I reckon. As I got to the top, I saw that Digger must have thrown the spade out of the hole right before he’d got to raising up the lid.
And that was that. I’d climbed out of my grave. I don’t think there’re too many people who can make a similar claim to that one.
The moon was still big and bold and bright. It illuminated rows of old graves and tombs running away from me on all sides, many of these graves and tombs with their headstones collapsed at an angle. A few statues here and there; an angel with its hands placed together, that sort of thing. An odd, stunted tree. Seems as though I was right in the depths of what was truly a sprawling graveyard.
It was raining fiercely and I held out my arms and stared up at the dark sky and let the water wash away the blood and soil and snot and tears from my face.
The howling wind whipped and tore at me as the clouds raced across the sky and I laughed like a maniac.
I laughed a long time.
10
When the hysteria had passed I walked away from my grave. I’d no idea where I was headed. The lines of tombs and headstones just spread away from me on all sides. The rain continued to beat down but I didn’t mind in the slightest. It was just one of several things reminding me I was alive.
Then I saw something lit up ahead of me. As I got closer I saw that this was a hut with a couple of curtain-less windows, sited close to a set of wrought-iron gates that were chained shut. A road ran away from these gates – one of several I’d seen that cut through the graveyard.
The door of the hut was closed but not locked. I pushed it open. There was a room with a flickering computer and a neatly-made bed nearby. A speaker on the floor, and right beside that a metal cylinder and a box with a flickering needle on its front.
Holy Hannah I thought. Digger, you s
ure went to some trouble to put me underground.
Yeah – I guessed that cylinder had been my air supply, from when I’d been laid out there in my coffin. Also there was a microphone on the small desk, right there before the computer. As I say, Digger must have done a lot of preparation before he’d put me in the ground. Dug up a whole lot of earth, so to get that pipe and those wires laid.
There’s no mystery as to how Digger tracked me down. Might as well say that now. Because the ‘author biography’ on the internet site I use to sell my books states proudly the town where I live, the church where I pray, and even has a photo showing me standing outside the clock-tower in the town square. So any old psycho who wishes to kidnap me and then bury me alive not only has the name of the place where I live, but also a photo of me to boot – just to assist them in tracking me down, as it were.
There was the time and date on the computer: I guessed I’d been buried alive for almost twenty-four hours.
I took more notice of the interior of the hut I was stood in. So there was a computer and a single bed in the place. Also a chair in the corner, with a rug thrown over it. A room with a toilet and a shower, and a tiny kitchenette. That was about it. The place was so ordered and neat that I wondered if Digger hadn’t been in the military or something.
First things first. I went in and used that toilet. Yeah, I was kinda desperate by now, you might say. Was also pleased I’d voided neither my bladder nor my bowels during my stay underground.
Then I turned my attention fully on the computer. I sat down on the chair in front of it, my hair still dripping from the rain outside. ‘Word’ had been opened up: on the screen I saw written: America has been largely destroyed by a nuclear attack. Europe is a communist super-state.
Son of a bitch. Looks like Digger had been planning to rip me off – despite his apparent hatred of everything I wrote. I’ve heard of plagiarism before but, come on…
But why?
…I’d killed a man. How did I feel about that? Something I’d never done even when I’d been sunk real deep in alcohol. Would the Lord forgive me? I’d not been in control of my thoughts or actions when I’d repeatedly stabbed that misshapen, but insanely strong man. You might say there were some mitigating circumstances, with regard to what I’d done. He had buried me alive, after all….
Hanging on the wall was a set of waterproof overalls, a crash helmet on the floor below them. On a small table near the bed a set of keys and some change. I forgot to say earlier that outside this small hut was an old motorbike and also a small campervan. I guess the campervan was what Digger used to transport me here, after he’d first knocked me out. Maybe I’d make use of the motorbike and overalls in a while. Firstly, time to find out where I was.
Along with the set of keys and the change there were several letters on the small table beside the bed. I even managed a small laugh when I saw the name above the address: Ronald Clarence Digger.
Son of a bitch. It was his real name. Made him the perfect man for his job, I guess.
I’m sorry. It had been his real name, and he had been a gravedigger. Now, he was occupying the coffin he’d fully intended me to lie in for all eternity.
What was typed on the Word document was troubling me, somehow. He’d written all those negative reviews for everything I’d published, so what was with him now apparently trying to use me as a source of…
What?
Inspiration…?
Hang on – just wait one minute here…
I’ll never know quite what made me do it, but I first made sure Digger’s computer had internet connection before logging on. Then I went to the world-famous website I used to sell my ebooks, and typed in ol’ Digger’s full name.
He’d been a writer as well. I checked one of his books. Used the ‘Search inside’ facility to read a bit of it – though that wasn’t much, because the shorter the book, the less you get to read for free. But what I read made me search his Word documents file – and there was the whole of what he’d published, entitled simply Sunrise.
