Drift
Twisted sheets
Seek to strangle
To hold me fast
To keep me bound
To tie me down
Helpless...
Unmoving.
Body tense
A spring ready to snap
Fighting through
The burning
The fire in my limbs,
Afraid my hindered voice
Will betray me,
And those that seek me
Will discover me
Within the hiding place
Buried deep
In my own mind.
Try as I might,
To shrink myself
To nothingness
I'm still here-
Still breathing,
Still crying,
Still afraid
of what I might see
Without sight.
The images in my head
More terrifying
Than the reality
From which I hide.
And there it is,
The fingers questing
Feeling,
Groping
Above the bedsheets,
The thin membrane
Whose sole purpose
Is to keep me safe,
Keep me hidden
From those searching fingers.
The apparition descends,
I feel it's heated
Stinking breath-
A mixture of brimstone
And decomposition-
I cough and gag
As the unearthly stink
Penetrates my mouth,
Slithers into my nose
And takes residence
In my burning lungs.
I choke on darkness,
Then drift upward
A mere wisp of breath
Sucked into the being
That torments my dreams
And see things
From a different view-
That ethereal spirit
Is simply a reflection...
...of me.
The Gravedigger- Chapter Three
Chapter three of my work-in-progress novel:
He heard the vehicles before he saw them. Revving engines echo through the trees, making it difficult at first to pinpoint from which directing the sound is coming. There’s more than one—that he can tell.
His attention focuses on the county road—the obvious place a vehicle would appear. He stands and the old wound in his hip screams again. It seems like he would have learned by now that his legs need a considerable amount of stretching and warm-up before he can do anything athletic. On this hip, by the time he ran to the county road, the vehicles would be long gone anyway.
He shuffles through a gap between the tombstones. Within a few steps, his leg starts to loosen up and he’s able to jog more naturally, the way he used to before the war.
Something’s wrong. He stops and leans against another large oak, head cocked to the side in confusion. The sound of the engines bounces all around him. Finally, he turns to the west, where he had just been lounging in the shade and eating his lunch.
It sounds like they are coming from there. He takes a few tentative steps in that direction as a feeling of apprehension washes over him. His white and red lunch cooler still lies on the ground by the huge, mossy oak tree and for some reason, the cooler looks like a beacon, announcing to anyone that sees it that there is someone near. He starts back toward the cooler, that feeling inside becoming stronger with every step—all he can think about is putting the cooler out of sight.
As the vehicles draw closer, there’s no doubting they are coming from within the forest and not from the county road. Their approach from the west strikes him as suspicious, thereby solidifying that feeling within that something is not quite right. That sense of danger is something that he’s felt on numerous occasions. He’s trusts his senses: it’s one of the things that helped keep him alive in Afghanistan.
Just over the fence-line is a downed tree. He snatches up the cooler, tosses it behind it, and then scrambles back to the old oak tree to settle in and wait. The louder the engines become, the better focus he’s able to make on the direction in which they are traveling. They are definitely getting closer, and they are definitely not coming down the county road. They’re approaching from the west.
He scans the tree line and his eyes rest on a gap in the underbrush about thirty yards south of where he stands. On the ground he can just make out a slight change in the terrain where two shallow channels—barely-used wheel ruts—emerge from the tree line and cross the open yard to the white rock cemetery driveway. He moves further around the tree so that when the vehicles emerge, the drivers would not see him.
Stay hidden and evaluate the situation. It’s a mantra instilled in him since the beginning of his military training. The engine noises suddenly grow louder as two Jeeps burst out of the gap in the underbrush and into the clearing. They follow each other across the lawn, onto the white rock drive, and then turn back onto the grass and head straight toward the fresh, open grave.
There appear to be only four men—two drivers and two passengers. The rear windows are dark with limousine quality tinting so he can’t tell if there’s anybody else in the back seats. The Jeeps come to a halt and the passengers immediately exit the vehicles. Each man is dressed identically—dark suits and sunglasses. They are all of Hispanic descent but he believes each of them have more Spanish genes than the traits typical of Mexico—all four of these men are tall and lean.
The shortest of the four appears to be the one in authority over the others. He points toward the open grave and starts barking orders in Spanish. Steven digs his phone from his jeans pocket and selects the camera application He slides his thumb across the screen, changing the feature from photo to video. He presses the record button and turns the camera toward the four men near the grave.
