This was no hallucination: I saw a wrinkled forehead, brows raised in panic; saw the agonized expression of the child’s open mouth, and could practically count the rows of teeth fighting against the stretched bag.
I leaned over the bag and fumbled with the plastic tie. The bag’s opening was twisted into a firm rope, the locking tie pulled to its tightest available notch. I dropped the flashlight to the ground so I could use both hands, trying to curl the flat yellow wedges and thread them back through the tie’s small opening. But the tie was designed to be much easier to seal than to remove, and I didn’t have enough room to maneuver my fingers.
Desperate rasps urged me to act as the plastic swelled out then sucked in over the child’s gasping mouth.
Break the seal. Let some air in.
I reached beneath the tie and grasped a loose fold of the bag. The plastic stretched as I pulled it apart with both hands, but it refused to break.
The bag remained rooted to the ground, heavy with the weight of the trapped child.
My knuckles whitened with tension, and the scratches on my right palm flared up in renewed pain. I tried to push my thumbs through the stretched fold, but the plastic wasn’t taut enough beneath my nails.
More rustles and squeaking rasps of plastic over the child’s mouth. My own breathing grew more desperate, my throat constricting in helpless sympathy. Time was running out.
Over the mouth. That’s where the plastic was stretched to its limit. It might be taut enough.
I dropped to my knees, my hands finding the shape of the head and grasping it on each side to hold it steady. The texture of hair fluttered beneath my fingertips; an open jaw pressed against the heels of my palms. The child’s face felt like skin instead of slick plastic.
Leaning close, I whispered towards one of the ears: “Don’t be afraid. I’m trying to help.”
And I plunged both thumbs into the taut area over the mouth.
The plastic stretched back, my thumbs warm as they passed over a wriggling tongue. The child’s jaw tensed beneath my palms and I pushed my hands closer together to keep the joint from snapping shut. “Don’t close your mouth,” I whispered, afraid of being bitten—and also afraid my hands would press together too hard, crushing the child’s head.
My thumbs pressed deeper. I held the head steady to keep it from pulling back.
Deeper.
Plastic stretched, and my thumbs hit a hard surface at the back of the child’s throat.
The head shook beneath my hands in quick surges. Gag reflex.
Nowhere else to go, I pushed my thumbs together and pressed against the tongue, forcing my thumbs down the throat.
Deeper.
The head tried to shake some more. I held it steady, but the face felt brittle like an eggshell.
Deeper. The stretch of plastic.
Then a pop, and the shrill whistle of escaping air.
With it, an incredibly foul smell: musty and brackish, the scent of disease and death.
And, carried in the gasping expelled breath, a whisper.
A whisper of my name.
• • •
My hands pulled away, and I fell backward onto the lawn.
The bag shifted. The rattle of bones.
Then more of the bags shifted. More of the suck and release of stretched plastic over anxious mouths.
Faces pressed out from each of the bags, as if staring at me through a curtained window.
Too many to save.
Then a series of soft cracks, like the rude snap of chewing gun. Musty odor forced its way through tiny holes. Each bag acted as a bellows of foul air, squeezed to expel syllables over diseased vocal chords.
“Nathan,” they called.
I pushed my hands over my ears and clamored back toward the house.
• • •
“What time is it?” Pam was too groggy to register anger, at least for the moment. Her voice drifted lazily from the speaker. I leaned forward and spoke into the recessed panel in the recliner’s armrest.
“Late.
I leaned over the bag and fumbled with the plastic tie. The bag’s opening was twisted into a firm rope, the locking tie pulled to its tightest available notch. I dropped the flashlight to the ground so I could use both hands, trying to curl the flat yellow wedges and thread them back through the tie’s small opening. But the tie was designed to be much easier to seal than to remove, and I didn’t have enough room to maneuver my fingers.
Desperate rasps urged me to act as the plastic swelled out then sucked in over the child’s gasping mouth.
Break the seal. Let some air in.
I reached beneath the tie and grasped a loose fold of the bag. The plastic stretched as I pulled it apart with both hands, but it refused to break.
The bag remained rooted to the ground, heavy with the weight of the trapped child.
My knuckles whitened with tension, and the scratches on my right palm flared up in renewed pain. I tried to push my thumbs through the stretched fold, but the plastic wasn’t taut enough beneath my nails.
More rustles and squeaking rasps of plastic over the child’s mouth. My own breathing grew more desperate, my throat constricting in helpless sympathy. Time was running out.
Over the mouth. That’s where the plastic was stretched to its limit. It might be taut enough.
I dropped to my knees, my hands finding the shape of the head and grasping it on each side to hold it steady. The texture of hair fluttered beneath my fingertips; an open jaw pressed against the heels of my palms. The child’s face felt like skin instead of slick plastic.
Leaning close, I whispered towards one of the ears: “Don’t be afraid. I’m trying to help.”
And I plunged both thumbs into the taut area over the mouth.
The plastic stretched back, my thumbs warm as they passed over a wriggling tongue. The child’s jaw tensed beneath my palms and I pushed my hands closer together to keep the joint from snapping shut. “Don’t close your mouth,” I whispered, afraid of being bitten—and also afraid my hands would press together too hard, crushing the child’s head.
My thumbs pressed deeper. I held the head steady to keep it from pulling back.
Deeper.
Plastic stretched, and my thumbs hit a hard surface at the back of the child’s throat.
The head shook beneath my hands in quick surges. Gag reflex.
Nowhere else to go, I pushed my thumbs together and pressed against the tongue, forcing my thumbs down the throat.
Deeper.
The head tried to shake some more. I held it steady, but the face felt brittle like an eggshell.
Deeper. The stretch of plastic.
Then a pop, and the shrill whistle of escaping air.
With it, an incredibly foul smell: musty and brackish, the scent of disease and death.
And, carried in the gasping expelled breath, a whisper.
A whisper of my name.
• • •
My hands pulled away, and I fell backward onto the lawn.
The bag shifted. The rattle of bones.
Then more of the bags shifted. More of the suck and release of stretched plastic over anxious mouths.
Faces pressed out from each of the bags, as if staring at me through a curtained window.
Too many to save.
Then a series of soft cracks, like the rude snap of chewing gun. Musty odor forced its way through tiny holes. Each bag acted as a bellows of foul air, squeezed to expel syllables over diseased vocal chords.
“Nathan,” they called.
I pushed my hands over my ears and clamored back toward the house.
• • •
“What time is it?” Pam was too groggy to register anger, at least for the moment. Her voice drifted lazily from the speaker. I leaned forward and spoke into the recessed panel in the recliner’s armrest.
“Late.
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