Dark Forces

by McCauley, Kirby

  He looked down at the orange cast of his body and shivered again. In the light of the flame, he could see all around himself.

  He wanted to scream at what he saw.

  He was in a casket.

  He dropped the lighter and the flame striped the air with a yellow tracer before going out. He was in total darkness, once more. He could see nothing. All he heard was his terrified breathing as it lurched forward, jumping from his throat.

  How long had he been here? Minutes? Hours?

  Days?

  His hopes lunged at the possibility of a nightmare, that he was only dreaming, his sleeping mind caught in some kind of twisted vision. But he knew it wasn’t so. He knew, horribly enough, exactly what had happened.

  They had put him in the one place he was terrified of. The one place he had made the fatal mistake of speaking about to them. They couldn’t have selected a better torture. Not if they’d thought about it for a hundred years.

  God, did they loathe him that much? To do this to him?

  He started shaking helplessly, then caught himself. He wouldn’t let them do it. Take his life and his business all at once? No, goddamn them, no!

  He searched hurriedly for the lighter. That was their mistake, he thought. Stupid bastards. They’d probably thought it was a final, fitting irony: A gold-engraved thank you for making the corporation what it was. On the lighter were the words: To Charlie/Where there’s a Will…

  “Right,” he muttered. He’d beat the lousy sons of bitches. They weren’t going to murder him and steal the business he owned and built. There was a will.

  His.

  He closed his fingers around the lighter and, holding it with a white-knuckled fist, lifted it above the heaving of his chest. The wheel ground against the flint as he spun it back with his thumb. The flame caught and he quieted his breathing as he surveyed what space he had in the coffin.

  Only inches on all four sides.

  How much air could there be in so small a space, he wondered? He clicked off the lighter. Don’t burn it up, he told himself. Work in the dark.

  Immediately, his hands shot up and he tried to push the lid up. He pressed as hard as he could, his forearms straining. The lid remained fixed. He closed both hands into tightly balled fists and pounded them against the lid until he was coated with perspiration, his hair moist.

  He reached down to his left-trouser pocket and pulled out a chain with two keys attached. They had placed those with him, too. Stupid bastards. Did they really think he’d be so terrified he couldn’t think? Another amusing joke on their part. A way to lock up his life completely. He wouldn’t need the keys to his car and to the office again so why not put them in the casket with him?

  Wrong, he thought. He would use them again.

  Bringing the keys above his face, he began to pick at the lining with the sharp edge of one key. He tore through the threads and began to rip apart the lining. He pulled at it with his fingers until it popped free from its fastenings. Working quickly, he pulled at the downy stuffing, tugging it free and placing it at his sides. He tried not to breathe too hard. The air had to be preserved.

  He flicked on the lighter and looking at the cleared area, above, knocked against it with the knuckles of his free hand. He sighed with relief. It was oak not metal. Another mistake on their part. He smiled with contempt. It was easy to see why he had always been so far ahead of them.

  “Stupid bastards,” he muttered, as he stared at the thick wood. Gripping the keys together firmly, he began to dig their serrated edges against the oak. The flame of the lighter shook as he watched small pieces of the lid being chewed off by the gouging of the keys. Fragment after fragment fell. The lighter kept going out and he had to spin the flint over and over, repeating each move, until his hands felt numb. Fearing that he would use up the air, he turned the lighter off again, and continued to chisel at the wood, splinters of it falling on his neck and chin.

  His arm began to ache.

  He was losing strength. Wood no longer coming off as steadily. He laid the keys on his chest and flicked on the lighter again. He could see only a tattered path of wood where he had dug but it was only inches long. It’s not enough, he thought. It’s not enough.

  He slumped and took a deep breath, stopping halfway through. The air was thinning. He reached up and pounded against the lid.

  “Open this thing, goddammit,” he shouted, the veins in his neck rising beneath the skin. “Open this thing and let me out!”

  I’ll die if I don’t do something more, he thought.

  They’ll win.

