Box of Bones

by Bates, Jeremy

  No, he didn’t find a coffin, did he? There was a skeleton in this one with me, which meant he dug this coffin up, tossed me in it, and reinterred it.

  I shouted again, this time in frustration and despair. It ended with a sound I despised, something inhuman, an apish grunt of fear.

  Because nobody was going to help me; nobody was going to find me. I was in a cemetery. I was in a bloody hole in the ground in a cemetery—

  You’re in a cemetery.

  So?

  You’re in a cemetery! And how many cemeteries are there in Tinglayan? One? Two at most?

  Holy moly! I knew where I was!

  I flicked the screen of my phone, waking it up.

  No missed calls.

  I called Ava’s number.

  It rang and rang and rang. Then she picked up. “This is Ava—”

  “Ava! I’m in—”

  “Please leave a message, and I’ll—”

  “Fuck!” I said, hanging up, wondering how much credit that ate up.

  Couldn’t have been much.

  I sent her a text message:

  Tell ur boss there’s a skeleton in the coffin with me. I think I’m in a cemetery. Tell him to get the police to check tingling cemetery for a fresh grave. Txt me back.

  I pressed Send, then re-read the message.

  “Shit!” I said, and sent a second message:

  Tinglayan’s cemetery. Not tingling. Txt me.

  I checked the time. It was 3:17 now. Seven minutes had slugged by since I’d hung up with Ava. How long did it take her to ring up her boss and tell her what was going on? Why was she still speaking with him? I told her I was running out of air. She knew time was of the essence.

  I was tempted to try calling her again, but I resisted. She would get my message when she hung up with her boss. She would ring or text to tell me what was going on. I had to be patient.

  Be patient. How many times do you tell yourself that in your life? When the old fogy in the car ahead of you is driving ten miles under the speed limit. When your internet goes out and the tech guy on the phone keeps putting you on hold. When the checkout line at the supermarket doesn’t seem to move. When the receptionist at the doctor’s office calls everyone’s name in the waiting room before yours.

  When you’re buried alive and waiting to hear what, if anything, is happening to rescue you.

  I navigated to my message inbox, tapped Candy’s last message, and replied:

  Toto attacked me at the bar! He kidnapped me! I’M IN A COFFIN. Call Toto. Make him tell you where I am!!! Please, Candy, this is very important.

  I pressed Send and waited. Candy slept with her phone on the night table beside her. She always responded to my messages promptly. She would call Toto, find out where I was, and call me back shortly.

  The phone rang, startling me. I answered it immediately without waiting for the incoming number to appear.

  “Candy?”

  “My name is Edward Sharpe.” The voice was calm, measured, making me think of my Uncle Steve from New Jersey, who always said Grace at the family Christmas gatherings. “I’m the Minister Counselor for Consular Affairs at the American Embassy here in the Philippines. Ava Roberts explained your situation to me. Now, just to make sure I have it correct, you say you’re in a coffin—”

  “I say?” I snapped. “I am. It’s wood. It’s a wood fucking coffin. Okay? And I need you to do something to help me. I’m an American citizen, and I need help.”

  “And we’re going to do everything we can to help you, Jim. You’re in the Kalinga province?”

  “In a town called Tinglayan. I’m in a cemetery. I think. There’s a skeleton in the coffin with me, so I think—I think Toto, he dug up a coffin, put me in it, and buried it again.”

  “Okay, Jim. A cemetery—that’s good. That’s really good. That means we have a location. What is Toto’s last name?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know. He’s my girlfriend’s husband—”

  “Her husband?”

  “They couldn’t get divorced!” I said. “You can’t get divorced in this fucking country! Does that matter? Does her civil status really fucking matter? I need you to send help. I need you to send someone to come help me.”

  “Okay, Jim, just calm down—”

  “Calm down? You’re sitting at home, in your house. I’m in a box. A pitch-black box. I’m going to die if you don’t send someone right now.”

  “There’s no one we have to send, per se, Jim.”

  Time seemed to stop. “What are you talking about?”

  “We’re in Manila. You’re in Luzon.”

  “What are you saying? You’re not going to send anyone?”

  “We’re getting in touch with the local police up there. We’ll send them to Tinglayan’s cemetery immediately.”

  “And what if they don’t find me? I mean, what if that’s not where I am? That’s just a guess. What if they don’t find me? What’s going to happen?”

  “We’re going to do everything we can to help you, Jim, believe me—”

  “You’re not answering my question!” I shouted. I held the phone away from my head, wanting to bash it against something. I pressed it back to my ear. “What if the police don’t find me? What if they decide to sit around for a coffee before getting off their fucking asses? You know how things work here! What’s going to happen? What are you going to do to find me?”

  Silence.

  I ran my hand over my face, forced the panic back down. “Are you there?”

  “I’m here,” Edward Sharpe said.

  “I’m sorry. I—I’m just a bit freaked out—” My voice cracked. “I’m going to die here. Jesus, I’m going to die—”

  “You’re not going to die, Jim. We’re going to get you out of there. Do you have internet access on your phone?”

