Challenge #4, October 2009 - Part 2
Title: Things that Go Bump in the Night
Author: Celadon
What: Magic Where: Graveyard
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Horror
Rating: PG-13
Characters:Don, Colby
Minor appearances by: Robin, Alan, David, Nikki, Charlie, Amita
Summary: Sometimes the safest thing to do on Halloween is stay home and pass out candy. Happy Halloween.
Part 2
It was dark.
Which kind of made sense, because it had been night as he recalled, but this was a different kind of dark - lightless.
Suffocating.
Oppressive.
Something was lying over him, like a giant hand, pressing him into the earth, packing his ears and pushing its way into his mouth. He coughed, choked and swallowed dirt, coughed again. He tried to shift to relieve the pressure on his back and lungs but he was hemmed in on all sides - pinned. His heart skipped and froze.
Okay. He sort of remembered now…how long had he been out? Probably not too long, or else he’d be…okay. Okay, no point in thinking that way, that wasn’t helping anybody. His nose seemed to be in a little pocket of air between his arms, so he’d been lucky. Now he had to assume that he’d continue to be lucky, that it wasn’t all going to end after everything he’d been through, with him suffocating yards from help, buried alive in somebody else’s grave…
Okay, no more of that. This was not the time to panic. Panicking wouldn’t help anything.
He kept his breathing shallow, not quite managing the whole not-panicking thing, trying to think coolly, logically.
Okay, #1: no way this guy - he had to assume Grabowski, because it would sting to think he had been outdone by a barely post-teenage girl with amazing upper body strength - Grabowski, even with the girl’s help - had been able to fill the whole six foot with earth. They used a backhoe for that, didn’t they? So he might be buried, but it couldn’t be total.
#2: Colby was somewhere nearby - he just had to let him know where he was. Which would be easy, in a graveyard, in the dark, at night. On Halloween. When, as it turned out, Colby was a little superstitious.
Well, hell, okay, Colby was a little superstitious, but he was still a damned good agent and a friend, too, and he wouldn’t let a few spooks and goblins keep him from finding his boss, right? Right? Of course he wouldn’t. So his job was to either dig his way out of here or make himself easy to find, or both. Both would be good. Because if the truth be told, he had a little phobia of his own. Claustrophobia. Just a little. Just enough that right now, his lungs were squeezing themselves into a pair of knots, and not just because of the who-knew-how-much dirt that was sitting on top of them.
Yeah. Okay. No more of that. Sometimes, despite what Charlie would argue, thinking was not your friend and doing worked better for you. And right now, thinking about how little air…and how long exactly could a person live…? Because unless it was all in his mind he was starting to feel just a little light-headed…yeah. Enough. DO.
He pushed one hand forward, felt the dirt shift around it, sifting icily into his sleeve. His knuckles brushed more dirt, but different dirt: slick and solid and cold. He tried to dig his fingers into it, to get a grip and help force himself through the layer lying on top of him, but it only curled away under his nails in small shavings. No help there.
He was really cold now, his teeth crushing against each other, his chest heavy and tight. He had to be careful with his movements - had to conserve what little air he had. His gun was probably gone - lost when he’d taken that unscheduled flight into this hole. Not that it would be much help down here anyway. He didn’t hear the slightest hint of static or sound over the comlink. He tried speaking into his wrist anyway, just in case things were working on Colby’s end. He could just barely hear his own voice, whether because of the dirt in his ears or the lack of air he couldn’t tell.
His diaphragm ached with the effort to breathe, veins in his head huge and pounding. Come on, come on - there must be something else he could use…what about his penlight? Maybe if he pushed it through the dirt it could help Colby find him? Which was really likely because even though there probably wasn’t six foot of earth on top of him there was enough to restrict his movement and that tiny little light was gonna be a big help.
Y’know, his dad had a point, actually. His sarcasm wasn’t always all that funny.
At the thought of his father he almost groaned aloud. Dad. This would be miserable for his dad, if he was pulled out the ground just so he could be moved to a private plot in a Jewish cemetery…and Robin. And Charlie…okay, enough of this already. He had a responsibility to survive - there were people counting on him.
He ground his forehead into the cold dirt and tried to focus on pushing his hand through the crushing weight of earth, back and towards his pocket. The air was even thinner now, and he could feel his heart thundering against his sternum, demanding oxygen. Odd lights and colors danced behind his eyes, a high singing in his ears that he was pretty sure wasn’t Colby. His fingertips brushed something that wasn’t earth - fabric - fumbled and clutched. But his fingers were awkward and clumsy, his grip flaccid. He squeezed his eyes tight shut, concentrating on making his hand close. But the noise in his ears was interfering with his concentration and his hands didn’t want to listen to his commands.
He tried to grab a breath to center himself for one more try, but only sucked in dirt, coating his throat and mouth and tickling his lungs. He struggled to cough, to breathe, now hot and cold at once, limbs twitching, fighting. His eyes and chest burned; instinctively, he tried to cry out and ate more dirt instead.
He was starving for air, frantic for light, groped for something, anything; struck only the cold, slick walls of the grave around him as the world flickered out.
