He took the curve too tightly, as the wheels squealed on the road. The baby was coming, and he had to get to the house. The ambulance was on its way. He would be there. He would be there and he would hold her hand and speak to her–
The car swerved on the wet asphalt. He was hydroplaning without realizing it, and he fishtailed as his front end went one way against the cliff. He overcompensated, turning the Cadillac too far to the left, and as it didn’t straighten. The car scraped along the cliff, still fishtailing, its back end now coming into his own lane, and whipping the car so it faced the wrong direction. It bounced into the cliff, skidding backwards as he slammed on the brakes.
It didn’t stop, crossing the lane again as the road curved and he went straight.
~~~~~~
He felt a bump, then the water. Thick and heavy, replacing his breath.
He saw nothing, a blackness, as the water filled him, carried him up and out into a black unending cavern. He floated in the nothingness, feeling only the water lap at him like a lover.
~~~~~~
It was cold.
It was sharp.
It hit him.
It cut through him.
~~~~~~
He felt the cushions, still in blackness.
He felt the sharp pain of something striking through his side.
He saw the light.
~~~~~~
Jorge didn’t understand why they buried the dead with so much stuff. What would they need it for? But when he heard about this rich man being buried with all kinds of bling and shit, he had to break in and find it.
He had a closed coffin, because they’d fished him out of the bay a week ago. Then the autopsy, then the funeral, and because the ground was frozen he was in the holding room. The body was going to stink to high heaven, but Jorge took a lesson from Silence of the Lambs and put Vicks’ on under his nose.
He and his crew were grave robbers, carrying on a tradition from ages past. They were usually pretty clean about it, and paid sometimes some money to the grave diggers to leave the grave open so they could have at it. But nobody broke into a mausoleum anymore.
And the writer gave up.