  His face began to tighten. He had never given up before. Never. And they weren’t going to win. There was no way to stop him once he made up his mind.

  He’d show those bastards what willpower was.

  Quickly, he took the lighter in his right hand and turned the wheel several times. The flame rose like a streamer, fluttering back and forth before his eyes. Steadying his left arm with his right, he held the flame to the casket wood and began to scorch the ripped grain.

  He breathed in short, shallow breaths, smelling the butane and wood odor as it filled the casket. The lid started to speckle with tiny sparks as he ran the flame along the gouge. He held it to one spot for several moments then slid it to another spot. The wood made faint crackling sounds.

  Suddenly, a flame formed on the surface of the wood. He coughed as the burning oak began to produce grey pulpy smoke. The air in the casket continued to thin and he felt his lungs working harder. What air was available tasted like gummy smoke, as if he were lying in a horizontal smokestack. He felt as though he might faint and his body began to lose feeling.

  Desperately, he struggled to remove his shirt, ripping several of the buttons off. He tore away part of the shirt and wrapped it around his right hand and wrist. A section of the lid was beginning to char and had become brittle. He slammed his swathed fist and forearm against the smoking wood and it crumbled down on him, glowing embers falling on his face and neck. His arms scrambled frantically to slap them out. Several burned his chest and palms and he cried out in pain.

  Now a portion of the lid had become a glowing skeleton of wood, the heat radiating downward at his face. He squirmed away from it, turning his head to avoid the falling pieces of wood. The casket was filled with smoke and he could breathe only the choking, burning smell of it. He coughed his throat hot and raw. Fine-powder ash filled his mouth and nose as he pounded at the lid with his wrapped fist. Come on, he thought. Come on.

  “Come on!” he screamed.

  The section of lid gave suddenly and fell around him. He slapped at his face, neck and chest but the hot particles sizzled on his skin and he had to bear the pain as he tried to smother them.

  The embers began to darken, one by one and now he smelled something new and strange. He searched for the lighter at his side, found it, and flicked it on.

  He shuddered at what he saw.

  Moist, root laden soil packed firmly overhead.

  Reaching up, he ran his fingers across it. In the flickering light, he saw burrowing insects and the whiteness of earthworms, dangling inches from his face. He drew down as far as he could, pulling his face from their wriggling movements.

  Unexpectedly, one of the larvae pulled free and dropped. It fell to his face and its jelly-like casing stuck to his upper lip. His mind erupted with revulsion and he thrust both hands upward, digging at the soil. He shook his head wildly as the larvae were thrown off. He continued to dig, the dirt falling in on him. It poured into his nose and he could barely breathe. It stuck to his lips and slipped into his mouth. He closed his eyes tightly but could feel it clumping on the lids. He held his breath as he pistoned his hands upward and forward like a maniacal digging machine. He eased his body up, a little at a time, letting the dirt collect under him. His lungs were laboring, hungry for air. He didn’t dare open his eyes. His fingers became raw from digging, nails bent backward on several fingers, breaking off. He couldn’t even feel the pain or
the running blood but knew the dirt was being stained by its flow. The pain in his arms and lungs grew worse with each passing second until shearing agony filled his body. He continued to press himself upward, pulling his feet and knees closer to his chest. He began to wrestle himself into a kind of spasmed crouch, hands above his head, upper arms gathered around his face. He clawed fiercely at the dirt which gave way with each shoveling gouge of his fingers. Keep going, he told himself. Keep going. He refused to lose control. Refused to stop and die in the earth. He bit down hard, his teeth nearly breaking from the tension of his jaws. Keep going, he thought. Keep going! He pushed up harder and harder, dirt cascading over his body, gathering in his hair and on his shoulders. Filth surrounded him. His lungs felt ready to burst. It seemed like minutes since he’d taken a breath. He wanted to scream from his need for air but couldn’t. His fingernails began to sting and throb, exposed cuticles and nerves rubbing against the granules of dirt. His mouth opened in pain and was filled with dirt, covering his tongue and gathering in his throat. His gag reflex jumped and he began retching, vomit and dirt mixing as it exploded from his mouth. His head began to empty of life as he felt himself breathing in more dirt, dying of asphyxiation. The clogging dirt began to fill his air passages, the beat of his heart doubled. I’m losing! he thought in anguish.