* * *
“Tony. Andres. Get him out and kneel him down right there.” Juan waives at the ground by the edge of the grave. Addressing the third man, he says, “Manuel, go find us a couple of shovels in the shed.”
The three men walk away to perform their tasks as instructed while Juan bends over the metal framework around the edge of the grave. He removes the three straps that stretch across the hole. When he finishes, he scans the clearing, looking and listening for any sign that they are not alone.
Tony and Andres return, dragging the hooded man between them. They dump him at the edge of the grave and he falls forward, head striking the metal frame surrounding the grave. A muffled grunt of pain escapes from within the hood.
Juan stands and stares at the man on the ground. He lets the silence build then says, “Take the hood off.”
Tony reaches down, grabs a corner of the hood, and yanks it off the man’s head, revealing a face that’s swollen and bruised. His left eye is a bulbous mass of swollen flesh and a cut above the eye still seeps red. A silver strip of duct tape covers his mouth. Tony rips it off and the adhesive removes the scabs from the man’s lips and a fresh cascade of blood streams down his chin and neck.
Juan squats in front of the wounded man and stairs deep into his one working eye. “Where’s the product?” he asks.
A muddled word escapes the man’s swollen lips: “Please...”
“Please? After everything, you still think that you’re going to get through this alive?” He shakes his head in disbelief. “You’ve been a part of this organization almost from the beginning—even longer than myself.” He pounds his chest for emphasis then pushes the man’s head and screams, “But you had to get greedy!” He slaps him and his hand comes away bloody. He wipes most of it off on his pants leg, then pulls a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe off the excess.
“Now, I’ll ask you again and this will be the last time. Where’s the product?”
“Sold...gone,” says the man on the ground. He tries to push himself up but crumples back to the ground.
“Who bought it?” Another slap to the face but the man remains silent. “Get him to his knees!” Juan pulls a 9mm Beretta from a holster concealed under his left arm. Tony and Andres lift the man to his knees and hold him up between them. The man’s head lolls forward.
“You know how we operate.” Juan paces in front of the man. “I can’t believe you’d risk your life like this.”
The man says something but Juan can’t make out the words. He leans down, his face only a few inches from the ruined, bloody face of the other.
“Say again?”
“My family...needed money.”
“Your family?” Juan screams. “Your family!” Spit flies from his mouth and lands on the man’s face in bright white streams. “We were your family!” Then, in a voice too quiet to carry, Juan says, “We would have helped you if you would have only asked.”
Juan waves the pistol in front of the man’s face and uses the barrel to lift his head. “And now you and your family won’t be needing anything, will they.”
The man’s one eye opens wide. “No. Please. Don’t hurt them,” he says through lips that can’t quite function well enough to form words.
“Oh, it’s too late for that.” He makes a dramatic showing of checking his watch. “Your parents, your grandparents, your aunts, uncles, and cousins in Mexico? They should all be disposed of by now.”
The man’s head lowers as he repeatedly cries, “No, no, no!”
Again, using the barrel of the gun, Juan forces the man’s head up. “And that pretty little wife of yours...and those two little daughters—I plan on taking care of them personally and—well, I’ll just let your imagination run wild with that image.”
He turns to Tony and Andres. “Take note, my friends: this is what happens when you go against the organization.” Juan lifts the pistol. The barrel is only a few inches from the kneeling man’s head. His finger tightens on the trigger and it moves millimeter by millimeter until...
...a shout echoes through the clearing.
* * *
Manuel pulls open the door to the shed and rummages around inside for a couple of shovels but all he can find is a short handled spade with a thin blade. He exits the shed to the sounds of Juan’s voice yelling in Spanish at the traitor. Beside the shed is a parked backhoe. He crosses to it and as he walk around it, he places his hand on the metal housing that covers and protects the engine.
“Caliente!” he shouts, jerking his hand away from the hot metal and rubbing it on the leg of his pants. If the engine’s that hot then...
“Senor!” he shouts. He turns toward the Jeeps and Juan steps out from the other side.
“What?”
“Somebody’s been here.”
“We know that, how do you think this grave got here?”
“No...Sir...I mean...someone’s been here within the last few minutes.” He points at the backhoe. “Engine’s still hot.” He hold up his hand to show Juan the angry red blisters already forming on the palm.
* * *
Juan takes a few steps toward Manuel. He glances toward the backhoe and then his eyes follow the tracks that it had made in the ground around the grave. He stepped onto the white rock drive as Manuel joins him.
