Buried Alive

BURIED ALIVE

I heard the timbers crack. Then the windows imploded. Then the house began to shift and splinter around me.

I was a dead woman.

*****

I’d arrived home late last night—no, actually really early this morning. It was around four a.m. when I pulled into my long driveway. I’d been driving for hours, and all I wanted to do was get home and fall into bed and sleep. I’d been back country camping for a week—just me and nature, sleeping under the stars. That was actually the reason I came home.

It had started to rain early last night—a lot. So, instead of sleeping in a damp tent on the wet ground, I packed everything up, and hiked back to my car—a three hour hike that took longer because it was dark out, and everything was soaking wet and weighed a ton. It was a miserable, slippery hike down to my car. I’d fallen to my knees a couple of times when I slipped in the mud and lost my balance. By the time I made it to the parking lot I was drenched, dirty, and completely un-enchanted by nature. The drive home took four hours. I briefly considered sleeping in my car, or finding a cheap motel where I could crash until morning. But everything I owned was soaking wet—myself included—and I just wanted to get home, have a nice hot shower, and sleep in my own bed. There’s no place like home, right?

The storm increased in fury as I drove. By the time I rolled into my driveway I was equal parts exhausted from the three hour hike down the mountain, jittery from caffeine, and stressed out from the harrowing drive. I was never so happy to see my little house.

The rain pounded and the wind howled as I dragged all my camping gear inside. Mold liked nothing better than a wet tent to breed, so I had to drag all my equipment into the house and unpack and air out before bed. I showered, changed into my pyjamas, feeling bit more human after my shower, I walked into the living room knowing I had to unpack everything before I could sleep.

Then the lights went out. The fridge stopped buzzing, my music stopped mid-song, the furnace stopped ticking. Silence. I could hear the wind shrieking and the rain pelting.

“Damnit!”

Power outages are nothing new or rare out where I live. I’m about one step away from being off the grid, so I was prepared. I heard the generator come alive, chugging and thrumming. Then the lights flickered back on. The furnace started. The fridge started humming. My music started. Thank you Generac generator.

I hung laid out my wet tent, fly, and sleeping bag. I looked around at the piles of supplies strewn around the room. As I walked into my room and fell into bed, I promised myself I would put the rest of the stuff away tomorrow. The last thing I remembered hearing was the storm raging while I was warm and snuggly in my bed.

Something jolted me awake. I wasn’t sure what. I opened my eyes very reluctantly and looked around the room. It was daylight. I looked at my watch—6:17 a.m. I’d been asleep for about an hour.

Damn.

I lay there not moving. I wasn’t actually sure that I could move, I was that exhausted. Instead I listened. I heard the storm, still raging inside—the rain pelting the house and the wind roaring through the trees. The generator wasn’t growling away. I listened harder. Water. Inside the house. Not good. That’s when I heard it—a low rumbling, growling, creaking sound.

I rolled onto my back and looked at the ceiling. What I saw chilled me—a crack radiating diagonally across my bedroom ceiling. A big, wide crack that had definitely not been there when I had gone to bed an hour ago.

Shit! The house was shifting!

I had to get out, right now! I jumped out of bed and blindly I ran towards the front door—my exit to safety. At the end of the hall I stopped dead in my tracks—not because I wanted to, but because I had to.

The open area—kitchen, living room, dining room—looked as if a giant had stomped on the floor, detaching it from the walls, the floor cantered at an unsafe angle and had dropped down about a foot. Everything that had been in those rooms had slid to my side of the house, blocking my exit. Mud was sluicing through the middle of the floor. The windows had imploded, and my front door hung askew in the jamb. My car had been pushed against the house, mud filling the interior. An uprooted white pine’s roots pushed against the fractured windows, roots hanging where my couch had been.

Crap! Crap! Crap! Mud slide!

Living in the mountains, I knew what to do—get higher ground and protect my head and body from trauma.

I ran to the end of the hall and yanked the cord to deploy the attic stairs.

Nothing.

Jammed.

Shit, shit, shit!

I pulled harder.

Nothing.

Screw it! I jumped up the rope let my weight pull the stairs down.

A small budge.

Again.

More.

Again.

Finally, the hatch opened, but the stairs only deployed a couple of feet. I heard my bedroom window exploded, and the house shifted again. I had to jump up to reach the bottom rung on the ladder. I climbed, tilting precariously to the right. I grabbed the lip of the attic, and threw myself in. Everything in the attic was sliding towards me. I took a direct hit from a chair. I grunted, pushing it off of me. I was sliding towards the lowest point, unable to stop my descent. I scrabbled at the floor trying to slow my slide Debris bounced off of me. A solid cedar chest missed me, close enough to snag a few strands of hair, a box of hardcover books caromed off of my foot. The house shrieked, and jolted further, the floor tilting steeper, causing me to slide faster. I slammed feet-first into the chest, my legs buckling.

