The Undead

Wendy Turner (2003)

Runner-up in the 2003 Lisbeth Phillips Competition

Buried.

Seized abruptly in a rough and offhand manner. Wrenched from everything I ever knew while still an infant. Forced to observe, helpless in mounting terror, while spade and boot execute their joint venture so gut-wrenchingly efficiently. A pit looms, just sufficient for my small body, carelesslyflung deep into the cold earth.

Daylight flashes its last weak beams far above, and soft soil rains down. Pattering on my nakedness. Sharp stinging stones settle around me. Tighter. Now a prisoner held fast. I mustn't panic or I'll lose my mind.

And silence.

There's no communication here. No messages, no sun, rain or wind. No day. No night. No sound of children playing or car doors slamming. Nothing. Just darkness. Threatening. Crushing. Total.

Who cares if I shiver with fear in darkness like midnight? Not the departing burial crew above. I hear the squelch of boots in the mud and the metallic clang of the spade, now cast aside, as they slope off for a cup of tea. Served, no doubt, on the cane furniture in the conservatory, where I'd spent most of my childhood.

I try to move a little but somehow it seems all wrong. Can't move at all. Barely able to breathe.

Reality kicks in. I have to face, it. I must adjust somehow to this coal black cell and collect my rampaging thoughts. Can't give in. Won't give in. I will not die here in the darkness. Must come up with something. But how can I even begin to break out of this sealed and dripping tomb? I could weep with the dread of an agonisingly slow and solitary death.

A scratching sound, somewhere quite near. My heart picks up a beat or two. Friend or foe? Who could befriend me here, in this dank and musty world of the dead? I freeze, every fibre jangling, while I try to pin down sound direction.

The scratching persists, like a rusty nail file, setting my nerves on edge. Nearer. Apprehension builds like a dam, holding back a flood of anxiety. I almost sense the enemy's hot breath; a Master of the Underworld, lusting to reach one so vulnerable and newly flung into the deep.

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

Perspiration drenches me. Soaking my very skin, which crazily begins to flake and part company from my body. An odd sensation, but I dismiss it. I've more desperate and immediate worries.

Two red eyes. Fixing on me like laser beams.Unblinking. Merciless. Hungry. Sharp claws appear in the dull, red light, like knives, pushing the earth aside, carving a neat channel to my heart. A rat. Huge and slavering. Rats eat anything. I almost disintegrate with fear and loathing.
I await the onslaught, trying to pull myself into a tight ball. Protecting the core inside. That vulnerable inner chamber that holds my very life. Dreading those razor teeth ripping me apart.

Suddenly, there's something else. Slow moving, with an unexpected, benign aura. Surrounding. Protecting. I break out in a cold sweat at the glimmer of hope.

A pack of earthworms questioning my sudden arrival. I have no fear of them. In fact, I warm towards them. Their curiosity isn't in the least threatening. Not like those twin red headlamps still glowing in the darkness. The worms surround me with their rough skins, almost caressing,
and the rat seems to lose interest and heads off on another lonely mission.I almost swoon with relief.

Sleep.

I believe I slept for a long time, for when I awoke, I perceived a slight shift. An atmospheric change? A season come and gone? Who knows? I was mildly surprised to find that I was still alive. With great care, I put out a feeler, probing the crumbling earth, consumed with curiosity at being able to move a little. Climbing. Slowly. Cautiously. Gently feeling my way around thick roots, old bricks and stones.

Something had changed. Excitement began to beat through my body like a jungle drum. I knew I was on the verge of some great discovery. On and on I crept at a snail's pace. Feeling. Twisting. Turning. Perhaps taking weeks for all I knew. I only understood that I was on my way. Nothing could stop me now.

A tiny part of me broke through the surface. An exploratory tentacle, testing for light and warmth and danger.

Met by a roaring gale. Glorious rain sheeting down in slanting spears. Pale spring sunlight struggling with grey clouds. But all I knew was that I was free in the wonderful fresh and gusting air.

Suddenly completing my journey, I shoot up through the soaking earth. Breaking into glorious yellow triumph.

A massed band of golden trumpets wave madly and greet my arrival.

You can't keep a good Daff down!

Wendy has recently had several articles accepted by Hertfordshire Countryside magazine: she is still waiting to see them in print!