The Hole

Caine’s skin was slick with sweat, shining in the half-moon’s gentle light. It was cold, he didn’t notice, his exertion warming him from within. Placing his hands on his hips, he leaned back, staring up to the sky, watching the perfect crescent of yellowish-white light make its slow crawl across the endless void of the sky. Caine’s breathing was heavy, but it slowed as he regarded the moon, lowering his heart rate. This far from any cities or towns, the sky was painted with uncountable stars. He closed his eyes briefly, before he felt the hard drumming on the inside of his chest return. There was no time to rest. There was work to be done.

He wiped his hands on his bare chest, wincing as the sweat mingled with the blood from the open callouses on his hands. He bent down and picked the shovel up once more. The worn wooden handle was slightly stained with his blood; stony soil had caused him to dig for hours with little progress. The hole was roughly four feet deep, six feet long, and two feet wide. Not deep enough. Had to be deeper. Must be. Rolling his shoulders, Caine stepped down into the hole, and kept digging. The duffle next to the hole was occasionally disturbed by the rain of dirt that Caine brought down, but else-wise it remained motionless. 

There was a faint rumble in the distance, and Caine froze. It was the monotonous glugging of a diesel engine. He saw headlights through the trees, and before he could move, the car came round the bend in the road, and he was suddenly illuminated like a deer. He dove quickly to his left, away from the road, and found himself sliding down a bank. His legs hit the freezing water first, he let out a small gasp as the rest of him slid under the surface. Only his neck and hands peeked above the icy stream. The engine was idling, and he could hear doors opening and closing. They couldn’t find the bag, anything but the bag. Just move on, please. Just go… 

There were voices above him, walking around the side of the highway. Caine thought they sounded dangerously close to the hole. The water was freezing. His mind flashed, twisted like a hooked fish. If they found the hole, if they found the bag, he would be finished. They’d know what he was doing, what he’d done. They’d know. Good God, they’d know. They can’t find it. They can’t find it. They can’t find it. Not again.

The voices had moved closer to the river. Caine’s muscles tensed. He found stronger footing under the surface of the water, ready to launch himself from the water if necessary. His hands searched the bank, with a patient lethargy that belied the raw and violent panic in his mind. His hands, calloused and bloody as they were, passed across a sharp, heavy rock. He winced and struggled not to cry out as a gaping seam opened on his palm, a red maw forced open by the stone. He found a blunt face on the rock and hefted it. 

The rock was heavy. Good. 

Heavy and sharp. Good. 

He was ready. He was capable. He was able to kill. He knew this. He was ready. Caine knew he was able to do what was necessary. 

He waited. 

He felt he’d been in the stream for an eternity when the voices decidedly left. The engine roared, and the lights faded. The sound dwindled in the distance, and then the night was silent. Caine stayed just below the surface of the river for a short time, letting his eyes adjust to the dark, and make sure they had left for good. He heaved himself out of the river, the night air freezing on his bare chest, his soaked trousers heavy, his feet squelching in his socks. Caine was truly cold now, with no inner heat of exertion to keep him warm. He hated the cold. 

He tentatively made his way up the bank, rock in hand. The hole remained exactly as he had left it, the shovel and the duffel somewhat obscured by dirt. He dropped the rock in relief, feeling a sting on his palm. He looked down. There was dirt mixing with the blood and sweat on his hands. He rubbed at the cut. The dirt wouldn’t come out. Caine rubbed again. The dirt refused to leave the cut. Now panicked, the hole and the duffel forgotten, he frantically ran his hand over the wound, desperately trying to clean away the filth. And for all he tried, he just made it worse. Troubled, he decided to leave the cut for the moment. There was work to be done. 

Caine’s progress should have been slower, given the gaping slash in his hand, but he was possessed by some consuming drive and desire to be done with the hole. The last two feet were cleared with stunning speed. Six-by-two-by-six. Just perfect for what he needed. He lifted the duffel, and dropped it into the hole, with a relieved grunt. His work was almost finished. Filling the hole in was easy, as was pressing the dirt and soil down hard. Covering it with leaves, rocks and sticks was no challenge at all. Everything was hidden, no one would know. 

He washed the sweat off himself in the river. It was bracing, still freezing, but now Caine didn’t mind. Caine’s mind was at peace, his thoughts untroubled like the surface of a millpond. He rolled out, stiff and sore muscles, and went to find his discarded shirt, left by the shovel. As he reached down to pick up the shovel, he noticed the cut was clean. 

He smiled. His work was done.