Silent Creed

12

Creed slammed the back of his helmet against the weight that threatened to crush him. Small pieces flaked down on his neck. He had rocked mere inches, and each time the space he smashed open quickly filled with debris from above. He reared up and arched his back, sickened by how solid the mass on top of him had already begun to feel. He was encased in a coffin of mud and it was hardening like cement by the second.

He had managed to work his hands free. Protected under his body, this space didn’t fill in immediately. But he wasn’t creating more air for himself, only a few more inches of movement.

Seconds slipped away. He had no idea how much time had passed. But he was acutely aware of how little air he had. Already he could feel the difference, hot and suffocating like being under a damp wool blanket. And because there was no place for his exhalations to escape, he knew he was contaminating what air was left, saturating it with carbon dioxide. The mixture would eventually start to impair his mental capacity.

Just the thought sent his fingers digging, clawing, searching for an air pocket. Surely there must be more air trapped between the pieces of debris, caught somewhere in the folds. He tried twisting his body again. Bucked against the backpack. Smashed his helmet from side to side.

Suddenly he stopped.

There was crunching above him. And panting. He could hear a dog panting.

Bolo! Had he gotten away in time?

Creed strained to listen. He cocked his head, and that’s when he felt the drips on his hand. The panting wasn’t a dog’s. The panting was his own.

Drips of saliva from his mouth.

How could that be when his throat felt raw and cotton-dry? Swallowing was an effort. He was breathing hard now, sucking in air, and still he was breathless. He tried to calm the panting. He was breathing too fast, too deep. He’d use up his meager supply in no time.

He felt the surge of panic. He had stomped it down several times. Soon it would be something he could not control.

Creed lay flat, palms against the dirt ledge he had created beneath himself. Then he pushed until his wrists and elbows screamed for him to stop. He pushed until his back ached, until the muscles in his neck felt like they would explode, until the pain in his chest sliced too deep. He fought to breathe, clawing away swatches of debris, only to hear and see the space refill. All thought and reason had given in to basic instinct.

When he finally stopped it wasn’t because his muscles failed him. It was the hum that started to fill his ears, relentless but almost soothing like a lullaby.

He felt light-headed, and suddenly exhaustion dissolved into an unusual calm. He felt himself slipping into water, letting go of his body. Giving in and allowing the water to carry him.

He closed his eyes, and soon he was floating.