It was beautiful. Utterly exquisite. There are no other words to describe it. I won’t repeat any of it here – that would feel quite simply wrong, somehow. But in a few pages, Digger had managed to describe the supreme state of just being, in a language that flowed like the finest poetry.
I checked more of his books on the internet. I doubt he’d sold even one. Because there wasn’t a sales’ ranking for any of his books – I mean, any number from one right ‘down’ to three million. He’d just one review, as well – for the short essay (or whatever you might call it) he’d entitled Sunrise.
Yeah, someone had given it a review. Along with one single star. Some guy writes some garbage about how the sun comes up (read the review). Hot-dog. If I’d had to pay for this I’d be wanting my money back, but I got it on free promo. download. AVOID.
The review had gotten three ‘helpful’ clicks from other readers. I pictured Digger reading it – and becoming just that little bit more insane.
Yeah, he’d a written a number of short stories, essays, or whatever they were. All published with just a picture of a tree or the rising sun or something as a cover. Some image that was linked to nature, in any case. All these stories were perfect. I’ve never read writing like that. (He’d stored them all as Word documents, which is how I got to read them in their entirety.)
But I found something else stored on his computer. Something that wasn’t so perfect. Namely, Digger’s dismal attempts at writing anything approaching fiction.
Yeah, he’d had a number of goes at writing the sort of thing I specialized in. ‘Thrillers’, basically, set in an altered present/ the future. ‘Prepper’ fiction, as it’s commonly referred to. And at this, Digger sucked hard. Any attempt at setting up a scene, or characterization, quickly fell flat. He’d no idea. He could write this sunrise/sunset/general nature ‘stream of consciousness’ -stuff better than any writer I’ve ever read. But at commercial fiction, he failed spectacularly.
And I guess there are any number of writers just like him. People who self-publish on the internet, full of expectation and gratitude that they live in an era where such a thing is possible, only to then discover that no one’s buying. That no one cares, despite all the hours they’ve put in and all the effort that writing in general takes. Perhaps even getting a few bad reviews – if they get any reviews at all.
And then in their indignation checking out the popular stuff – and finding people like me.
Authors who’ve lucked out, basically, and found a wide readership for what they’re writing – even if what they’re writing isn’t exactly classic literature. And for someone like Digger – ‘cursed’ (as it were) with the gift to write so beautifully about nature and all its glory, but with not a shred of ability to craft anything approaching commercial fiction – that must have been intolerable.
So he’d decided to rip me off. To get me to give him a killer idea before allowing me to perish inside that coffin. That way, at least, he’d get some sales and recognition. (Or so he thought, somewhere deep inside that dark, squirming mind of his.)
And ol’ bestselling author and reformed alcoholic here had the bad luck to live within a 100 kilometer radius of this sprawling, isolated graveyard where Digger was janitor – or whatever his job title was – and so he’d tracked me down and kidnapped me. (I’d learned my current location from the address I saw at the top of the letters lying on the table beside his bed. I knew the name of the area where I was now – and that’s about all I’ll say about that…)
Well, the tables had been turned, you might say. Digger was now lying dead in the coffin I’d previously occupied. I went back out into the night – it had now stopped raining – and walked back to that grave. I got down into it and briefly looked at Digger’s body. (By his feet in the coffin a small hole, in which I guessed was located both the speaker and the pipe that had fed me air – though I sure wasn’t going to start stooping down to look properly.)
I
put the lid on the coffin. Then I used the spade to backfill the mound of wet earth heaped up beside the mouth of the grave. .
I hoped God would forgive me. After all, this man had tried to kill me – and in one of the worst possible ways. Really, I’d taken his life just in self-defense. But with my past record, there was no way I could tell anyone about this. One way or another, I’d wind up in jail – of that I was certain. So he was getting buried in secret, right here and now.
I couldn’t really read what had been written on the headstone of the grave. It had been almost erased by the passing of the years and the rain. But there remained the year the original occupant of this grave had expired: 1859.
I guess the coffin of that particular person was below the one I’d lain in, given that it was ‘only’ five feet or so below the surface. Yeah, Digger had used another coffin for me – the basic model, it seemed, without anything real fancy like a velvet interior or such.
So I filled in Digger’s final resting place, threw the spade into a thick clump of bushes, and I walked back to the hut. My mind kind of in a funny sort of place. I guess that’s what they call shock. I put on the overalls and the crash helmet that were in the hut and picked up a bunch of keys that were beside the computer. One of these keys was clearly for the motorbike; another looked like it was for the chain wrapped around the wrought iron gates. There was a can of kerosene for the old heater that was placed against one wall. I emptied this can around the hut. Wasn’t gonna leave no trace of me being here – fingerprints and such.
Digger had been a smoker. There was a pack of Marlboro and a lighter on a shelf, right there alongside a bottle of whiskey. I looked at the bottle, was momentarily tempted and then I smiled. If I wasn’t gonna drink now – after all I’d been through – I seriously doubted I ever would again. But you can never say never.
I got the lighter – a Zippo – walked outside and flicked the flame before throwing it back into the hut. The place was instantly ablaze.
