Oil to Ashes 2, "Truce" (Linc Freemore Apocalyptic Thriller Series)

something else to think about, work out how much of the mountain remains. Two feet by two feet by six inches. Call that a section. Two more sections and he would have the first six inch layer. Six layers with three sections each, that's eighteen sections all up. Seventeen and a bit to go.

  He bashed at a stubborn root then felt the shovel bite the earth. He tossed it on the growing mound beside him and each dry scoop spilled its crusty tang into the air and crumbled like sand down a dune. Like the last time he dug a hole. It was at the beach with Ryan. They made a castle, adorned with turrets and spires that fell before they were finished. They dug a moat around it and stopped an invasion from the throngs of sand hoppers. That was the last time he'd spent any real quality time with Ryan and Angie. Two years ago.

  Sixteen sections to go.

  He wondered if three feet was deep enough. What happens to a body in the ground – how long does it take to rot? Some scavenger could smell it and dig it up. What if somebody found it? Found some evidence, found him? Maybe he should go to the full six feet to be safe.

  What was he even doing? Why? He was a hardware engineer. A husband. A father. What kind of father buries bodies? This was not him.

  "Don't listen, Linc" he told himself. "It's your mind fucking with you."

  "Their safety comes before what ever sense of morality you're trying to cling to."

  Six feet? No. Not for this piece of detritus. One foot deep was more than he deserved. But three feet was what he would get.

  Fifteen to go, the first layer done. Focus on the mountain.

  He wondered how people did this for a living. Maybe they switch off and enjoy it. Not him. He would enjoy the exercise and the fresh air for so long and then go crazy with boredom. He imagined a life of digging trenches. Lucky for him he'd stumbled across his affinity for hardware. With the football scholarship he'd relaxed a little too much. The free ride would have got him through college, but not through life. The knee injury made sure it didn't get him through college either.

  Fourteen.

  He'd been stuck in no-man's land. Artificially inflated grades that nose dived as soon as the scholarship was gone. "Buck up or get out," they had said. He had tried to study harder but by then it was too late. He'd slacked off too much and now all the chemistry and economics and math, none of it made sense. The harder he studied the more confused he got. Then he found hardware. He read the first chapter of the text book and it made sense. He finished the book and the knowledge stuck. The labs and the tests, he'd passed everything. It was like every other subject but this one was written in Arabic. He'd been saved from a life of leaning on shovels or stocking shelves.

  Thirteen.

  Still, sometimes he wondered what it would be like to work outside. Breathe fresh air all day instead of those stale, air conditioned fumes that were full of everybody else's bugs. So he ran. Whenever he could he would just get out, away from the office and away from cars and traffic and pollution and run as hard as he could for as long as he could. Keep fit. Fill his lungs with crisp, rejuvenating air. It was the only way he could survive that place.

  Twelve. Two layers down. Four to go.

  "You're digging too slow, Linc. Focus. Stop day dreaming."

  He chopped and gouged and cleared some roots and finished another section.

  Eleven. The mountain is shrinking.

  He paused to stretch his back and flex his fingers. Keep them limber, keep them working. He focused on his breathing and his rhythm. Keep the shovel doing its thing. Dig and hack, dig and hack.

  Ten.

  He thought about what he would do when he got home. The reward for all of this. First the explanation. Which details to give and which to skip. He couldn't hide his chest so he'd have to tell her about being tied to the tree. She would want to clean and dress the cuts. They needed it. The pain was not helping his cause but they were starting to itch a little too, starting to get infected.

  Nine. Half way there.

  He would have to tell her about Shane and his crew and why the brother showed up. But the violence and death threats; that would remain vague. Her knowing those details would benefit nobody. Then they would sleep in for half the day. A late breakfast in bed. Turn the phones off and let work wait for another day. It was their turn now, God only knows they'd made his family wait.

  Eight.

  Then they would have their picnic. Spread themselves out at the park and graze and pick at their food until they could not eat another thing. He'd throw a football with Ryan and wade barefoot in the stream, and savor the musky air until their feet went numb and say to hell with leaving in time to get this thing or that thing done. For once they would stay until Ryan got bored and asked to go home. Then movies and pizza's and couches until they all nodded off together.