“No trailer,” says Juan. “The gravedigger drove it in.” He points to the tracks leading up the drive from the county road.
Manuel says, “Maybe somebody picked him up?”
“Maybe.” Juan shouts over his shoulder. “Tony!”
“Yes, sir?”
“You and Manuel each take a Jeep. Sweep the road two miles in each direction. If you see the gravedigger, call me on the radio.” He reaches into the passenger door of the closest vehicle and grabs a small hand-held radio. With no cell phone coverage, the radios are the only means of communication.
Tony asks, “What do you want us to do if we find someone?”
“Radio me first and I’ll make a decision then. Now go.”
Tony and Manuel each climb behind the wheel, fire up the engines, and then speed away down the drive. Manuel takes the lead and turns south on the country road. Tony turns north. Within a minute of leaving the cemetery, Tony is on the radio. “Got a truck and a trailer about a half mile up the road. The truck has a flat and there are marks in the ground that match the tracks on the backhoe.”
“No sign of the driver?”
“No.”
“Both of you get back here.”
Juan turns a complete circle and scans his surroundings again. There is someone here; he can almost feel it now.
Tony and Manuel return, exit their vehicles, and stand waiting for further instruction.
Quietly, Juan says, “Keep your eyes peeled. I think the gravedigger is here...hiding...watching us.”
“What are we going to do?” Manuel asks.
Juan pulls his wondering gaze from the trees and looks back down at the traitor. He says, “Let’s see if we can’t shock him out of hiding.” He takes a few steps closer to the man kneeling in font of open grave. “Get him to his feet.”
Andres pulls the man up but the traitor almost pitches forward onto the ground again so Tony steps forward to help. Together, they hold the man upright between them. His mumbled pleadings continue to spill from his broken, bleeding lips but Juan is beyond hearing him now. His mind is now on the messy task ahead of him.
Juan lifts the gun.
He steps closer and places the muzzle against the traitor’s forehead. He gently adds pressure to the trigger and watches the gun’s hammer pull slowly away from the firing pin. This part always mesmerizes him—watching that hammer draw back toward its release point. Once its reached—faster than the eye can see—the hammer slams forward into the firing pin; the firing pin strikes the firing cap which in turn creates a tiny spark that ignites the gun powder within the cartridge. The combustible material expands and forces the lead bullet away from the cartridge and out the gun’s muzzle. The lead bullet then strikes the traitors forehead and the force of the soft metal striking bone causes the projectile to fragment. The largest piece maintains its trajectory through the traitor, leaving an exit wound ten times larger than the entry wound. The smaller pieces quickly lose momentum and bounce around inside the traitors head like a ball hitting the bumpers of a pinball machine.
In the space of a millisecond, it’s over and the lifeless body of the traitor falls backward into the open grave.
The Gravedigger- Chapter Two
This is the continuing story of my work-in-progress novel...agains, any edits, suggestions, or constructive criticism is greatly appreciated: enjoy...
The chanting of, “Fight! Fight! Fight,” still echoes through the halls even though the fight ended twenty minutes earlier. Countless students repeatedly replaying the blow-by-blow action.
Steven’s opponent, a burly seventh-grade defensive lineman for the eighth-grade football team, sits across the hall on a bench that mirrors the one he currently occupies. To him, the benches look like pews from church; the only thing missing are the cushions—those, and a stack of hymnals. Of course, these benches are the last place he wants to be sitting. They are hard, splintered, and completely uncomfortable. Their only function is for kids such as himself and Eduardo—kids that are in trouble.
He turns his head quickly away from the larger boy, not realizing that he had been staring at Eduardo; but Eduardo noticed.
“Hey, Gringo!”
He ignores Eduardo. If he doesn’t respond, maybe he’ll give up and leave him alone. Then again, if he doesn’t respond, he might end up with a bigger target on his back in the future.
“Gringo! I’m talking to you.”
He can’t help it; he glances back over.
“What!” He snaps, adding more venom to his voice than he intends. He just wants to be left alone. Why can’t Eduardo see that? But isn’t that what bullies thrive on? Once they have you, they don’t let go until you can somehow get the better of them, and sometimes—well, most of the time—even that doesn’t work.
He looks toward Eduardo’s side of the hallway, but refrains from looking directly at the larger boy. He’s apprehensive about meeting Eduardo’s gaze, if he meets Eduardo’s eyes, then the bigger boy will see just how afraid he is.
