Dark Corners - Twelve Tales of Terror (18 page)

That was
all he was to her now. Not a him, not a name, just an object. He was
nothing but an obstacle between her and the money she so craved.

He
was pulled out of the car and then they were on the move again.
Despite knowing what was coming, Danny was surprised to find himself
overcome by a strange sense of calm. He felt the branches of trees
greedily tugging at the carpet, and was suddenly happy to have its
protection from their gnarled grasp. He could smell the woodland air
and hear the dying birdcalls of dusk. Suddenly they stopped and he
was lowered to the ground.

“
Is
this it?” Sarah asked with a note of irritation in her voice.

“
What
do you think? The damn coffin is right in front of you.”

“
Relax
Jim. Nobody is going to catch us.”

“
Don’t
tell me to relax. Let’s just get this done. The sooner the
better.”

“
Is
that going to be deep enough? I told you to dig six feet down.”

His
grave. Not being able to see it was somehow worse.

“
I’m
a surgeon, not a damn grave digger!”

Danny
prayed for an argument, for Jim to realize that she was the one in
control. That she wouldn’t hesitate to throw him under the bus
if things got hairy. But Jim reacted the same way Danny had so many
times before—he backed down.

“Look,
I’m sorry, Sarah. But you can’t blame me for being a
little on edge.”

“All
the more reason to get it over with. Come on, help me get the coffin
in the hole.”

He could
hear the scraping of wood against soil, and then the dull thud as his
final resting place was prepared. Footsteps approached and he knew it
was time.

He felt
himself jerked quickly to the side, his face mashing into the ground
as he was roughly unrolled from the carpet. Danny could feel a dull
pain in his temple, and his right arm was twisted uncomfortably
beneath him. He could smell the earthy rot as he was pushed over onto
his back, his open eyes now gazing into the face of his former best
friend. He looked even worse than before, as if the last few hours
had drained the life out of him.

Jim
dragged Danny by his arms across the leafy forest floor. His legs
trailed out behind him and he watched as one of his Nike pumps pulled
loose and was left behind
. I think I’ll
stay up here if it’s all the same to you, Danny. Shoes work
better above ground.
He was lowered gently
into the grave, its rough edges filling his field of vision, framing
the sky and treetops above. He felt his body come to rest as Jim
hoisted his leg over the grave edge and pulled himself up with a
grunt, speaking to Sarah as he did so.

“Grab
the carpet. Come on, hurry up.”

The
re-rolled carpet and lost shoe were tossed into the makeshift coffin,
landing on Danny’s lower half. He could feel the blood pounding
in his temples as he willed himself to live, for his body to overcome
the poison coursing through its veins and fight back. Sarah came back
into view then, and seeing the crudely constructed coffin lid she
carried made Danny’s blood run cold.

This
is my grave.

What if
the soil came through the gaps in the boards? What if it filled his
ears, mouth, and eyes before he regained control of his body? He
imagined the worms, touching his skin with their cold, wet bodies,
the maggots burrowing into his eyes, nesting in his mouth, feeding on
his tongue.

Oh
God, please let it be quick…

Jim moved
the lid into position and then hesitated. The gloom was heavy now and
Danny felt the occasional wet splash of rain on his skin. For a
moment, Jim looked almost like a child—his eyes wide, his grimy
face streaked with tears. A mucus bubble expanded and contracted in
his left nostril as he breathed in ragged gasps.

“God
forgive me,” he whispered as he lowered the lid of the coffin,
shutting out the world and plunging Danny into suffocating darkness.
In his head, Danny screamed.

Rio,
Brazil.

The man
sipped his gin and tonic as he looked out over the glorious panorama
of the Rio coastline. The sun was just beginning to set, and the sky
was a beautiful red orange hue. The ocean was dabbled with golden
reflection from the fading light of what had been a glorious day. As
the sodium streetlamps began to fizzle on in unison, the man smiled,
for he had seen another day come and go. His hand, the palm rough and
calloused, instinctively went to the large crucifix that he now wore
around his neck, and he let his fingers glide gently over its
contours.

The
sixteen hours between Danny Harding’s burial, revival, and
escape are ones he prefers not to think about. However on this day,
the anniversary of it happening, he always did. It had been seven
years now, and although he still suffered frequent nightmares about
the incident, he didn’t mind— because he was alive. Never
a religious man, not back then anyway, Danny’s outlook had
changed.

After
all, it had been a bizarre set of circumstances that allowed for his
escape from the premature grave. Jim and Sarah
had
planned well, but they hadn’t taken into account certain
variables of the situation. Even now, he still liked the word—

Variables.

Things
such as the home-made coffin being much larger than a regular one,
allowing Danny to roll onto his side, then onto his knees once he
regained control of his body. Then there was the knife that Jim had
left Danny to kill himself with. How he was able to use it to cut
away the cheap wood around the nails holding the lid in place. Even
these fortuitous circumstances could have been for nothing, had it
not been for Jim. Jim with his surgeon’s hands. The six-foot
grave Sarah had demanded was in reality only a little more than
three, and combined with the flimsy coffin and the heavy rain that
followed the burial, Danny was given his fighting chance.

He’d
known the chances of escape were slim, but as he began to regain
control of his body, he decided to try for it—see how far he
could get, one step at a time.

