This chapter was a struggle--quite difficult to write. I hope it is at least somewhat coherent and enjoyable.
Waking the Dead Part Six
Rated: R
It had been hours since MacGyver promised to return to the safe house. Growing worried, Pete panicked and sent some of his security team to search for him. When they returned, their usually calm, professional demeanors could not mask the concern in their eyes.
“Well, what is it? Did you find anything?” He asked.
“Mr. Thornton, we found the car MacGyver took abandoned a few miles up the road. There was no sign of him anywhere, and no indication of violence,” his head security man said.
Pete released a groan, feeling ill. His worst fears were confirmed. Something had happened to MacGyver, and now he had no idea where he was.
Damn it, Mac! When are you going to start listening to me? He thought.
“Sir? Are you all right?” The lead security man asked, noticing Pete’s sudden discomfort. He was rubbing his forehead as if he had a headache.
“All right,” Pete said, sighing and looking up at his men, pain and fatigue in his bloodshot eyes. “I guess we’d better alert the police to be on the lookout for him. Provide them with a description, where he was last seen, the car—everything. We have to find MacGyver as soon as possible.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll get on it right away.”
Pete began to feel guilty.
I should never have let him go, he thought. Now, he was missing, and if the man that was after him had him in the clutches of that debilitating poison…he tried not to think of it, but he couldn’t avoid it. MacGyver would be helpless and completely vulnerable, and of course his assailant would use it to his advantage. With MacGyver paralyzed and unable to defend himself, the man could do anything he wanted to him, which was a sickening, frightening thought that Pete couldn’t dispel. He knew that if they didn’t hurry and do everything in their power to find him, it might be too late.
***
Murdoc placed MacGyver’s inert body in a sturdy, well-constructed, and ornate coffin. As much as he hated him and had a strong desire to simply dump him unceremoniously in a hole or cremate him alive, his flair for the theatrical made it difficult to resist putting on a more elaborate, formal display. Also, he knew MacGyver would suffer for a longer period of time that way, the relief of an immediate death denied to him. He left the heavy lid open and took several pictures for the record and as a trophy he could present to H.I.T. as evidence of the poison’s effectiveness, managing to bring down the one man that had up until then been impossible to kill.
Despite the turmoil raging inside MacGyver’s mind, his expression looked peaceful, golden strands of his hair spreading out on the coffin’s satin pillow. If it had been a fairy tale, a maiden’s kiss could have revived him and liberated him from his death-like sleep, but in reality, nothing could free him, even though he continued to struggle to make even the slightest movement. He felt the increased potency of the poison, his body feeling weighted down and crushed, his lungs and heart as hard as stones. Unlike a real near-death state as his coma had been, there was no one present from some other world to comfort him. Even hearing Pete’s sobs was preferable to the nothingness and isolation he experienced now. Robbed of all senses except hearing, he couldn’t be certain where Murdoc had taken him, but he knew his situation was desperate.
Come on, Mac! Fight it! You can get out of it! If you don’t, you’ll die this time! He shouted in his mind.
No matter what he tried—threats, cajoling, demands, forcing himself—nothing could unlock his body. Even more so than the last time he was poisoned, the lack of control terrified him to a level of fear he had never experienced before. If he could, he would have screamed.
“You make a lovely corpse, MacGyver,” Murdoc said, giggling gleefully, gloating over the power he now had, MacGyver unable to defend himself or stop him from carrying out his plans. “I’m sure you’re curious and fascinated about the concoction that coursed through your veins and caused you to end up this way. It was developed by research scientists working for H.I.T., specializing in chemical warfare. Composed of several toxins, it’s the ultimate tool for assassinations—neat, efficient, untraceable. Capable of suspending all organ functions except for the brain for days, it renders the victim…almost lifeless.” He grinned sadistically at MacGyver’s rigid, unresponsive body. “Of course, the poor soul trapped inside his body knows he is not dead, but the poison does such an accurate job of mimicking death that everyone around the victim believes he is dead. Since the poison cannot be identified by any laboratory, the death can be ruled as natural. During this time, the victim suffers unimaginable torment as he is either buried, cremated, or embalmed—while still technically alive.” He laughed. “You know MacGyver, I was rather disappointed the autopsy didn’t get to be performed on you. I would have enjoyed the knowledge that your body was ripped apart while you were still alive. Ah, well…one can’t always have what one wants. You’ve proved that time and again. But now, it’s my turn, you see. I have you right where I want you. You can’t escape. Your creative mind is useless without a body to carry your plans out.”
He paused, looking at MacGyver’s body again, glad he didn’t have to hear a tiresome moral sermon, that he had a captive audience to listen to him without interruption—without a choice.
“Oh, one more thing I should mention about the poison to you—it is reversible and can paradoxically release the victim without harm—but only after many days and if administered properly, which unfortunately it wasn’t for you the first time, which was why you came out of it so quickly. It provides hope, but usually it’s too late for the victim. As extra insurance to make sure he can’t cry out for help after becoming mobile again, the vocal chords remain paralyzed for awhile longer. No matter what he does—or you do in this instance—the victim is doomed. Brilliant, isn’t it? Imagine the possibilities! You were selected to be the test subject, and I must say you’ve done an excellent job, exceeding my expectations and doing me a favor. Now that H.I.T. will know you’re dead—and with their designer poison nonetheless—they’ll start to respect me again. You can’t say I’m not grateful, MacGyver. Let it never be said that I didn’t reward you…with a proper burial,” he said, his voice darkening to a low, sinister growl.