“You did a good thing today, Gringo.”
What’s that? Did he hear that right? Did Eduardo just complement him?
He turns a questioning gaze and their eyes meet.
Eduardo looks away.
Eduardo sniffles and is on the verge of tears. He wipes a hand across his nose and a bubble of thick liquid forces its way out of the swollen mucus glands in his sinuses, leaving a trail that glistens on his dark skin. He leans forward; shoulders slumped, and concentrates on the white tile floor around his shoes. “I shouldn’t have been picking on her. You were right, Gringo.” He sniffles again and looks up; tears blur the corners of his eyes. “It was brave of you to stand up to me and protect her. I know better! I was taught better than that!”
“So why were you picking on her?” The words jump out of Steven’s mouth before he can reel them in. He’s baffled by what he’s hearing. Never in his life would he have thought he would ever carry on an actual conversation with a jock like Eduardo.
Eduardo’s head drops to his chest and it rocks back and forth, the light from the eight-foot bulbs overhead cast a bright reflection in his dark, sweaty hair. “I don’t know. I really don’t know.” At that moment, Eduardo looks like an adult contemplating a bad relationship decision. “But you, Gringo! You really laid one on me.” He rubs the corner of his right eye and flinches as his finger brushes the dark, tender bruise. Eduardo locks eyes with him and asks, “What’s your name?”
Steven opens his mouth, and then clamps it shut again as a funny thought passes through his head. He smiles slyly and says, “The Gringo.”
Eduardo grins. “Now that’s funny. The Gringo, huh?”
“Yeah. I like the sound of it.”
Eduardo lifts himself from the bench, crosses the hall, and stands in front of Steven. He extends his hand. “You know what’s funny, Gringo?” Their hands lock together.
“What?”
“Wouldn’t it be funny if that nickname stuck?”
“Yeah. That would be funny.”
“I’m sorry for hitting you.”
Steven shakes his head. “I’m not the one you should be apologizing to.”
As if on cue, the office door opens and Principal Skidmore steps into the hallway. Emily Schneider and her dad file out behind him. They turn toward the exit without a backwards glance at the two boys. Two more men step into the hallway after Mr. Schneider. Both the boys’ dads sat in on the meeting.
“Your turn, Eduardo,” says Principle Skidmore.
Steven’s dad, Bill, steps aside to let the boy enter the principal’s office.
“See you around,” says Eduardo, head still hanging low. He steps around the principle and follows his dad into the office. Mr. Skidmore steps inside behind them, closes the door, and leaves Steven and his dad in the hallway. Neither of them speak. A few minutes later, they hear the unmistakable sound of a wooden paddle smacking soft tissue.
* * *
“I’m really not sure what to do with you.” Skidmore settles deeper in his tall-backed armchair. The leather creaks under his weight even though he is a small man. “Stepping in to protect Emily was a very brave thing—especially against Eduardo. It’s hard to punish something like that.”
Steven can’t believe what he’s hearing. Is he actually going to get out of this mess with only a few bruises and scrapes from the play yard tussle? He thinks back to his wait in the hallway and to the sound of that paddle striking Eduardo. The bigger boy was still crying ten minutes later when he finally emerged from the office. Then he reminds himself what Eduardo said to him just before receiving his punishment. There had been true regret there.
He makes a decision—and once again, it’s a decision that an adult would make rather than someone of his age.
He lifts his head and meets Principal Skidmore’s eyes. He asks, “Isn’t it the policy of the school that there will be no fighting between students?”
Skidmore turns to his father with a quizzical look, and then turns back to his student. “Yes,” he says.
“So, what’s the punishment for breaking that rule?”
“Six swats and a three day suspension.”
He pauses for a second, building himself up for what he is about to say. “Is that what Eduardo got?”
Again, the principle looks at his father. Bill just shrugs his shoulders. He doesn’t know where this is leading either.
“Yes,” says principle Skidmore.
Steven straightens in his seat, takes a deep breath, and takes the plunge; “Then my punishment should be the same as his.”
“What?” asks Principal Skidmore.
“What?” echoes his father.
* * *
“Hey, Gringo. Mind if I sit here?”
He can’t help but smile. He motions for Eduardo to take the seat in front of him. The big football jock sitting with the wimpy chess-club kid elicits a few snickers and looks from around the cafeteria. Eduardo quickly glances around the room, meeting the eyes of the kids that dare to mock him. All it takes is that look and the laughing stops.