  I wiped my nose with the back of my hand. “No,” I said. “It’s prepaid.”

  “So no GPS?”

  “I can make calls, and I can send messages. That’s it. Can’t you guys, can’t you trace my signal or something?”

  “We’ll look into that. Ava’s already calling some people. I have to call some people now too. I just wanted to touch base with you first. Let you know we’re going to get you out of there.”

  “You need to find Toto. He’s the only one who knows where I am for sure.”

  “The police are likely questioning your girlfriend about him as we speak. Now what you need to do, I know this is easier said than done, but you need to sit tight.”

  “Just get me out of here,” I said in not much more than a whisper. “Please. Get me out of this box. I want to go home. I just want to go home.”

  “I know, Jim. I know.”

  “There’s not much air in here.”

  “I’ll be in touch.”

  He hung up.

  ▬

  Darkness. The deepest dark I’d ever experienced. I held my hand in front of my face but couldn’t see it. I couldn’t see anything. I thought of my conversation with Edward Sharpe. He pretty much told me the State Department couldn’t do squat to help me. I should have expected as much. An Apache helicopter and barnstorming soldiers to the rescue were the stuff of Hollywood screenplays, not real life. Besides, the last American military bases in the Philippines shuttered decades ago.

  So it seemed it was up to the national police force to save my hide. This did not instill confidence within me. Open any newspaper here on any given day and you’ll find a story about corrupt and incompetent police officers, many of whom seem to believe planting evidence, gunning down cellphone snatchers, and protecting crooked colleagues are all in the name of a day’s work. Not to mention the cops that partake in hold-ups, carjackings, bank robberies, and murders. Just the other week I read that several cops abducted a foreigner under the pretense of making an arrest. The Chinese national and executive with HSCB was taken to a police station for show before being carted off to a private residence, where he was held for ransom, or “bail.” An
d the kicker? When the scheme came to light, the cops were charged with “unlawful detention,” not kidnapping, making it sound as though it was one big misunderstanding.

  The institution was broken from the top down, so much so average Filipinos didn’t bother reporting most crimes, knowing the chances of them being solved were slim to none.

  Trying not to dwell on this, I began exploring the wood planks with my hands, my fingers probing the tight cracks between them. Yet the effort was unenthused and resigned to failure. Because even if I found a handhold, and was able to tug a plank loose, I would have to deal with six feet of soil, which likely weighed several tons. It would gush into the coffin like wet cement. The pressure would crack my ribs and collapse my lungs and kill me.

  Harry Houdini had nearly suffered this same fate in his disastrous buried-alive stunt, and if the greatest escape artist of all time couldn’t claw himself free of a grave, what chance did I have?

  “Let me out!” I shouted. “Please! Let me the FUCK out!”

  ▬

  A musical beep pulled me out of the soupy darkness that had, amazingly, lulled me into a light doze. I fumbled for the iPhone.

  A text message from Candy:

  You have phone?

  I reread her words, frowning. What kind of message was that? I go missing. I tell her I’m buried in a coffin. And she only wonders how I have a phone? What reason did she have to suspect I wouldn’t have a phone?

  I typed back:

  Where are you? Who are you with?

  No reply. I stared at the screen, willing for a message to appear. My relief at hearing from her was quickly morphing into rage. How hard was it to send a simple message?

  I typed:

  Have you spoken to police??? Toto???

  Her reply came a few moments later, one word:

  No.

  No? I thought. What was going on? Was Toto with her right now? Was he telling her what to write?

  I considered sending a cryptic message, similar to what the police might send to a hostage in the movies when they know the kidnapper is listening in on the phone conversation. Yet I couldn’t think of what to say. My mind was fried, and I was in no condition to play Bruce Willis. I took her words at face value and replied:

  This is life or death, Candy. I need you to talk to Toto and find out where he buried me.

  I waited for a reply, each second feeling longer than the last. I could almost taste the air in the coffin thinning.

  “Come on, Candy,” I said. “Come on come on come on come on. COME ON COME ON COME ON COME ON—”

  Beep.

  This isn’t Candy.

  My breath caught in my throat; my chest tightened. Toto? Who else? But why did he have Candy’s phone? Had he done something to her?

  I typed:

  Where’s Candy?

  Why you care?

  I wanted to say “because she’s my girlfriend, you piece of shit,” but I wasn’t about to piss him off.

  I typed:

  Is she okay?

  She doesn’t like you.

  Let me out of here. We can talk.

  You stop seeing her?

  Relief like nothing I’d ever felt coursed through me. Was it going to be this easy? Did I just have to tell him Candy and I were through? Would he then dig me up? I wanted to believe this was true, but could he be so naïve? He must know I would say anything to be free of the coffin, agree to anything. And once free, what would stop me from reneging on my word?

  Regardless, I typed:

  Yes. I’ll stop. I promise.Remembering how religious Filipinos are, I added:I swear to God, Toto. Let me out, and I swear to God Candy and I are finished.

  Liar

  I cursed, then typed:

  The police know you did this, Toto. They’re looking for you now. But if you get me out of the coffin, I promise I won’t press charges.

  No reply.

  Was he thinking about my offer?

