The cemetery was dark, illuminated by a slice of moon hiding behind thin, wispy clouds. A chill wind whistled through the bleached white gravestones and rattled the branches of the trees where Spanish moss danced and swayed.
The city was quiet and The Survivor heard nothing but the beating of his heart and his own ragged breathing as he hauled the old lady to her final resting place. She was in a bag, motionless but heavier than she looked. With silent footsteps he made his way unerringly to the waiting grave, a black yawning pit that already held one body. Waiting for the second. He’d already pried the casket open and inserted the microphone. He slid the body bag into the pit, then crawled in himself. Damp earth surrounded him. The scent filled his nostrils and the darkness folded around him as he worked, removing her from the bag and shoving her into the coffin. Despite the cold, he was sweating by the time he’d closed the lid and climbed out again. He began to fill the hole, dirt and rocks raining down on the coffin’s lid. Shovel after shovel. He’d expected to hear her by now. Thought she’d begin screaming, but he heard nothing as he buried her. Nothing through the ever deepening dirt, not a sound from the microphone to the receiver in his ear. “Come on, wake up you old bitch,” he ground out, working quickly, filling the damned hole as quickly and silently as possible. The cemetery was deserted, locked at night, but there was always the chance that someone was about, a security guard or kids looking for the thrill of breaking into a graveyard at midnight.
Still, there was no sound from within the damned coffin.
This was not good.
She needed to wake up.
To realize her fate.
To understand that it was payback time.
His entire body was drenched by the time the hole was filled. He considered sprinkling leaves and debris over the freshly turned soil, trying to make it blend in, but there really wasn’t any reason to. Reed would be here tomorrow anyway.
Quickly, still holding his shovel and the now-empty bag, he scaled the fence and dropped into the foliage at the rear of the cemetery near an access road. His truck was parked right where he’d left it, deep in the shadows of a live oak tree. Undisturbed. So far, so good, he thought as he opened the canopy and placed his shovel into the bed of the pickup.
Headlights flashed behind him, twin beams cutting through the darkness. Bearing down on him. On his truck.
“Shit.”
Quickly he climbed into the pickup, started it and shoved the rig into gear. The headlights rounded a corner, nearly blinding him in his rearview mirror. He made a f
ast U-turn and passed the oncoming vehicle, a battered old station wagon, in a blur. He kept his face averted as he gunned the engine and blew by the intruders. Who the hell would be on this road this late at night? Teenagers looking for a place to drink, smoke weed or make out, probably.
Damn the luck.
But at least it wasn’t a cop car.
He licked his lips, checked his mirrors and was satisfied that the wagon hadn’t turned around and followed him.
He turned off the access road and tried to stay calm. Sweat ran down his face, encased his body. He couldn’t mess this up. It was his one chance at retribution…He was The Survivor. He checked his rearview mirror and his gut clenched when he spied a police cruiser turning onto the street behind him.
Maybe whoever was in the beat-up old wagon had called the police.
But why?
Maybe someone had been in the cemetery and seen him.
Maybe—
The cruiser’s lights flashed on.
Son of a bitch!
He heard a low-sounding moan, then a pitiful cry. “Help me…oh, God, where am I?” And then a shriek of terror split through his eardrum. The old lady had finally woken up. She was sobbing, clawing, screaming and he couldn’t enjoy it. Not now.
The cop was gaining.
He couldn’t outrun a cruiser. But if he was stopped and the cop found the equipment and bag in the back, he’d be found out. Before he’d finished his mission. No way. Not now. He was too close and he’d waited too long.
The cruiser’s sirens screamed through the night. The lights were nearly blinding.
His breath was shallow, his pulse ticking wildly, his mouth dry as a desert.
“Help, me! Oh, God!” He ripped the receiver from his ear. Stuffed it into his pocket. The cop car was nearly riding up his ass. He couldn’t take the chance that the policeman, if he pulled him over, might hear the cries coming from the receiver.
The Survivor’s hands tightened over the wheel as he edged to the side of the road. He had a gun. If the cop stopped him, he could blow the pig away. Easy. Then ditch the truck. It wasn’t registered to him. He could still make it. Still fulfill his mission