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Nightcrawlers

Envy, Flame and The Grave

By Jacynthe YeoPublished 3 years ago 10 min read
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Some people live precariously, others vicariously, and still others spend the vast majority of their existence with one foot in the grave. The woman who existed under the rather unimaginative pseudonym of Jane Doe was one of the latter sort…literally.

The gig had been an unconventional one, even for Jane and her cohorts in the nefarious. A nondescript gentleman bearing an equally nondescript manila envelope had arrived unannounced at Headquarters; opening said envelope revealed to the reader a typed-up number in what of course was none other than 12-point, detailing a hit:

New Marksford Cemetery

23:00

Mr. W.B Glaxton

1831-1899

Bring shovels.

That had been it. No mention of pay, of what to do beyond lugging along a few diggers. A location, a time to be there, and the 12-point name of one very dead man. Of course it would be just like the coppers to jig up a falsey and lure them in like flies to a carcass, but Reynolds was a stickler for the prospect of work. Him being the boss man meant that Jane, a fellow called Tête (named so for his abnormally-large cranium) and a wee beggar the crew had taken to calling Cross for his rather absurd temperament, had been forced to take the job.

Thus, that very same evening as the bells tolled the twenty-third, the trio of criminal comrades found themselves at New Marksford’s crumbling old rock garden bearing shovels, a pick-axe and with guns holstered on each hip.

“This reeks, boys.”

Jane had remarked as the three of them began combing tombstones, searching for the W.B Glaxton who’d been rotting in the mulch for nigh on 175 years. Even by torchlight, the cemetery was oppressively dark, so much so that Tête ditched his light entirely in favour of the latest techy: night-vision goggles, Model 2NC. Otherwise known as Nightcrawlers. Doe found herself a tad green at the sight of him with the high-powered gadgetry strapped to his bowling ball of a head…of course Tête had gotten a pair out the boss man’s crate, suckling pig that he was. She and Cross were left to stick it out with their clanky metal torches, under-appreciated as per usual. Doe made a mental note to clap Tête a good one back at Headquarters, out of Reynolds’ line of vision. Sputnik-Head deserved it for not offering to secure another couple of pairs.

“Lighten up, Janey. If the coppers’d rigged us, they’d have made it known by now. Lord knows they ain’t a subtle lot.”

Tête said from a few stones over, looking at her through his 2NC Bugs. Bloody gloater. Cross, meanwhile, was standing in the shadow of a cruciform and painfully unaware of the irony.

“Ever considered what becomes of us when we kick the can, lads?”

Cross could wax philosophical when faced with the prospect of bleeding a man. He’d been a religious at some juncture in his walk down the straight n’ narrow, but his former belief had been squelched like a roach when he’d realized the local God-Lodge’d been stealing from its flock. Cross’ anger management classes had gone out the glass on that one. Still, once he’d finished burning the church house to its foundation, Cross had managed to retain some fear of Hell…another irony more painful than Jane herself could bear.

As it stood that evening, Doe and Tête decided to humour their comrade’s question, if only to ease some of their collective anxiety over the fear of being cuffed.

“I believe that’s the sort of thing one’d be inclined to ask the worms, Cross.”

Tête patted Cross on the shoulder as he continued combing graves. Good ol’ Tête, ever the nihilist. Jane had been a religious too, during her own days on the straight n’ narrow…not as devout as Cross, to be sure, but afearin’ enough to have married, popped out a couple a law abidin’ lambies and partaken in the Righteous Soup good and proper-like. Of course, that had been before Reynolds and his band had introduced her to the one career she could never pen on her CV.

Cross’ face fell, visibly enough even in the depths of the evening. He wanted, she knew, to believe irrefutably in their forgiveness. For the High-and-Mighty-in-the-Sky to have the mercy and charity for him and his criminal brethren that he’d once preached and put to practice. Hell wouldn’t do in the mind of poor little Crossy…not Hell, not even death itself. For if Tête was a nihilist, then Cross was an immortal. Doe figured she ought to pity the simple bloke, but admired his optimism nevertheless.

As for her own opinions on the post-can kick, Jane knew she was bent for hellfire.

Not two minutes past Cross’ query, Tête stopped dead in his clodhoppers before a worn slab of whitish granite.

“Lads, I think I found ‘im!”

“Of course ya did with them Bugs, you crass-bagger.”

Jane scowled, joining Tête and an eager Crossy before the headstone. Sure enough, the block had been engraved with the name of one W.B. Glaxton, having kicked it at age 68. According to the letter they’d received, now was the time to bring out the shovels.

Doe had the axe, and both Tête and Crossy bore diggers. Setting their torches aground and facing the stone, a tacit agreement was made to begin with the boys. Cross, despite his earlier speculations concerning the fate of his ghost, was the one to initially break ground, and Tête followed suit. Jane, a creature of habit, took a few paces back and dug in her pants pocket for a cigarette. It was only after having torched the niccy’s bitter tip that Tête poked his gargantuan skull out and swiveled it in her direction.

“That’ll be your rot, Janey. Don’tcha love your panpipes enough to keep ‘em squeaky?”

“No, suppose I don’t. And besides, it’s prescription.”

“Bullocks! I ain’t never heard of no medic handing out niccies on bill!”

“It’s for the nerves, mate. Doc’s orders, I swear.”

Tete rolled his eyes behind the Bugs, but kept on digging. Cross, meanwhile, was already working up a right lather, panting and puffing as if he’d been running a miler rather than shoveling out a grave. Crossy, Jane mused, had better start working on his cardio. She coughed, feeling her pipes give a right good hitch, and pulled the niccy out from her lips just long enough to shoot some strands into the grass at her feet.

