Confined Spaces by F. R. Jameson

Author:F. R. Jameson [Jameson, F. R.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2017-09-14T22:00:00+00:00

Walkie-Talkie

The walkie-talkie was a particularly sick touch, Scott thought.

Kirk was a sadist, self-confessed and proud. So of course it was his notion to put the walkie-talkie in the box with Chekov when they buried him. It meant they could talk to him, and laugh at him as they listened to his pathetic cries for help.

From the first shovelful of dirt thudding on top of the box, those cries had crackled from the appliance. It was like a life-line to the still breathing world, so obviously the sad loser was going to keep the button down. He’d try to find some compassion in them with his whining tears. No such luck, though. Kirk told Scott it was like sweet, terror-filled, music. He even did a little jig to it in the moonlight.

“Please, God, help me!” Chekov pleaded. “No! Don’t do this to me, I beg you! Please! Listen to me, guys, we can make a deal! I can do something for you! You know I can! You know I fucking can! Think of my uncle, think of who he is! Please, God, help me!”

But now they’d nearly got the hole filled in, the screams seemed to have ceased. The night air was relentlessly warm, and their digging had been hot work. Both men had divested themselves of their shirts. The sweat on their backs testifying to the effort they’d expended. Proving that if they had a task they were committed to, they weren’t the lazy good-for-nothings some said they were. They could get stuff done.

There was a lot of dirt between them and Chekov now, but if the pair held the walkie-talkie right next to their ears, they could still hear him – frightened little gasps, the occasional whimper – but the desperate screaming and begging and calling out and crying for mercy had stopped.

“Ha! Maybe the idiot is trying to preserve his breath,” Scott suggested.

“Like that will do him any fucking good,” Kirk replied with a snigger.

They were nearly done and that was a damned excellent thing as it was getting close to dawn. It wouldn’t do for them to be found on crazy old Yaakov’s farm in daylight. Particularly when they’d just buried his nephew alive.

Scott had never met crazy old Yaakov himself, but he’d heard more than enough wild stories about him. A meth dealer who used too much of his own product and rode around his farm on a tractor shooting at whatever took his fancy with a fearsome shotgun.

Not then the kind of character you wanted to startle early one morning.

It was a ballsy move for them to put the old man’s nephew in the ground on his own property, but that’s the way Kirk said it should be. It sent a message, he explained. Even though the crazy old bastard might not find the box for years (if ever), he’d know his nephew was missing. He’d know that something bad had happened to him. So they could laugh into their sleeves at him for the foreseeable.

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