Just this week her father bought her a ridiculously expensive green Italian leather jacket which she wore always, everywhere. Her second greatest pleasure were horses. Just last month her father bought her a ridiculously expensive, imported german dressage horse, which she bragged about to anyone who would listen. Just yesterday, Linda was out riding said horse, galloping across acres and acres of farmland.
She was hit by surprise. Never had something so unpleasant happened to her and she wondered when someone would arrive to comfort her. Surely someone must have seen her fall, everybody always looked at her!
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But not today. No one saw her vanish into those tall crops on the field. She called out, but no one answered. She lay there for what seemed like hours between tall, green crops. And when she heard the sound of farming machines approaching, she grew to hate that damn, grass green jacket. We put our daughter to bed upstairs in her room every night, and yet we found her on the couch in the living room every morning.
At first we thought she was sleep walking, but she never was afraid when she woke up, thrown off by the unexpected nocturnal change of location. We tried asking her about it, but she never gave us straight answers. My wife grew tired of it. Every morning we found her on the couch, sleeping soundly.
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Then my wife decided to stay up and wait for her to come down from her room. We put her to bed, closed the door, and I got into bed like normal while my wife stayed watching the living room through the glass doors of the hall.
No more than five minutes after we had left, our daughter came down to the couch. I knew because I heard the living room door open and my wife started talking softly. After a few minutes, their voices started rising. I got up and went to see what was wrong. I walked in, and my wife was standing at the bottom of the stairs, while our daughter cried and begged her not to go up them. I picked her up and held her, trying to calm her down, and my wife went up. She started crying even more then.
I set our daughter down and walked to the stairs. I walked up slowly to the top, and turned to her room. I opened the door, and the light was off. I stepped in the room to flip the light switch, but nothing happened.
Then the bulb in the hallway started to flicker. I turned around as it went out. All I saw was a blur of black that even dimmed the darkness around me. The door slammed shut, and the wails of our daughter reached up through the floorboards as the overture to my final moments. All there was at the end was darkness, screaming, and teeth. I awake with a jolt.
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Gasping for air, I inhale deeply. Dank, moldy air fills my lungs. Lying there, I try to move my arms. Slowly, I lift them from my sides, only to hit something just a few inches above them.
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Making a fist, I rotate my hand and knock on the object in front of me. And it sounds solid. The air is thick and putrid. I sputter and wheeze, trying to expel years of dust. My whole body moves, and my knees hit a bit too hard on the wood above me. Trapped, like a nut inside a shell.
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Methodically, I maneuver my arm to reach the metal broach pinned on my jacket. I scrape and chisel into the wood. Hours go by. The stagnant air ripe with sweat and tainted body odor. I can feel wood shavings on my wrist and arm. The oxygen in this wooden box is dangerously low. The heat and rancid air burns my lungs. The wood above my hand starts to buckle and I can feel dirt and debris pelting my hand.
Mustering every last ounce of strength, I force both my hand up and the wood gives way. Dirt and rocks flood in, and adrenaline kicks into high gear. Clawing, and climbing, I make my way forward through the loose soil. My hand suddenly pops through. Pushing myself out of the dirt and into the daylight, I survey the area.
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I can hear scratching and digging around me. I can see other holes where others had already made their way out. I shamble over to the water fountain in the middle of the graveyard. Still missing the top of my head and jaw where I used the shotgun…. Over a third of the population was believed to be infected, they said, and I alone breathed a sigh of relief. It started with anger, I know that much, a burning, churning rage that clawed through my belly and set my nerves on fire.
I think I hurt someone. I think I might have hurt a lot of someones, actually. Very badly. No more disgusting images, no more monstrous desires, no more sick thoughts every hour of every day. He pricks her thumb, hums as the machine processes the sample, and then frowns.