TBC
Author: Celadon
What: Magic Where: Graveyard
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Horror
Rating: PG-13
Characters:Don, Colby
Minor appearances by: Robin, Alan, David, Nikki, Charlie, Amita
Summary: Sometimes the safest thing to do on Halloween is stay home and pass out candy. Happy Halloween.
Part 2
It was dark.
Which kind of made sense, because it had been night as he recalled, but this was a different kind of dark - lightless.
Suffocating.
Oppressive.
Something was lying over him, like a giant hand, pressing him into the earth, packing his ears and pushing its way into his mouth. He coughed, choked and swallowed dirt, coughed again. He tried to shift to relieve the pressure on his back and lungs but he was hemmed in on all sides - pinned. His heart skipped and froze.
Okay. He sort of remembered now…how long had he been out? Probably not too long, or else he’d be…okay. Okay, no point in thinking that way, that wasn’t helping anybody. His nose seemed to be in a little pocket of air between his arms, so he’d been lucky. Now he had to assume that he’d continue to be lucky, that it wasn’t all going to end after everything he’d been through, with him suffocating yards from help, buried alive in somebody else’s grave…
Okay, no more of that. This was not the time to panic. Panicking wouldn’t help anything.
He kept his breathing shallow, not quite managing the whole not-panicking thing, trying to think coolly, logically.
Okay, #1: no way this guy - he had to assume Grabowski, because it would sting to think he had been outdone by a barely post-teenage girl with amazing upper body strength - Grabowski, even with the girl’s help - had been able to fill the whole six foot with earth. They used a backhoe for that, didn’t they? So he might be buried, but it couldn’t be total.
#2: Colby was somewhere nearby - he just had to let him know where he was. Which would be easy, in a graveyard, in the dark, at night. On Halloween. When, as it turned out, Colby was a little superstitious.
Well, hell, okay, Colby was a little superstitious, but he was still a damned good agent and a friend, too, and he wouldn’t let a few spooks and goblins keep him from finding his boss, right? Right? Of course he wouldn’t. So his job was to either dig his way out of here or make himself easy to find, or both. Both would be good. Because if the truth be told, he had a little phobia of his own. Claustrophobia. Just a little. Just enough that right now, his lungs were squeezing themselves into a pair of knots, and not just because of the who-knew-how-much dirt that was sitting on top of them.
Yeah. Okay. No more of that. Sometimes, despite what Charlie would argue, thinking was not your friend and doing worked better for you. And right now, thinking about how little air…and how long exactly could a person live…? Because unless it was all in his mind he was starting to feel just a little light-headed…yeah. Enough. DO.
He pushed one hand forward, felt the dirt shift around it, sifting icily into his sleeve. His knuckles brushed more dirt, but different dirt: slick and solid and cold. He tried to dig his fingers into it, to get a grip and help force himself through the layer lying on top of him, but it only curled away under his nails in small shavings. No help there.
He was really cold now, his teeth crushing against each other, his chest heavy and tight. He had to be careful with his movements - had to conserve what little air he had. His gun was probably gone - lost when he’d taken that unscheduled flight into this hole. Not that it would be much help down here anyway. He didn’t hear the slightest hint of static or sound over the comlink. He tried speaking into his wrist anyway, just in case things were working on Colby’s end. He could just barely hear his own voice, whether because of the dirt in his ears or the lack of air he couldn’t tell.
His diaphragm ached with the effort to breathe, veins in his head huge and pounding. Come on, come on - there must be something else he could use…what about his penlight? Maybe if he pushed it through the dirt it could help Colby find him? Which was really likely because even though there probably wasn’t six foot of earth on top of him there was enough to restrict his movement and that tiny little light was gonna be a big help.
Y’know, his dad had a point, actually. His sarcasm wasn’t always all that funny.
At the thought of his father he almost groaned aloud. Dad. This would be miserable for his dad, if he was pulled out the ground just so he could be moved to a private plot in a Jewish cemetery…and Robin. And Charlie…okay, enough of this already. He had a responsibility to survive - there were people counting on him.
He ground his forehead into the cold dirt and tried to focus on pushing his hand through the crushing weight of earth, back and towards his pocket. The air was even thinner now, and he could feel his heart thundering against his sternum, demanding oxygen. Odd lights and colors danced behind his eyes, a high singing in his ears that he was pretty sure wasn’t Colby. His fingertips brushed something that wasn’t earth - fabric - fumbled and clutched. But his fingers were awkward and clumsy, his grip flaccid. He squeezed his eyes tight shut, concentrating on making his hand close. But the noise in his ears was interfering with his concentration and his hands didn’t want to listen to his commands.
He tried to grab a breath to center himself for one more try, but only sucked in dirt, coating his throat and mouth and tickling his lungs. He struggled to cough, to breathe, now hot and cold at once, limbs twitching, fighting. His eyes and chest burned; instinctively, he tried to cry out and ate more dirt instead.
He was starving for air, frantic for light, groped for something, anything; struck only the cold, slick walls of the grave around him as the world flickered out.
TBC