  Was he not interested?

  One minute…

  Two…

  I couldn’t stand the not knowing any longer.

  You don’t have to dig me out. Just tell me where I am. Okay?

  Did you find surprise?

  I frowned. Surprise? I tilted the phone away from me, using the screen to illuminate the darkness. I angled it back and forth but still couldn’t see well. I dug my Zippo from my pocket, sparked the flint, and held the lighter before me. Squinting, I could make out something at the foot of the coffin, in the corner, a dark shape—

  I gasped.

  ▬

  I’d never seen a spider so big before in my life. It looked like a giant crab. The legspan might have been six or seven inches, the abdomen the size of a plum. It was hard to tell in the poor light, but it was covered with either light brown or gray fur.

  I wasn’t particularly afraid of spiders, but the idea of sharing a coffin with one—especially one so big—alarmed and nauseated me.

  I think the spider was a Huntsman. I’d seen one like it once before. I was staying the night at Candy’s, I was in her bed, trying to fall asleep (street noise in her barangay didn’t die down until three or four in the morning), when I spotted a large spider scurrying across the bedroom wall toward the bathroom. Actually, racing was more like it; the thing was fast. I woke Candy. She seemed nonplussed, telling me not to worry; spiders were more scared of you than you were of them. Nevertheless, I’d seen too many horror movies and couldn’t help but imagine it squatting over my mouth as I slept, shooting an egg or something down my throat. So we got up and trapped it in the bathroom. I tossed a roll of duct tape at it, missing, and scaring it behind the toilet. Candy got a can of Baygon, the Filipino equivalent of Raid, the insect equivalent of sulphuric acid, and sprayed the little monster. It curled up into itself and tripped over its eight uncooperative legs until it died.

  The spider coiled in the corner right now must have been three times the size of the one in Candy’s place. It remained motionless, watching me with infinite patience. It had no doubt been watching me the entire time I’d been in the coffin.

  Waiting for an opportunity to crawl up my pant leg?

  To bite me?

  To shoot an egg down my throat?

  I had to kill it.

  Holding the Zippo as high as I could, I shifted my body toward the far end of the coffin. This proved more difficult than it sounded as my left elbow bore the brunt of my weight, while my head and right shoulder kept bumping the lid of the coffin. When I’d maneuvered enough so my foot could squash the spider against the end board, I extended the lighter to see if the spider had moved anywhere. It hadn’t. It remained exactly where it had been, watching me, waiting.

  I bent my right knee, moving my foot into striking distance.

  The spider tensed.

  I drove the sole of my Converse toward it.

  It moved

  Fast.

  My foot slammed wood; I hadn’t even been close.

  “Shit!” I said, sweeping the lighter in front of me to see where the thing had gone.

  On the wall, by the opposite corner. I raised my left foot. It scrambled onto the ceiling—then came straight for me.

  An embarrassing squeal escaped my throat. I swatted at the charging spider. The back of my hand smacked it’s plump, hairy body, knocking it from the ceiling onto my crotch. Its weight was grotesquely substantial.

  I batted it off me, between my knees. It scrambled up the side of the coffin.

  My breath came in rapid, ragged bursts. I was crawly almost everywhere: thighs, balls, spine, arms, nipples, nape of neck, scape, forehead. My hand holding the Zippo trembled, causing the small flame to whip from side to side, the shadows to elongate and jump.

  I didn’t take my eyes off the spider.

  A bead of sweat dripped into my eye. Ignoring the salty sting, I went about removing my left Converse as slowly and quietly as I could. I set the Zippo next to me, the flame still burning.

  The spider shuffled a few in
ches toward the lid, then went still again.

  I transferred the shoe to my right hand.

  The spider remained still. Its eight compound eyes stared at me.

  What the hell was it thinking?

  Did it know it was trapped? Did it fear me? Did it understand it was going to die?

  I should have left the damn thing alone. It wouldn’t have hurt me. I would only have had to put up with it for another hour or two, because by then I would either be rescued, or dead.

  Maybe I should just let it be, let it go back to its corner?

  So it can feast on your flesh if you do die? Crawl in your mouth to lay eggs? Because it doesn’t need as much air as you do. It will last longer than you in here—

  I swung the shoe.

  The spider started to move, but this time I was faster and clipped its body, dropping it to the coffin floor. It was half squashed and turning in a wretched circle to face me.

  I brought the shoe down on top of it repeatedly until it was a mushy pile of guts and fur and twitching legs.

  ▬

  In the sudden calm, everything seemed very loud, my pulse, my breathing, my body brushing the wood of the coffin as I adjusted myself. I could almost hear the adrenaline pulsing behind my temples. I picked up the iPhone, but only stared at the screen. I wanted to call Candy’s number, to speak to Toto, yet what was the point? He likely wouldn’t answer, and if he did, he wouldn’t call me back to help me save credit. I’d blow whatever I had left playing into his hands, giving him the satisfaction of hearing me beg. Because he was not interested in negotiating. He’d stuck a spider in here with me. There was no logic to that. He was operating on raw emotion. He wanted revenge, plain and simple.