Sunk : A Short Story

Chapter 1 - The Fall

Terror was the last thing anyone would think of on a morning such as this. The sun shone bright through the cool blue sky dispatching the last of the due from the over grown lawn. It had been only a week since the lawn was tended to but in spring the tending comes sooner.  Nobody knew what lay beneath that small patch of green and nobody was supposed to.

. . .

I laid in bed that morning thinking of my wife, Jenny, who was at the university cataloging geological samples. She did this twice a month with the same eagerness that was lacking in her students who collected the samples. This being a regular event, allows me a reprieve from early morning chores followed by an afternoon away from home. Sleep is a wonderful thing.

Crawling from bed, snaking another "falling" dream from my thoughts I managed my way to the kitchen for my coffee. The Dark Roast K-Cup  slid in the machine and made a "Puck" sound as I closed the lid locking it into place. The motor chugged  to life and coffee started flowing into my souvenir cup from Maine. I retrieved the half and half from the fridge, then let the fridge door close  under its own weight with a thud and a rattle from the bottles atop.

Hung beneath Jenny's yellow "Swear Jar", atop the fridge, was her list of my weekend chores written on a magnetic note pad. She laughed so hard when she bought the pad from the local  strip mall. It was in the shape of, and painted like, a honeydew. I have to admit the pad was kinda cute but her reaction to it was priceless. She brightened as she made an event out of writing her "Honey Do list."  The top sheet containing this day's chores tore off smoothly and placed it on the table. There was time for that after my coffee. Last night's libations were laying heavy behind my eye.

The cream entered my coffee, turning it from black into a light brown storm cloud. Sugar hailed into the cloudy mix and my spool evened the colors and flavors alike. The bitter coffee made me frown and as I snapped open the newspaper. I started my lonely Saturdays at the kitchen table reading the newspaper. Adorning the front page above the fold was a story about the string of random murders in Wilkes-Barre. The article contributed the killings to some guy known to the FBI as "The Programmer". More sugar was added and a yawn was completed as before I sipped the coffee again, this time it was palatable. I flipped to the crosswords puzzle and competed most of it while I enjoyed my coffee. Twenty-Eight across, eleven letters ending in "N" was the only one I missed. It's clue was "Fear".  It was time I turned my attention to the honeydew chores.

The list of chores contained only two items: "Take down the steps" and "Mow the lawn". "Take down the steps," was "Jenny-ese" for,  take the items that we put at the top of the steps down into the basement and put them away. These were the things we were too busy to venture downstairs to put away during our week.  I grabbed the detergent from the top step and descended the steps into the frigid basement. The cool air chilled my bare arms and legs, where my tee shirt and shorts ended but my slippers protected my feet from cool floor.  I place the detergent on the washer with a hollow metallic thud, then started up the steps to get the next item, when I heard the telltale hiss of running water from the pipes.  The  hose was on again.  "Shit!" slipped from my lips.  If I find out who's doing it I'll...

I hurried up the steps, crossed the kitchen and swung the sliding glass door open. This had been the third time this week I found the hose pulled out and turned on. I suspected the neighbor kids. Jenny being of a cooler mind, didn't want us jumping to conclusions.  Either way our grass was loving the extra water but the water company was  loving  it even more. 

As I crossed the backyard,  I stepped in the puddle which formed at middle. The sun was hot, which quickly dispatched the coolness of the basement from my skin as I crossed the damp lawn. My slipper sunk into the mud slightly.  The faucet loudly squeaked three times as it was shutoff, then the hose was reeled back up on its holder. 

Unknown to me, even then, the ground supporting my lawn was slowly collapsing as I now suppose it was planned to. I crossed the yard again passing over the puddle; my slipper sinking slightly deeper after each pass.

Kicking off the muddy slippers at the door I reentered the house. I took a dollar from my jean jacket which hung sloppily on a kitchen chair then deposited it in swear jar to atone for my earlier infraction. Then proceeded downstairs to finish "taking the steps down". On my way back up from the refreshing basement, I  was humming some radio jingle. The crumbling earth behind the  basement wall was inaudible but it caused the dust clinking to the concrete block walls to fall from it in horizontal ribbons. If I'd been more attentive, and not humming like a fool, I might have saved myself a whole lot of trouble, danger, and future nightmares.

With chore number one complete,  watching some TV was all that was on my agenda, while I waited for the lawn to dry enough to mow. The local news was talking about a local boy named James Holmes who had gone missing about a week and a half ago . Another story was about a fad gaining popularity, they called it "Geo Caching"  or some such thing which they described as a scavenger hunt in the woods. The news droned on as I passed out for the first time today.  It was turning out to be a very lazy Saturday for me or so I thought. I woke an two hours later, to some zoologist walking though a national park picking up salamanders. I decided at that very moment, I miss Saturday morning cartoons. 

Checking the lawn, the hot sun had already cooked off the water that was holding the blades of grass down, so, I could mow it  and then the rest of the day would be mine. I thought, I might try out that "geo caching" thing, it sounded fun, and what could happen?

I pulled the ancient mower from the shed with the same amount of joy I do  each time, it weighed a ton, or three. Jenny had promptly painted the mower her favorite shade of yellow after her father had given it to us. Whenever I complained to Jenny about its weight and constant need of repair, she would say, with a smile, "Whoever said beggars can't be choosers never met you, Dear." 

I started it with a couple quick snaps of the wrist then dark smoke erupted from the old machines throat and it roared for all the neighbors to hear. This model of the 1940 Maytag mower wasn't equipped with those safety grips that if you let go of the handle the mower would stop, none of these models were, ever. So, after I started it, I was able to run into the house to grab a Farmers Iced Tea, also known from my high school years as "Schwag," from the fridge, folded the carton open then took a swig, and  sat it on the table.

As I returned to the roaring beast I leaped over the still drying patch. Then I started the back and forth motion that gets this particular job done. After about six passes I paused for more tea its sweet coolness reinvigorating me.  I again avoided the mud on the return trip. On the eighth pass I was in line to pass over the mud, so I put a little more "oomph" into the pushing expecting resistance from the mud I wanted momentum to carry me through but when the mower struck the mud it sunk in a little, digging in I put all my force behind it and it popped free and bounced out of the mud. I stood there in the drying puddle in a moment of victory with my hands on my knees panting heavily. There was a hollow "CRACK!" from below me.

Before I could move I was in up to my ankles. The ground turned mushy like dry quicksand with a muddy top and after more hollow rumbling, I had sunk into the dirt up to my knees!  I grabbed  the mowers handle as I sunk, its front tires now raised a foot or more off the ground.  A moment later the handle was level with the ground. The soil showered into the vast gaping hole I was now hanging in the mouth of a five foot round sinkhole, holding the mowers throbbing handle for dear life.

The handle sank into the mud with my hands still grasping  it. Mud lubricated the handle and my hands alike.  I tried to shift my grip so I would be holding the handle with both hands with interlaced fingers, but failed this maneuver, my left hand slipped free. "Shit!" burst from my lips. I was hanging by one mud slathered hand. The handle was slipping away through my fingers and then I was falling. As I plunged the twelve feet  into the mine landing on a pile of my soft top-soil, my head smacking off a sharp stone. That was the second time I passed out that day.

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As always, comment are welcome. Constructive criticism is also welcome.

D.Alan