Today’s their first day back from suspension and their first opportunity to talk.
Eduardo’s hands pause during the motion of opening the carton of milk on his tray. “You weren’t kidding about calling you Gringo, were you? I mean, if you were kidding I won’t call you that.”
“No, I wasn’t kidding. I actually like it. It has a nice ring to it—don’t you think?”
Eduardo sighs and opens the milk carton—a little too roughly—milk spills all over his hand. He shakes it under the table. “Good. I wouldn’t want you to beat me up or anything.”
Eduardo grins a huge, toothy smile.
Steven smiles too.
Like so many other childhood friendships between boys, this one started with brawl in a school playground. And also like so many fights between children, standing up to one another often instills a certain amount of respect between the two opponents. More often than not, the two usually become friends. Such is how it is between Eduardo and Steven. Throughout the remainder of that school year, the two boys are nearly inseparable.
After their friendship began, it wasn’t long that they discovered they only live about a half a mile from each other. Their friendship grows and strengthens over the remainder of that school year, through the summer, and into the next year. When spending time with Eduardo’s family, Steven develops an interest in the Spanish language (Eduardo’s mom does not speak but a few words of English and his dad only enough to get by).
In the beginning, visiting Eduardo and his family was frustrating because of the language barrier between himself and Eduardo’s parents. However, before long, he starts picking up a few phrases here and there. Within a few months, he can converse easily with Eduardo’s parents. It’s a skill he’ll use repeatedly in the coming years.
Most surprising of all, Eduardo’s family begins calling him The Gringo too.
The latter part of Jr. High are some of the best days of his childhood.
Then hard times fall on Eduardo’s family. His father loses his job and near the end of the school year, Eduardo comes to Steven with sad, sad news.
“Hey, Gringo.” As so many times before, he sits in the same seat in the lunchroom, directly across from his friend.
“What’s up?” He says in Spanish—it always seems to have an air of mystery speaking to each other in another language in the midst of other students.
Eduardo doesn’t speak again for several seconds. He doesn’t open his milk—doesn’t even wolf down the chocolate pudding on his tray.
Steven senses something is up. “Hey, what’s going on?”
Eduardo sighs deeply, his big chest expanding outward like a balloon. “I’m moving.”
Steven drops his fork. “What?”
“My dad took a job in Nevada. We’re moving at the end of the school year.”
“What?” he asks again.
Eduardo just sits there, nods, and repeats those two words again, “We’re moving.”
“But-but...that’s next month!”
The bigger kid nods again. His chin rests on his chest and it brings back a memory in Steven’s mind—a memory of the two of them sitting on the benches outside the Principal Skidmore’s office. Tears form in the corners of his eyes and he wipes them away before they can glisten his cheeks.
* * *
The day came sooner than either of them could, or wanted to, imagine. They promise to call each other and write as often as they could. And they did just that for a while, but then the letters and phone calls draw further and further apart. Then one day, Steven gets a letter in the mail. It’s his own letter; mailed the week before. Written on its face, in faded red ink with a big cartoon hand pointing towards his address, are the words: return to sender—no forwarding address.
Life goes on but Steven thinks about his friend often. He tries writing a few more times but always with the same results. As time wore on and the Internet became the chosen tool for correspondence, he, from time to time, would do a web search for his long lost friend. No luck then either.
When the social media boom arrived—still no Eduardo. It wasn’t that he dwelt on his lost friend day in and day out—it’s just that from time to time, those memories of Junior High School boil up within him and to satisfy his curiosity—that need to know, he’d try and do a little research in an attempt to find his friend. For all he knows, Eduardo might have been dead all these years. However, until Steven has confirmation of that fact, he’ll always feel compelled to search.
The Gravedigger - Chapter One
What follows is from my work-in-progress novel - it is a first draft so any editing or content suggestions are greatly appreciated:
Steven Banks knew he needed a new tire. He’d been telling himself for more than a month the tire was going to blow at any time. However, as it happens in life, there always seems to be that one thing that takes precedence at the time and he continually puts off what needs to be done until, well, until it’s pushed to its breaking point.
Breaking point? More like exploding point, and it did sound like an explosion. In fact, if he had still been driving through the deserts of Afghanistan, he would have assumed that his vehicle had just run over an improvised explosive device. But he’s not in Afghanistan—and hasn’t been for more than four years—he’s in a National Forest 20 miles south of Roseland, Texas on a one-lane blacktop county road that cuts back and forth through the trees with no rhyme or reason.