Murdoc could be so predictable at times, even when he managed the unexpected. Inside MacGyver’s frantic mind, he knew it was highly probable that Murdoc would bury him alive, but he didn’t want to think about it. Now, his worst fears were verified. A part of him wondered if Murdoc was psychologically manipulating him. Since he couldn’t see with his eyelids sealed shut, Murdoc could have been merely playing another sick, twisted, and cruel game, frightening him by creating sounds that made it seem as if he was being buried when really he was not. Another part of him knew that he couldn’t be fooled by false hope, no matter how meager it was. Murdoc wanted him dead. He had always wanted him dead. Now, he would have his opportunity.
No! Oh, please get out of this…please…come on…before it’s too late… Murdoc looked at MacGyver’s body and smiled again, imagining the fearful, panicked, and desperate cries going on inside his mind, unable to be communicated or heard by anyone. He looked up at the dense forest surrounding them.
“Oh, and just so you know…in case you have any ideas remaining in your feeble mind that you’ll escape from this somehow—your attempts will be futile. I’m burying you in a nice, secluded area where no one will ever find you. Rest in peace, MacGyver,” Murdoc said, laughing as he slammed the coffin lid shut, forever sealing MacGyver inside, condemning him to a slow, torturous death.
NO! Oh God, no! Help me…please…someone help me... MacGyver felt he was losing his sanity as the reality of his situation literally closed in around him, no longer able to think rationally, fear dominating his thoughts. If he was ever going to survive, he had to move—now. Pushing again, his efforts were again a waste. He tried to calm himself, but nothing could stop the unrelenting terror he felt. He would be buried, lost to everyone he cared about, left to slowly die. While his body was suspended, he knew he had nothing to worry about—he could sustain himself inside the coffin. But once he could move again, he would soon asphyxiate. When he was a child, he used to read nightmarish and fantastic tales about mummies cursing their tombs because they met horrific ends—such as being buried alive. At the time, he only saw them as entertainment, certainly nothing valid. Now, he knew differently. The macabre sound that he imagined of his own fingers scraping against the coffin as if he was in some grisly Victorian horror story, grating and clawing pointlessly yet out of tremendous fear-- haunted him. Murdoc could trivialize it as a game, playing with his life as if it meant nothing—but it was very real to MacGyver.
Help…Please… THUMP!
The first shovel full of dirt struck the coffin. Even though the sound was muffled by the confined space MacGyver was trapped inside, it was unmistakable.
Come on, Mac! If you’re going to get out of this, now is the time! His mind remained willing and eager to move while his body refused to comply. The loads of dirt fell on top of him in rapid succession, as if Murdoc was anxious to finish his deed should he miraculously regain mobility again. His worries were unfounded. For once, he had succeeded in restraining MacGyver—not with ropes or chains or bars or anything tangible he could figure a way out of—but with a substance that stole his abilities to function. He could consider escape, but he couldn’t act on the impulse. It was perhaps the simplest yet most complex challenge he had ever presented to MacGyver, and it was his most effective method so far of killing him.
THUMP!
As the dirt rose around him, MacGyver wondered how deep Murdoc had dug the hole. He was a man of extremes, so it stood to reason that he would have been methodical, taking the time to dig the standard six feet. There would be no shallow grave, no possibility for him to create a signal that could penetrate the surface as there was the last time he was buried alive in an avalanche. Each pile of dirt that thudded against the coffin was working to kill him, slicing at him like a knife, slowly draining him of life. His situation was hopeless and he knew it. For the first time in his life, he realized there was no effort he could make to forestall his impending death. The finality of it scared him, and as much as he tried to calm himself, he couldn’t. He kept imagining the interminable hours to come, aware there was nothing he could do—waiting slowly to die. He was stranded, lost to the world, lost to those he cared about who would never learn his location. It was a lonely, miserable way to end his life, and he couldn’t believe that was how it would be.
There could still be a way…there’s always a way… He knew he was deluding himself. There would be no serendipitous last minute solution that would extricate him from the permanence of what he now faced. His brilliant mind was indeed useless without his body acting on its commands. Anything he conceived of would remain an unrealistic and unattainable abstract. He dreaded each dumping of dirt, but as it grew fainter and more distant, his panic increased. Murdoc was close to filling the hole completely. Soon, he would hear nothing and would be left with complete silence. The pounding had, in a peculiar way, provided some odd sense of comfort, the way Pete’s heart beating against his stilled body had. Left without sound, entombed in the darkness, he might as well have been dead already, devoid of all senses. Just as he feared, the constant bombardment of dirt piling around him ceased. Murdoc was finished. Now, all he had left were his thoughts, and they did nothing to console him, offering him no hope. He was out of ideas, his body shut down, his world taken from him.
To be continued…
"If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer."
--Henry David Thoreau
brains+brawn+beauty+personality=MacGyver
Write faster!! 
