Shallow Grave

By J. L. Young

My eyes open to darkness. ‘What are those sounds? They’re familiar, yet not. Why is it so hard to breathe? Why is it so hard to move?’ Somehow, I found the strength to pull my arms up to my chest and pushed. After some tremendous effort, chunks of something fell off my back. When the light found my eyes, I realized, ‘I’m in a shallow grave. But, I’m not dead.’

I rolled out and onto my back. Breathing was still an arduous endeavor. Above me, a post. I shifted to gain a better look. The post was dressed in clothes and stuffed with straw. Atop, a rotting pumpkin head, smushed under its weight.

The Sun was going down in a blaze of oranges and red. The light on a barn caught my eye. I pulled myself to my feet, only to fall back to the hard, cracked soil. I looked down to find my ankles bound with thick rope. To my amazement, the knot was easy to untie.

Once I was free of the binding, I climbed to my feet. At that moment, my only desire was to rest against the post. The exhaustion never waned. I pushed myself free of it and staggered toward the light. Each step felt like a journey.

The light illuminated a parking area flanked by a house, the barn, a grain silo, and several large implements. I reached the door to the house. I knocked politely as I could and stepped back from the door. A second or two later, the porch light came on and the door opened. “Yes,” a young man answered.

“Help!” I struggled to push the word from my mouth.

A woman came to the door as I collapsed. “What is it, Randall?”

He took to my side. “Fern, call an ambulance. She can’t breathe!”

Randall laid me down on the ground, shined a flashlight in my mouth, and cleared my throat of dry earth. “What the hell?” he asked.

Fern came back to the door. “They’re on their way.”

An eternity passed before I saw the lights of the Emergency Room. As the ceiling lights moved dizzyingly as they wheeled me in, one of the EMTs notified a nurse of my situation. “No pulse, no heart or breath sound. Intubation unsuccessful. She’s still alive.

The nurse checked my pupils. “How?”

“You tell me.”

The nurse called out, “Prep the O.R. Call the on-call surgeon.”

I watched them move in a coordinated dance. They attempted to anesthetize me only to appear frustrated. “She’s not taking it.”

“We’ve got nothing on ECG. Ox monitor is negative.”

“Check them again,” the surgeon ordered.

“We have to open the chest,” the surgeon angled the scalpel.

I had to tell them before this fluke of nature righted itself. I smacked the operating table.

“What was that?” the surgeon asked as he looked at my hand. He saw I was moving it in a writing motion. “Pen and paper, now!”

The nurse pushed the pen into my hand and slid the paper under it. I brought it down and scribbled a name as consciousness abated.

“What does it say, ‘Roman Maynard.’”

A news anchor looked stolidly into the camera, “It is with great sorrow Amelia Grace, star of many of our favorite movies and philanthropist, has passed this evening. In an extraordinary show of will, Grace was able to give authorities the name of her alleged abductor and killer. There is now a state-wide manhunt for Roman Chester Maynard. Our hearts go out to her family, friends, and fans. Truly a sad day for us all.”