Of course, he knew the tire was in desperate need of replacement—but since there were no internal threads showing, he thought he could squeeze a few more miles out of it.
It had to be the weight of the trailer, he thinks, pulling his cell phone from his pocket and checking the display...
...and, of course—there’s no cellular service out here in the woods.
He scans the road ahead for a place to pull over. If he stops where he is, he’ll block any traffic that might happen to pass by. The steering wheel pulls to the right and he struggles against it to keep the truck from veering into the ditch.
At least it’s a beautiful day. He enjoys his job and really doesn’t mind any weather condition, but digging a grave and changing a tire in the rain in the same day would have been too much. Oh, he’d do it, but he wouldn’t like it.
A soft thump, thump, thump comes from the right side of the vehicle now as the tire shreds apart beneath the weight of the pickup and the heavy load of the trailer.
Finally, he spots a private access road about a hundred yards ahead of him on the left. “Thank God,” he says as he draws nearer. It looks like it’s barely used. Tall weeds and grass have taken over and the parallel dirt tracks are barely discernible from the rugged surroundings. There’s a locked gate blocking entrance to the field beyond, but he’s certain there’s enough room between the road and the gate for both the truck and the trailer. And if not, maybe the trailer won’t stick out too far.
He can hear the tire rim scraping the road now. The rubber must be almost entirely gone. Another doubtful thought creeps up on him—what if the spare is bad too? He can’t remember the last time he checked the spare tire. Can’t even remember if he ever has checked the spare.
As he approaches the access road, he wrenches tightly to the wheel and strains to turn the truck into the drive. The size of the drive isn’t as wide as he’d like it to be under the circumstances, but he’ll just have to make due—and maybe he won’t put the truck in the ditch.
The wheel fights against him—he pulls it to the left, but it wants to cut to the right as if it has a mind of its own. Physically, he’s no slouch, but he really has to fight to keep the truck pointed in the right direction. Finally, he brings the nose of the truck right up the metal gate and throws the transmission into park. Now for the decisive moment—he slides out of the driver’s seat to check the spare.
As he steps to the ground, his weight comes down painfully on his right hip. He massages the old injury through his jeans and then limps to the rear of the truck where he sits on the ground by the back bumper and swings his head underneath.
“Well, this just gets better and better,” he says.
There is no spare tire.
“You’ve certainly gotten yourself up the creek without a paddle didn’t you?”
Up the creek without a paddle was a phrase that his dad had always used and despite the situation, he smiles at the pleasing memory.
Pushing himself up to his feet, he ducks back into the cab and checks the mileage. His contract location is Backer Cemetery and if his directions are correct, based on the mileage, the cemetery is less than a mile further on down the county road. He grabs the keys from the ignition, snatches the plastic cooler from the far side of the bench seat, and fishes another set of keys from the side pocket of the driver’s door. Under the cooler is a plastic folder with the cemetery information he needs for the grave—such as the name of the deceased and the plot location within the cemetery. Heaven forbid he digs a hole in the wrong spot.
Steve shuffles to the back of the trailer and drops the gate. Now that he’s out of the pickup and moving around a bit, the hip is beginning to loosen up. He unfolds the portable ramps and locks them in place. Now he can drive the Backhoe off. He eyes the metal tracks that drive the heavy machine and then glanced down at the soft, black asphalt county road. He has a feeling that he’s about to leave some scars on the soft road surface.
He fires up the engine and backs off the trailer. He checks the blacktop surface and is pleased that the metal tracks are not breaking the surface of the road—all its doing is leaving narrow, chalky indentation. He unlocks the ramps and throws them back into the trailer, climbs back into the bucket seat of the Backhoe, and takes off toward the cemetery.
A half-hour later, he pulls onto the dirt track that leads to Baker Cemetery. Obscured by a heavy layer of trees and underbrush, the cemetery sits a hundred yards off the road. With the exception of the bright green sign announcing its existence, most people would never know that it exists.
Unlike the county road, the path leading to the cemetery isn’t paved—but covered with tightly packed crushed white rock. It’s a wide track and easily accommodates the large backhoe. Freshly mowed lanes allow for sufficient parking on either side while still leaving the main road open for traffic.