  Suddenly, one finger thrust up through the crust of earth. Unthinkingly, he moved his hand like a trowel and drove it through to the surface. Now, his arms went crazy, pulling and punching at the dirt until an opening expanded. He kept thrashing at the opening, his entire system glutted with dirt. His chest felt as if it would tear down the middle.

  Then his arms were poking themselves out of the grave and within several seconds he had managed to pull his upper body from the ground. He kept pulling, hooking his shredded fingers into the earth and sliding his legs from the hole. They yanked out and he lay on the ground completely, trying to fill his lungs with gulps of air. But no air could get through the dirt which had collected in his windpipe and mouth. He writhed on the ground, turning on his back and side until he’d finally raised himself to a forward kneel and began hacking phlegm-covered mud from his air passages. Black saliva ran down his chin as he continued to throw up violently, dirt falling from his mouth to the ground. When most of it was out he began to gasp, as oxygen rushed into his body, cool air filling his body with life.

  I’ve won, he thought. I’ve beaten the bastards, beaten them! He began to laugh in victorious rage until his eyes pried open and he looked around, rubbing at his blood-covered lids. He heard the sound of traffic and blinding lights glared at him. They crisscrossed on his face, rushing at him from left and right. He winced, struck dumb by their glare, then realized where he was.

  The cemetery by the highway.

  Cars and trucks roared back and forth, tires humming. He breathed a sigh at being near life again; near movement and people. A grunting smile raised his lips.

  Looking to his right, he saw a gas-station sign high on a metal pole several hundred yards up the highway.

  Struggling to his feet, he ran.

  As he did, he made a plan. He would go to the station, wash up in the rest room, then borrow a dime and call for a limo from the company to come and get him. No. Better a cab. That way he could fool those sons of bitches. Catch them by surprise. They undoubtedly assumed he was long gone by now. Well, he had beat them. He knew it as he picked up the pace of his run. Nobody could stop you when you really wanted something, he told himself, glancing back in the direction of the grave he had just escaped.

  He ran into the station from the back and made his way to the bathroom. He didn’t want anyone to see his dirtied, bloodied state.

  There was a pay phone in the bathroom and he locked the door before plowing into his pocket for change. He found two pennies and a quarter and deposited the silver coin; they’d even provided him with money, he thought, the stupid bastards.

  He dialed his wife.

  She answered and screamed when he told her what had happened. She screamed and screamed. What a hideous joke, she said. Whoever was doing this was making a hideous joke. She hung up before he could stop her. He dropped the phone and turned to face the bathroom mirror.

  He couldn’t even scream. He could only stare in silence.

  Staring back at him was a face that was missing sections of flesh. Its skin was grey, and withered yellow bone showed through.

  Then he remembered what else his wife had said and began to weep. His shock began to turn to hopeless fatalism.

  It had been over seven months, she’d said.

  Seven months.

  He looked at himself in the mirror again, and realized there was nowhere he could go.

  And somehow all he could think about was the engraving on his lighter.

  Traps

  Gahan Wilson

  Lester adjusted his brand new cap with ROSA BROTHERS EXTERMINATORS stitched in bright scarlet on its front and stared gloomily down at the last of the traps and poisons he had set the week before. “It’s just like I told you it would be, Lester Bailey,” hissed Miss Dinwittie. “They’re too smart for you is what it is!”

  Lester winced away from Miss Dinwittie’s fierce, wrinkled frown and considered the trap the Rose Brothers Exterminators people had given him to lay on the floor of her basement.

  It was a very impressive machine. When you touched the bait it slapped shut sharp serrated jaws, which not only prevented your going elsewhere but insured your bleeding to death as you lingered. If you were a rat, that is. A man would probably only lose a finger.