He
finished his drink and pulled out two things from his wallet. The
first was a photograph. The years had seen it become dog-eared and
there was an ugly crease down its middle. It was of Jim and Sarah.
She had been right, of course—if you knew the right people, you
could get your hands on just about anything. Danny just happened to
know an overweight Italian mob boss who was more than willing to
locate the materials he required. It cost Danny a pretty penny, but
money isn’t everything after all.

In the
photograph the pair were in the same hole they had dug for him, only
they were in a much smaller coffin. He had trouble fitting them in,
and they were pressed face to face, nose to nose. Their eyes seemed
lifeless, already dead in fact, but Danny knew better. He knew they
could see and feel everything that was happening.

He often
wondered if they had at least made a try for escape. He supposed they
would have, although he couldn’t fathom how. He remembered
sitting on the edge of the grave, his feet dangling above the open
coffin, looking down at his two friends. It really didn’t seem
as scary from up there.

“I’m
going to give the two of you almost the same chance I had. It won’t
be as easy because frankly it looks a bit cramped in there, and I
doubt you’ll be able to get any leverage. But if it’s
meant to be, it’s meant to be. The hole is the same depth too,
just less than three feet…”

He’d
watched the waxy, frozen faces of his friends, who looked about to
engage in a bizarre open-eyed kiss.

“Because
of your disadvantage, I gave you a watered down version of the serum…
You should come around in say… two hours, which means I better
get to work. If you do manage to escape, then consider us even.”

They were
still motionless, but in his mind he imagined them screaming,
pleading for their lives. It made him smile. He took out his phone
and snapped a quick picture of the scene, which had since resided in
his wallet behind his driver’s license and a photo of his
parents. He then put the lid in place and hammered in six nails, the
same number he’d had to contend with. He then went to work
filling the hole as the sun poured down on his back.

He smiled
and wondered if God would forgive him when his time to pass finally
did come. He could have gone to the police and had them arrested,
prosecuted and convicted, but for what? A few years in a comfortable
prison, then free again in the world?

No.

There had
been no other way, and he hoped that would be taken into account when
his judgment came. He left some money for his drink and stood,
stretching as he watched the sun begin to fade below the horizon
line. He slipped the photograph back into his wallet, and gazed
briefly at the second item, a small piece of paper folded carefully
into four. He unfolded it, his eyes drifting over the list even
though he had long ago memorized it.

List of
items:

Zombie
serum?

Rope

Car
keys (Jim)

Strong
wood for coffin

Tape
measure

Hammer

Nails

Shovel

Gloves

2 x
bags of ready mix concrete (for hole)

He put
the paper back in his wallet. He had told them what to expect. He
said would give them
almost
the same chance to escape. Even without the concrete, he doubted they
would have been able to get out of the coffin anyway.

He
glanced over at the ocean, the sun almost gone now apart from a
golden sliver, which still hung above the horizon. He didn’t
like the night, not anymore, and always made sure to be indoors
before the sun fully set. Too many shadows in the dark. Too many
cold, wet things that could be dragging themselves around unseen.
They couldn’t come into the light though. That’s not how
it went. Those were the rules. He smiled to himself as he began to
walk, and he quickly became another anonymous figure, lost in the
densely crowded Rio streets.

It
was good to be alive.

Alex
looked at himself in the rearview mirror, smoothed a stubborn lock
of hair into place, and checked that his tie was straight. Finally
satisfied, he picked up the stack of pamphlets from the passenger
seat, then shut off the engine and climbed from the car. It was a
beautiful day. The sky was a pale, cloudless blue, and birds were
already in full song down the length of Sycamore Street. It was a
perfect example of middle America suburbia. Tasteful, neat homes with
beautifully trimmed lawns and white picket fences. He paused by the
car, enjoying the beauty of it all. Somewhere in the distance, he
could hear the jolly jingle of an ice cream truck making its rounds
and whipping the local children into a frenzy. He thought this was
the kind of place he would like to live someday, maybe after he
retired. Somewhere quiet where he could sit in a rocker by his front
door and watch the world go by. But that was farther down the line.
Right now, he had a job to do.

He
inhaled deeply, allowing himself a contented smile. He loved this
job. At first, the idea of spreading the word of God grated with him.
He was never religious, at least until the last few years. But
sometimes things happen in life that change your outlook—make
you re-access the situation. Yes sir. Now he lived to spread the word
of his church. He felt alive there, and his parish loved him. They
praised his commitment and his drive, but they didn’t know that
it hadn’t always been this way. Indeed, there was a time when
Alex Childs only stepped inside church for funerals, weddings, and
occasionally at Christmas if his wife managed to force it on him.

That
was when he used to work for a man called Victor.

Victor
was a nasty piece of work. He was a drug runner, up to his neck in
all sorts of activities, and none of them legal. He was a large,
flabby man with small eyes and a long cruel mouth. Every time Alex
was summoned to the back room of Victor’s restaurant in
downtown New York, there were always two things that were guaranteed:
that Victor would be eating and sweating, both in massive amounts. He
would also be guarded by at least two of his staff, who were never
far away if trouble should arise. Sometimes his brother Salvatore
would be there, but he was different from Victor. He didn’t
give off the same oozing sense of insincerity, and seemed like a
fairly decent guy as far as mob families went. Of course, Alex would
never say that to Victor in person. He didn’t want to end up
missing a finger, or taking the express line to the bottom of the
ocean in a pair of cement shoes.

Alex
was the man Victor would call in to do jobs that required a hands on,
yet clinical touch.

Alex
was very good at his job.

He
was certainly moving up the ladder in Victor’s organization,
and had developed quite a reputation of his own.