He rounds a slight bend and there to his right lies the small cemetery. It’s not the largest cemetery he’s ever seen—but it’s not the smallest either. The clearing is about half the size of a football field. The white rock road bisects the clearing from the east to west and almost cuts it in half. The tombstones stand haphazardly about to the north side of the track, leaving the southern clearing open for future expansion.
He checks his watch even though he’s afraid to know the time of day. He left town late that morning, and now this mishap with the tire has left him worried that he’ll still be digging the grave when the funeral attendees arrived. The viewing ceremony in town starts at one o’clock and the graveside services start two hours later. He breathes a sigh of relief. It’s not quite noon. He still has plenty of time; he’ll have to start digging now though, and forgo eating lunch till later.
To Steve’s left, nestled against the south fence, is a small tool shed. He parks the backhoe next to it, retrieves the smaller set of keys from his pocket, and unlocks the padlock securing the door. On a shelf to the right is a small plastic binder. Inside are laminated sheets of paper with information and areal photographs of Baker Cemetery. He thumbs through and finds the pages concerning empty plots and the names of the individuals who have purchased them. He finds the one he’s looking for, removes the page from the binder, grabs a handful of marking flags, and heads over toward the tombstones to find the plot he needs.
The cemetery is small and it doesn’t take him long to find the plot and set the flags into the ground, marking a rectangular area where he’ll use the backhoe to dig the grave. He checks his watch again then rushes to the backhoe, fires it up, and drives it over to plot.
He’s ready to dig.
* * *
The road through Baker Cemetery does not extend all the way to the extreme western edge of the clearing. Instead, it ends in a large circle about twenty yards before the tree line. However, just beyond the edge of the white rock road, at the western edge of the clearing, is an opening in the trees and underbrush. The opening extends into the trees and underbrush and cuts immediately to the right around a hundred-year-old oak tree, then swings back to the left and heads almost due west. A casual observer would never know it’s there.
The trail, barely wide enough to accommodate a mid-sized pickup truck, meanders through the trees, up and down hills, and passes through three shallow creek beds before ending in a large clearing, a shallow valley that easily measures a hundred square acres. In the center of the clearing sits a large estate surrounded by ten-foot high concrete walls. A well-worn, manicured dirt track, devoid of grass, surrounds the compound. It’s unused during the day; however, a two-man, heavily armed patrol walks that path every night from dusk to dawn.
To the south of the house lay a long dirt landing strip. Like the path around the complex, the landing strip is manicured, has no trace of weed nor grass, and any stones or rocks have been removed, leaving a perfectly level strip of dirt.
The buzz of a twin-engine prop echoes across the valley. Suddenly, the plane appears over the tops of the pine trees and descends rapidly to the edge of the dirt runway. There is no hint of wind and the plane glides steadily to the packed strip where it makes a perfect landing - first the two back wheels in unison, then the front. Puffs of dust stir from the wind generated by the propellers and two vertical cyclones twist outward.
A gate in the southern wall of the compound creaks open and a lone figure steps out onto a dirt path that leads to the landing strip. He watches the plane land and come to a stop near the end of the path. By the time the engines shut down, the man is across the open area and standing by the rear door of the plane, waiting for it to open from within.
A section of the plane folds outward. Powered by hydraulic pistons the combination door and stairs slowly lowers to the ground. Two men exit the plane. Despite the heat, both are dressed in black suits with sweat-stained white dress shirts. Each of them holds a semi-automatic sub-machine gun close to their chests. Behind them, another figure appears at the top of the stairs. This man is dressed in blue jeans, a striped pale blue-collared golf shirt, and a black hood over his head. His feet are bare.
Pushed from behind, the hooded man tumbles down the stairs and lands in a dusty heap at the feet of the man from the compound. A fourth man, dressed in a charcoal gray business suit and is as wide as he is tall, appears in the doorway of the plane. He clenches a large, unlit cigar tightly between his teeth. Dark brown drool leaks from his mouth, leaving tiny brown stains down the sides of his chin. As if by magic, a handkerchief appears in his thick fingers and he wipes the thick, stringy saliva away.
He stands in the doorway and briefly scans his surroundings. With a voice as loud as he is fat, he says, “Hombre, no me gusta de Texas!”
The man from the compound laughs. “Well maybe you’d like it better down in Mexico?”