  This time, in spite of the bait being removed, the trap remained unsprung. Impossibly, its shiny teeth continued to gape wide around the tiny platform which they were supposed to have infallibly guarded. Lester shook his large, rather square head, in mortification.

  It was not bad enough that the trap had been gulled. The bait, which had been carefully poisoned, was uneaten. It lay demurely five inches from the trap. Outside of one light toothmark, evidence of the gentlest and most tentative of tastes, it was spurned and virginal.

  “I ain’t never seen nothing like it, Miss Dinwittie,” admitted Lester with a sigh.

  “That’s quite obvious from the expression on your face,” she piped. “All this folderol you’ve put around hasn’t done a thing except stir them up!”

  She snorted and kicked at the trap with one high-button shoe. The mechanism described a small parabola, snapped ineffectually at the apogee, and fell with a tinny clatter.

  Lester was not surprised by this contemptuous action of Miss Dinwittie. Miss Dinwittie was customarily contemptuous for the simple reason that she felt she had every right to be. Her father had been a remarkably greedy man, and by the time he’d died had managed to pretty well own the small town he’d settled in, and Miss Dinwittie had not let go a foot of it. The children believed she was a witch.

  “They get brighter every day,” she snapped. “And now you’ve gone and got them really mad!”

  She looked around the gloom of the basement, moving her small, grey head in quick, darting movements.

  “Listen!”

  Lester stood beside her in the musty air and did as he was told. After a time he could make out nasty little noises all around. Shufflings and scratchings and tiny draggings. He peered at the ancient tubes and pipes running along the walls and snaking under the beams and flooring.

  “They’re just snickering at you, Lester Bailey,” said Miss Dinwittie.

  She sniffed and marched up the basement steps with Lester dutifully following, looking up at her thin, sexless behind. When they reached the kitchen she made him sit on one of the rickety chairs, which were arranged around the oilcloth-covered table, and poured him some bitter coffee. He drank it without complaint. He had no wish to further offend Miss Dinwittie.

  She prowled briefly around the room and then surprised him by suddenly sitting by his side and leaning closely toward him in a conspiratorial manner. She smelled dry and sour
.

  “They’ve got together!” she whispered.

  She clutched her bony hands on the shiny white oilcloth. Lester could hear the air rustling in the passages of her nose. She frowned and her eyes shone with a dark revelation.

  “They’ve got together,” she said again. “It used to be you could pick them off, one by one. It was each rat for himself. But now it’s not the same.”

  She leaned even closer to him. She actually poked a thin finger into his chest.

  “Now they’ve organized!”

  Lester studied her carefully. The people at Rose Brothers Exterminators had in no way prepared him for this sort of thing. Miss Dinwittie sat back and crossed her arms in a satisfied way. She smiled grimly, and nodded to herself.

  “Organized,” she said again, quietly.

  Lester fumbled uncertainly over the limited information he had at his disposal concerning the handling of the violently insane. There was not much, but he did recall it was very important to humor them. You’ve got to humor them or they’ll go for the ax or the bread knife.

  “They’re like an army,” said Miss Dinwittie, leaning forward again, too self-absorbed to notice Lester’s reflex leaning away. “I believe they have officers and everything. I know they’ve got scouts!”

  She looked at him expectantly. Lester’s reaction, a blank, wide-eyed look, irritated her.

  “Well?” she snapped. “Aren’t you going to ask me how I know?”

  “About what, Miss Dinwittie?”

  “Ask me how I know they’ve got scouts, you silly boob!”

  “How do you come to know that, Miss Dinwittie?”

  She stood and, beckoning Lester to follow, crossed the cold linoleum floor. When he reached her side at a particularly dark corner of the kitchen, she pointed to the base of the wall. Lester squinted. He believed he could make out something on the molding. He squatted down to have a better look at it. Scrawled clumsily on the cracked paint with what seemed to be a grease pencil was a tiny arrow and a cross and a squiggle that looked like it came from a miniature alphabet.