  Seven.

  Linc got his second wind. He was focused on the prize. He dug and hacked and dug and hacked. The pile of dirt next to him was bigger than the body now.

  Somewhere to the west he heard the muffled thuds of mortar shells exploding. The night time attacks were always the worst. The drone of a small engine, somewhere in the sky. They turn off the navigation lights and fly over some random target. Not knowing where it is or which direction it comes from. It could be your house or your neighbors. Or it could be five miles away. Nobody knew until the bombs hit.

  Six. Two layers to go. The mountain is becoming a molehill.

  As much as he hated listening to the news, he stopped for a moment. Broke his rhythm to play the FM radio on his phone. The Black Eyed Peas were singing about where the love is.

  The song finished and they never figured out where the love had gone.

  "Reports are coming in about dozens of new attacks. It is unclear as to the exact nature of all of the attacks, but bomb and mortar attacks have been confirmed on seven oil storage and production facilities as well as at least four homes."

  Five.

  "Many workers in the oil industry have refused to go to work in the past few days for safety reasons and fuel shortages are expected to worsen tomorrow. With fuel deliveries all but impossible, pump prices are expected to rise dramatically until supplies resume."

  "People are advised to stay at home as much as possible and avoid all non-essential travel."

  Four. Last section on the second to last layer.

  "The Holy Coalition for Allah has issued a statement claiming that they are not responsible for the latest bombings. A spokesman says they are serious about peace and have honored the truce since it began at 2pm Eastern time today. They say this is the work of some third party who is trying to undermine the peace efforts and that Americans and Arabs should stand strong together in these difficult times."

  Three. Last layer, the home stretch.

  "Another twenty three trucks were reported hijacked today, mostly carrying canned foods. This brings the total to over one hundred sixty in one week."

  Linc switched off the radio and vented on the shovel some more. The soil was damper at this depth. It clumped more as it fell from the shovel onto the pile and the dank fragrance brought him back to his foray into duck hunting with Angie. Lying together, silently, wrapped up warm and waiting for water foul. The cool air, the damp earth and the clouds of gnats. It had been an unusual hobby for a couple but it had worked for them. At least before Ryan came along. Words are not the only way to have a connection, not for them.

  Duck hunting had spelled the end of his freediving. He missed the solitude and freedom of it but he'd gained in other ways. Better ways. He always thought it odd that he'd retained so much of his ability to hold his breath for so long. Even years after he no longer dove.

  At first he'd been surprised at the performance boost he got from freediving. But it made sense. Holding your breath for seven plus minutes teaches the body new tricks. How could that not help on the football field?

  Two. The brother would be in the ground soon. Holding his breath forever.

  He wondered if his soul could survive this. Not just burying a
body, but everything from the past day. Judge, jury and executioner. Sure. No problem at all. Easy. He wouldn't lose a minute of sleep over any of them. Not for having to choose between them or Ryan and Angie. But what was next? What else would he become willing to do in the name of protecting his family. Were bad things becoming easy to justify? Things he could never have dreamed of doing a week ago?

  One.

  "Get over yourself," he told himself. They were worth every bit of it, and much more besides.

  He focused on a last big root. He hacked and bashed at it until he decided the hole was deep enough already. He dragged the brother to the edge of the hole. As he dumped him in, something jingled and caught the light of the lantern at the edge of the grave. He picked up the set of keys and tossed them at the body, "you won't be needing these again."

  He began to shift the earth back into the hole. It was soft now, like sand. His shovel bit easily and collected full scoops. The going was fast and this time seemed to take no time at all. He stomped the earth down to minimize the size of the mound and then wondered if it mattered. Out here where nobody would ever see it. He tried to decide whether he'd just crossed a line he could never come back from, or had he made the world a slightly better place? Probably a little of both.

  He picked up the lantern and made the short trek back to his car. He flicked off the switch. It was peaceful here. The cool of the night on his hot skin, the peppery forest air biting into