The fat man turns sideways, wedges his bulk through the door, and heavily descends the staircase. Switching to English but with a heavy Spanish accent, he says, “No. I hate Mexico even more.” By the time he reaches the ground, sweat covers his forehead and he is gasping for breath. When he reaches the ground, he kicks the hooded man in the side and he rolls away toward the two men with the sub-machine guns. They reach down, grab him by the armpits, and haul him to his feet.
The fat man waddles over to the man from the compound and they embrace, clapping each other on the back. “Juan-Pablo! It’s good to see you again, my brother.”
Juan grimaces. He despises the fat man. He hates it even more when the slob refers to him as his brother. The only comparison between the two of them is their heritage and that’s where Juan draws the line. He only sucks up to the fat man because of the fat man’s rank in the organization. He smiles slyly as thoughts of taking the fat man’s place fill his head. At the rate the man is expanding his waist line, Juan figures that time will come sooner rather than later.
Turning serious, the fat man wraps his fingers around his cigar, removes the soggy mass from his mouth, and uses it to gesture toward the man in the black hood. “Are we ready to deal with this guindon?”
Juan nods and they begin walking toward the compound. “Every thing’s set. The grave is being dug this morning.”
“Good,” says the fat man. “I’m ready to get this over with and get back north where the weather doesn’t melt my skin.”
“The Jeeps are ready to go. We can head to the cemetery as soon as you’re ready.”
The fat man laughs and sticks the cigar back into his mouth. His bulbous tongue shifts it from one corner of his mouth to the other. Juan catches a glimpse of the fat man’s yellow teeth and almost throws up in his mouth. He asks, “Do you think I’m going with you?” His head swivels side to side on a near-nonexistent neck. “Juan, Juan, Juan. This show is all yours today.” He nods toward the big house. “I’m going to fix me a cold glass of Jack and park this lard in the coolest room in the house.”
Juan pulls at the collar of his shirt. “I’m sorry sir, but the only alcohol we have is tequila.”
The fat man stops. All humor leaves his eyes and his voice drops an octave. “Well that’s something I think you need to remedy. Pronto!”
“I’ll send one of my men to town immediately.”
The fat man smiles again, but his lips, still wrapped around the cigar, make it look more like an evil grimace than anything resembling a good humored disposition. He slaps Juan on the shoulder again. “Now that’s a good subordinado.”
* * *
Steve finishes digging the grave with plenty of time to spare. He re-parks the backhoe by the shed, and then retrieves a roll of green Astroturf from the shed. He tucks it under one arm and hauls it across to the grave. He neatly covers the mound of dirt; taking care to lay it as smooth as possible and reduce the number of wrinkles and buckles in the thick material. He never really understood why funeral homes use the fake grass to disguise the huge mound of dirt lying next to an open grave. There’s probably some statistic written down somewhere that states people would rather not have a visualization of the earth that will soon bury their loved ones.
Returning to the shed, he removes several polished steel tubes and corner fittings. The tubes interlock to form a sturdy, standing frame about six inches above and around the open grave. Three woven fabric straps connect the longest sections of pipe and run across the width of the grave. He stretches them tight between the pipes and tests the tension. They should be tight enough to hold the casket. He then attaches the other end of the straps to a pulley system—used to lower the casket into the ground. Once the casket is in the ground, the ends of the straps are disconnected from the pipes and pulled out of the grave. He would usually use the wench on his truck to pull the straps out but since his truck in incapacitated a half-mile down the road, he’ll have to use the backhoe.
His stomach growls.
He retrieves his cooler and scans the cemetery for a place to sit and eat—somewhere shady and out of the sun. The north-west end of the cemetery has several large oak trees scattered about among the tombstones. One of the oaks has to be well over a hundred years old—one of the largest trees he’s ever seen. Clumps of stringy, olive-colored moss hang from the tree, some so long they nearly touch the ground. The shade beneath it looks inviting.
Under the circumstances, the old oak tree looks like his best bet for some relief from the sun—which is almost directly overhead. He sits beneath the oaks massive branches, his back to a cool marble tombstone, then opens his cooler and settles in to wait for the graveside service to begin. He intends to stay hidden and out of the way until the service is over, and then try to bum a ride back to town with one of the funeral home representatives. Then he can call a roadside service technician to come put a new tire on his truck. How to get back to his truck is something he’ll have to work out later. Maybe the roadside tech will be accommodating and give him a ride back from town.
He thought he had it all worked out, but the arrival of the two Jeep Grand Cherokees puts a huge kink in those plans.