Greg Krojac - WTF?

He arched his back. Or, at least, he thought he did.

His arms flailed from side to side. Or, at least, he thought they did.

He cried out. Or, at least, he thought he did.

But the tensing, arching, flailing, and crying out didn’t happen.

He clenched his right hand into a fist.

He opened his hand.

He clenched his hand into a fist again and opened his hand once more.

Was he imagining it?

He concentrated really hard.

He opened his hand.

He clenched his hand.

He opened his hand.

He clenched his hand.

No. He wasn’t imagining it. His hand was moving. It was a little stiff, but it hadn’t moved for over three weeks, so that was only to be expected.

I wonder if my other hand can do this?

He concentrated really hard.

He clenched his left hand into a fist.

He opened his left hand.

He clenched his left hand.

He opened his left hand.

He clenched his left hand.

Two working hands .

He’d been trying to convince himself that he was still alive although, deep down, he was becoming resigned to the fact that he had passed on. Perhaps he’d been too hasty to accept what seemed to be the inevitable truth.

Maybe I wasn’t kidding myself? Maybe I am alive after all!

He arched his back.

A few grains of earth trickled down from above him.

I can move! I can move! I’m alive!

He told his body to writhe around (or at least as much as it could in such a confined space). His body duly did as it was told.

He knew what he had to do now.

I’ve got to get out of here!

The first problem Arnold faced was how to get out of his grave. Not only was he pinned down by soil and dirt, but he was also trapped by the corpse of one of his body-snatchers. He had no idea of how long he’d been buried, but one thought overrode all others.

He was still alive.

That could only mean one thing – there must be a pocket of air that he’d been unwittingly drawing on, allowing him to survive. If there was a space that wasn’t completely packed with soil, then maybe he could dig his way out. It would be like one of those slider puzzles where there are more spaces than squares. You simply slide a square into a space to release a different space and continue in this way until the puzzle was solved. The goal for Arnold would be to continually move earth from one place to another, creating a path for him to reach the surface. It might take some time, but time was something he appeared to have plenty of. He flexed his fingers and clawed at the soil near his hands, taking a small amount of dirt into each hand.

So far, so good. What now?

He pulled back his arms as far as they could go – which wasn’t very far – and released the earth from his fists. He was surprised that he had been able to move any earth at all. Perhaps the soil was in clumps, making the chance of air pockets more possible. But he had moved some soil, so he’d continue with his plan – he certainly didn’t fancy spending the rest of his life underground. The chance to see daylight and return to his family was something he wasn’t going to give up on.

Almost three weeks later, a hand thrust its way through the final layer of topsoil. Arnold had been digging his way out, centimetre by centimetre, minute by minute, twenty-four hours a day. He was surprised that he never once felt tired, never once needed to stop for a breather. Forcing his way out of the grave, he stood up and shook himself back to life. That’s what it felt like, anyway. But he wasn’t dead, so really he was just loosening up his joints and muscles,

He looked down at himself. Everything seemed to be in working order, as far as he could tell. Freed from his underground prison, he blinked his eyelids at the sudden clarity of the sunlight that now bathed him. Blinking – that was something that he hadn’t done for a long time. There was something a little off with his vision but he shouldn’t be surprised – he hadn’t seen daylight for at least three weeks. Oh, it felt good to be back to normal. He looked down at his body, grateful that the staff of the porn movie set had had the decency to put some clothes on him before he was disposed of. He didn’t think he looked too bad, taking into consideration that he’d been underground for so long. A bit emaciated, he had to admit, but that was only to be expected considering that he hadn’t eaten for ages. His hands were looking a little worse for wear – the skin had a kind of green tinge about it, and was beginning to peel off in a few places – but that was probably due to the digging. He looked closely at his left hand.

Is that bone I can see? That can’t be good .

He made a mental note to visit the doctor as soon as he was reunited with his wife and daughter.

Who should I see? An orthopaedic surgeon or a dermatologist? Maybe both. My skin definitely needs some heavy-duty cream or something to get it back to its normal colour.

He wasn’t thrilled with his attire – he was now dressed in a red and white horizontally striped shirt, blue jeans, brown boots, and red and white striped socks – but beggars can’t be choosers. At least he had some clothes.

He wasn’t exactly sure where he was, but his instincts told him to head due south. Fortunately, the roads were almost deserted and the few cars that did pass him showed little interest in the pinched figure ambling along the road, except one guy who shouted Wally at him through his car window.

He began to recognise landmarks. The spire he could see in the distance belonged to St. Agnes Church. He’d visited a couple of times but, as an atheist, he’d only gone to Church as a show of support for his wife when she was giving a bible reading to the congregation. Gillian was the religious one. They had a kind of understanding; she wouldn’t try to convert him to Christianity and, in turn, Arnold wouldn’t try to talk her out of her religion. Gillian really appreciated Arnold’s support on the few occasions when he did set foot inside a church but she knew that there were conditions attached to his attendance. He would stand up and sit down at the right times but he wouldn’t sing or pray. That would have been hypocritical of him and Gillian wouldn’t have felt comfortable putting her husband in that situation, no matter how much she’d have loved it if he had found God.

Thinking about Gillian and how pleased she would be to see him, Arnold didn’t notice how the miles were being eaten up. Before he knew it he was approaching Jefferson’s the Newsagents. There was a rack outside the shop with the morning papers – not the weekday papers but the rather more voluminous (and more expensive) Sunday ones. He’d have liked to have bought one, just to see what had happened in the world whilst he’d been away, but he had no money on him and old Mister Jefferson never gave credit to anyone – no matter how upstanding a member of the village they were.

Sunday. That explains why the roads are so quiet. People are either sleeping in or at church. I can’t wait to see Gillian’s face when she gets home from church.

Now he was in more familiar surroundings, he could relax a little more. Anyone he saw would be a neighbour or at least someone that Arnold used to nod at in the street. A dog, spying Arnold’s approach, bounced towards him as if to welcome him back but changed its mind at the last minute and bared its teeth, snarling viciously. Arnold held his hand out to the animal.

Come on Tigger. You know me. We’ve played fetch loads of times in the park.

Tigger wasn’t having any of it. It was true that he did half recognise the figure offering him its hand, but all his senses told him that this was not Arnold Leadbetter. The dog turned and rushed back home to Number Twenty-Three, The Green. Arnold decided not to try to force the reunion with the spaniel but continued towards Number Eleven.