Buried by JadeScholar
Not sure why I'm doing this. I haven't written fanfiction since the Lord of the Rings fandom was at the height of popularity, and certainly nothing like this. Yet it just sprung up in my mind, demanding to be written. This is a character study.
I do not have a beta reader; I apologize in advance for any errors found. Reviews are also welcome.
And for the record, no. I have not seen the movie Buried. I have no desire to see it either. Aside from the obvious inaccuracies portrayed in the movie, I don't know that I could watch 15 minutes of it without suffering a panic attack.
That being said…
.
Chapter One
The darkness is absolute.
His breath hitches. His eyes seek to penetrate the blackness, flitting about in an effort to see something… anything…
Are his eyes even open?
The smell of stale urine and sweat assault his nose. He is lying half on his side, knees slightly bent. One arm lies folded across his chest, the other resting at his side.
Panic scuttles about the edges of his mind; sharp claws scrambling for purchase.
A single hand lifts. It strikes something solid less than a foot above his body. Long fingers splay across its surface… warm… wooden… eight … no, six inches past the end of his nose. One bent leg jerks… meets with resistance. More wood. Solid. He can't completely straighten his legs. Pushing… grunting softly with the effort… body sliding upward less than an inch before the top of his head meets similar resistance. He is just over six feet tall. That means the box is several inches below six feet in length. Too small…
Panic creeps closer, its claws sinking slowly into his reason.
Calm. Deep breaths. Think. What do you last remember?
He slides his hand along the smooth wood. The box - no, coffin - is simply built. No padding. Originally built for someone of smaller stature.
A female?
His hand encounters a series of shallow divots. Narrow. Long. They feel like claw marks…
Fingers close into a fist. He strikes the wood above him. The sound is dull… heavy…
He swallows. Mouth is dry. He licks his lips. Breath comes faster… fist strikes again… again… again…
Vivisepulture.
The word is dragged from the depths of his mind, pushing past the fear. It is the act of being buried alive.
Live burial is said to be one of the most widespread of human fears.
No… no! Stop!
His hand stills.
The dark is so close… thick… suffocating…
Stop!
He chokes, throat seizing.
No!
Breathe... slow calming breaths… deeply… count them…
One.
Two.
Three.
Darkness is the relative absence of light… Not a thing but simply an absence of electromagnetic radiation that can be detected by the human eye…
From the world of darkness I did loose the demon and devils in the power of scorpions to torment.
He winces. He is quoting Charles Manson. Fantastic.
Breathe.
It is not the darkness that he fears, but that which cannot be seen… Logic tells him that there is no room for anything to hide… which only reveals other fears.
Premature burial can lead to death through asphyxiation, dehydration, starvation, hypothermia, or a combination thereof. Although human survival may be briefly extended in some environments as body metabolism slows, in the absence of oxygen, which is likely to be within one to two hours from burial time based on the consumption level, loss of consciousness will take place within two to four minutes and death by asphyxia within five to fifteen minutes.
Think… How long has he been here? How much time did he have left?
What is the last thing you remember?
His head hurts. Sore. He lowers his hand, touching his head. Short hair is slightly matted. Small aches…cuts… cheekbone bruised… There. On the right side. A lump… not too large… no wetness… no blood. Possible concussion, but he can't tell.
Breathe slowly…
Why is he here? To what purpose?
His body twitches. His body is so rarely still… the movement reveals more aches… more mysterious pains that held no association to anything in his memory.
Tiffany Cole in Jacksonville, Florida kidnapped her neighbors, bound and gagged them with duct tape, and buried them alive in a grave in Georgia…
Georgia…
"Dig faster!"
"I'm not strong enough…"
He shoves the memory away. It's not relevant.
Jenny Whitman died of asphyxiation when Dr. Stan Howard sealed her in a box while studying the effects of anxiety disorders on his victims. His final victim, Missy Cassell, was found buried alive in an elevator shaft. She survived the experience.
His brow furrows.
This would be a fitting escalation of his crimes… if Dr. Howard hadn't died from jumping off a building.
Sound. A faint whistling that rises and falls in pitch. His lips tighten and he cranes his head. Too tight… no room for much movement. Hands lift. The arm across his chest spasms in pain. Is it broken?
He reaches above his head with his good hand, feeling along the top edge of the box… there…
A small vent meets his probing fingers. Maybe two inches in diameter.
So. He wouldn't die of asphyxiation. Still, no light. Night perhaps? Or the airway is bent at some point…
"Hello?"
His voice catches. He clears his throat and tries again. Louder.
"Hello? Can anyone hear me?"
No response. The whistling continues to rise and fall.
"Help!"
Panic creeps closer, claws shredding at his thoughts. Logic starts to break down.
What is the last thing you remember?
His team. They would find him. They wouldn't stop searching.
It takes approximately two weeks to die of starvation, depending upon the initial mass of the subject.
It takes approximately three days to die of dehydration, depending upon shelter and bodily exertion.
But how long before he loses his sanity?
Concentrate! What is the last thing you remember?
Breathe.
They had a case. J.J would brief them on the plane.
His overnight bag is slung over his shoulder, next to the brown messenger bag that taps his hip as he walks across the tarmac. He looks up. The late morning sky is streaked with cirrostratus clouds. It will rain in the near future. They would be long gone from Quantico before then.
J.J. is walking in front of them. She turns her head and smiles at something Morgan says. He is carrying a box of files along with his overnight bag. Emily and Rossi walk just behind him. They are quiet, minds already on the next case. He watches their backs as they board the jet, disappearing through the hatch. He glances back to see Hotch walking behind him. He is talking on his phone, looking aggravated. Brow is furrowed. Lips are thin. Face is slightly pinched.
Hotch is talking to Strauss.
He turns back. Long legs easily take the boarding stair two steps at a time. Ducks through the hatch…
Nothing.
His breath hitches again. A trembling hand now filmed with sweat presses hard against the wood. A sound crawls from his throat… high-pitched… unfamiliar… The claws in his mind scratch deeper… closer… gripping the edges of the black hole in his nearly flawless memory. Panic overwhelms the struggle to stay calm… to breathe…
Think!
What happened? What do you remember?
Nothing… nothing.
Reid draws in a breath…
…and succumbs to the panic.
TBC…