As the cigarette burned down between the yellowed clutch of Doe’s teeth, Tête and Cross continued to dig. Eventually, when Cross needed a break, Janey went in for substitution with her axe; lowering her body into the deepening hole next to the Head, using the pick-axe to chip away at the sides of the grave. The Head shoveled, Jane picked. Shovel, pick. Repeat add nauseam. The rhythm settled itself deep inside her marrow, driving out every coherent thought besides one:

DIG

There it travelled, backwards and forwards, occasionally transforming:

WIG (“a manufactured covering of natural or synthetic hair for the head”)

RIG (“to manipulate or control usually by deceptive or dishonest means”)

PIG (“a dirty, gluttonous or repulsive person”)

Here she glanced pointedly over at Tête. He paid no mind to her daggers, dutifully chucking earth over his broad shoulder. Crossy, lingering on the precipice, eased a hand over his brow, smearing black over his already-dark skin. She wished he wouldn’t do that. Dirt was poorly for the flesh.

They hit resistance after another fifteen or so. Tête grinned big-big, tapping the tip of his spade against the bottom of Glaxton’s pit.

“Wakey-wakey, W.B., old fellow!”

He used the shovel to scoop away a patch of remaining earth, expecting decayed coffin wood and perhaps a heap of bones. Instead, what the Head received was a breakthrough…literally. Sputnik plunged all 220-pounds of himself below the earth, much lower than the regular six feet, taking Jane with him. Crossy’s mouth formed a perfect pufferfish of an “O”, eyes like bullet holes, as he stared down into the pit that had eaten his comrades whole.

The grave was black as pitch, and dirt crawled into Jane’s trouser legs and up her sleeves, down her front and up her back, relentless and thick. She spat huge clumps of it out of her mouth, the pungent taste coating the buds of her tongue. Instinctively, she reached for her holster, but stopped her before she could free her iron. She was in the bottom of a hole…there was no need to shoot.

Doe groped blindly around her and felt a large, fleshy mound to her right. Tête. Without even checking to see if he was alright, Jane reached up and pried the Nightcrawlers off of his face and positioned them over her own. The blackness instantly took form, and just a few feet in front of them was a duffel bag. Was this what the gentleman wanted them to find?

It was just as nondescript as both the man who’d sought out their help and the envelope which he’d first delivered to Reynolds. Bulging, made of water-resistant material. Heart beating hard, Jane Doe unzipped the bag.

“Holy Mother of…”

Thousands. It had to be. Maybe tens of thousands. Wad after wad of marks, all jammed into the duffel. She pawed through the stacks, attempting to estimate just how much they’d stumbled across, but she needn’t have made the effort. Out of the corner of her eye, Jane spotted something: a notebook. Plain black leather cover. Compact enough to fit inside a pocket. She grabbed it, cracked it open to the first page. There, written in non-descript hand, was a message:

This bag contains $20,000.

No questions, and half is yours.

1987 Ford Avenue.

00:30

Jane looked hard at the time scrawled on the page. Thirty minutes past midnight. If they hurried, they could just make it.

Quickly, she rezipped the bag and shoved it towards the moonlit hole leading back to the surface. It had to be at least a 10-foot drop. Using the Nightcrawlers, Jane scanned her surroundings, looking for a ladder, a rope, something to use to haul herself up. Nothing. She spotted Crossy wandering by the edge of the hole, and a plan hatched in her mind’s eye.

“CROSS! Mate, we found the loot! It’s cash, LOADS of it. There’s a note inside saying half can be ours if we deliver it to 1987 Ford Avenue by 00:30! What’s the hour now?”

Cross stopped pacing and got down on his knees beside the grave.

“The hour? Janey, are you daft? There’s no way you and Tête can get out of there in time!”

“I know, that’s why it has to be you. Reynolds’ have our hides if we muck up this job. Take the bag to 1987 Ford, and then come back to get us.”

Cross’ face, backlit as it was against the moon, was impossible to make out. The Nightcrawlers reflected the white glare, nearly blinding Jane in the process. She grasped the bag in both hands, stood up, and readied herself to throw. In another life, Jane Doe had been quite a hand at shot put.

“I’m gonna toss up the duffel, Cross! Get ready to catch!”

Crossy seemed to steady himself to receive the loot, and with a momentous heave, Jane threw the bag up into the air. Using one muscular arm, Cross caught the duffel. Jane breathed a sigh of relief.

But then, Cross did something unexpected.

He began to laugh.

The laughter was unsettling, more of a bray than anything remotely similar to a cry of amusement. Duffel bag full of cash under his arm, standing before the pit, Cross appeared spectral, damn-near demonic. And what happened next Jane Doe never would’ve imagined in her life.

The fellow known as Cross produced a canister of gasoline. He poured the foul-smelling liquid down into the hole, showering Jane and the unconscious Tête from head to heel. Even screened by the Bugs, her eyes burned horribly. She tried to breathe, but her lungs were polluted by the reek of the gas. And through the greenish haze of the Nightcrawlers, Jane saw him light a match.

Mere seconds later as she crisped, seared through by Cross’ traitorous flame, lost in the mire of her own agonized screams, one last thought passed through her dying mind:

“Dear Jane Doe…haven’t you always known you would burn?”

guilty
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About the Creator

Jacynthe Yeo

I'm just some random butthole who likes to write things.

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