. . . 8 Hours and Counting . . .

Ray knew the end was near when the water entered the trunk. It was cold, but it actually felt good as it soaked his back. He had managed to roll onto his back so that he wouldn’t drowned immediately. He thought seriously about trying to get a drink. He had been raging with thirst all night long, but he dared not turn his face into the water lest he slip and die writhing like a slug that inches too close to the edge of a swimming pool and drowns.

Perhaps, he thought, as the water filled his tiny prison, it would soak into the tape and loosen it somewhat. He didn’t bet on it, though. Duct tape wasn’t made with paper, and the adhesive didn’t loosen immediately either when it came in contact with water. It was designed to hold things together, and it did a damned good job. There were rips in his tape cocoon now, places that he had managed to rub up against sharp edges of the metal trunk, but the tape still held him firmly.

At least the water keeps the dust down, he thought to himself. He wanted to chuckle, but that might be a fatal move.

Lifting his legs together like a mermaid in a bad movie, he kicked the side of the trunk three times. He had found a spot, through a night of experimentation, that was bowed and hollow like a drum. It made a loud sound that probably annoyed a few crows in the orchard, but had little other effect. Still, it was all he could do.

Then he lay back in the cool water that covered much of his body now. His greatest regret was that he had been unable to help his son.

Another few minutes passed. His body grew adjusted to the cool water and he floated in it somewhat. Soon, however, there would be no space to breathe between the surface of the water and the carpeted floor of the overturned Lincoln’s trunk, which now formed the ceiling of his coffin.

He kicked again, and this time the sound was greatly muffled. The water had risen to where it was dampening any sound he could make. That, almost more than anything, made him give up. If no one could possibly hear him, then he was truly doomed.

He listened to the water as it lapped and gurgled over and around the car. Distantly, he could hear the drone of the big pump house up on the bank nearby. It grew even darker in his prison as the light from outside was cut off. He thought it would be even more grim if the water rose just high enough to cut off his air supply—but not enough to drown him. He wondered if he could suck in a breath from the cracks in the wheel wells.

He wanted to do something—anything. Just to wait calmly for death was maddening. He decided to savor his last moments of life with a farewell drink. At least he need not die thirsty. He squirmed to one side a bit and sucked in a refreshing draught of cool, gritty water. It tasted like the coldest beer on the hottest day of his life.

He slipped and went in too deeply. For a panicky second, he became that silver slug, thrashing its last in the swimming pool.

Then he had control of himself again. He grunted and heaved himself safely onto his back again. An absurd rush of pride coursed through him as he licked at his tape-burned lips. He had gotten a drink and managed to cheat death for another few minutes. He felt an odd elation at the success. Even though it was hopeless, he kicked the trunk wall again. The sound was that of a great bell tolling at the bottom of the sea.

When he was done kicking, he lay back in the frothing water, sucking air deeply, but it seemed that he couldn’t get enough. He felt exhausted all of a sudden. Could he be running out of air? Panic gripped him, and he kicked more.

This was it, he felt sure. Things were quieter now, sounds were more muffled. He sensed that the water had crested over the top of the car, that he was surviving in an air pocket that couldn’t last as the water deepened further and the oxygen depleted.

He lost himself to panic for a time. He kicked in a frenzy at the trunk wall. He gasped for air, almost blacked out, then felt sick and faint. He fought not to vomit and drown ignobly in his own puke.

He fell back to rest, at the point of exhaustion. It was then that he noticed the water seemed a bit lower than before. He waited, trying to control his gulping of the air. It was so hard to tell what was going on in his cold dark tomb. Several minutes passed, and then a wonderful thing happened.

The lights went back on in the trunk. Daylight shimmied a finger of greenish, reflective light into the trunk again. He would have whooped if he could have. Then he listened closely, but realized he couldn’t hear the pump anymore. It had been shut off.

He relaxed and all but drifted off into an exhausted slumber. Something kept him awake though, something nagged at him.

What was it?

Then it came to him. Who had shut off the pump?

Adrenalin shot through him. It could be anyone. It could be Ingles, coming back after drowning him to check on the status of the job. It could be Farmer John, just noticing the white Lincoln wallowing in his back forty.

He had to take the chance.

Finding the sweet spot on the trunk wall again, he began to beat it like a drum.