The room was dark, very little light seeping in from below. The house groaned again. The roof at the upper end creaked and groaned louder, the roof joists snapping, huge piece of timber crashing down. I felt the back end of the house—the end now facing up—collapse onto itself. Part of the roof caved, mud and debris flooding the attic space. I tried scrambling up the pile in corner. It was unstable and I fell and sliding down, mud encasing my legs, rocks caught in the sluice punishing me. I tried heaving myself out of quagmire, but more mud was sliding down into the open cavity of my attic, swallowing up me and everything piled around me.

The house jolted again, tilting to the left, knocking one of my legs free of the mud. Objects from the pile shifted, slamming into me. The damn cedar chest shifted sideways, crushing my left foot between it and what I suspected was a boulder caught in the mud. The pain was enormous, catching my breath in my throat.

Then, everything stopped moving, the only sounds the house groaning and the steady drip, drip, drip of water. One leg was free, but the other was pinned hot pain engulfing me. I knew my ankle was probably broken. I was face up and able to breathe, but I was head-first facing down towards the lowest part of the room—the slightest bit of movement could send me head-first into the mud where I would either break my neck, or suffocate in the mud. I lay there, assessing. I hurt all over, but the white-hot pain radiating from my foot was breathtaking. I’d been hit, it seemed, by every piece of “treasure” I had stored up in my attic. I cursed my packrat habit.

I was buried alive.

My upper body was free-ish. I was covered in mud, but not enough to pin me immobile. Carefully, I started digging myself out. It was slow, tedious work. Eventually, I could prop my upper body up using my elbows. Working blind, I followed my left leg down until I could feel the chest pinning my foot. It was stuck in the mud like a sentinel, standing almost straight up on end—I was trapped but only by the edge. I used my right foot to slowly push away the mud in hopes that I could tip the chest off of me and send it sliding down away—hopefully not slamming into my upper body and head.

I worked for what felt like hours. I was cold and frightened and in a lot of pain. I couldn’t feel my trapped foot, which is never a good sign. I used my uninjured foot to rock the chest back and forth, hoping that I could heave it over, away from me. No such luck. There was something stuck on top of the chest, holding it in place.

I sat as far forward as I could, my fingers skimming the edge of the cedar chest. I shook it. It wobbled. I shook it harder. I pushed it as far away from me as I could. It started to tumble down, but the broken piece of lumber that had been jammed on top of the chest dropped straight down, striking me in the head. Everything went black.

I don’t know how much time had passed before I came to. The wood was straddled across my body. I was able to shot putt it off away from me. I heard it thud down and land amid the mud-covered remains of my home.

I took stock. My head was throbbing. My ankle was throbbing. I was freezing cold, teeth chattering. I was still trapped, hanging head down on the mud pile. The only thing keeping me from sliding down into the mud and broken furniture was my left ankle, which was still jammed between the mud and the rock. Because water will always find the quickest and easiest way to flow down, the mud encasing my ankle was dried rock solid without the the water lubricating it.

Of course it was. I tried to kick at it with my other foot, but every jolt sent scorching pain radiating up my leg. I tried to sit up, reaching my ankle. I tried gently crumbling the dirt encasing my ankle. By finding the edges against my shin, I was able to slowly, painfully free my foot. Before I was fully free I had to find a handhold—if I didn’t, gravity was going to drag me down to join the chair, cedar chest, splintered wood, and tons of mud filling my attic. I felt around. Up, to my left was a jutting rock. I yanked on it. It held. I had to figure out how I could dig out my (probably) broken ankle without passing out, and hanging on to the rock at the same time.

I grabbed the rock, and tried to free my foot the dirt. I tried moving my foot. It was too painful. I yelped and started crying. I used my free foot to ease it out. Same breathtaking pain. The slow method wasn’t working. I had to pull the bandage off quickly. I yanked my foot free while holding tight to the rock. The pain was searing. I think I passed out for a second. I know I screamed. My lower body across and slid down like a pendulum, while I flipped over on my stomach.

I was free. But so what? Was I going to hang on until … I stopped, hanging there, knees digging into the dirt. Hang on until what? Until the rest of the house collapsed on me? Until I hypothermia killed me? Until I could literally dig myself out of this mess?

That was the point that I realized that I was going to die in my little house. Nobody would be looking for me. Hell, they probably didn’t even know about the slide.

Nope. I was going to die alone, covered in mud, trapped by nature. No one knew I was home. I wasn’t even expected until some time later tonight.

I started to cry, the despair overwhelming me. I’d never see my family or friends again. I’d never be able to do any of the things on my bucket list. I’d never get married. I’d never have kids. Never adopt a dog. I’d never be able to look back on my life and know that I was a good person.

I let myself cry a bit more—for a life not lived. But I mustered myself. I wiped my tears, and sniffed up my despair. I wasn’t going to go out without a fight. I slowly climbed higher up the mud pile, moaning in pain. I was able to get above the rock, and straddle it to stop from sliding down. My head almost touched the roof gable, right where the roof met the gable wall—at least that ’s where I thought I was. I banged on the roof with my fist. A dull muted thud sounded. I started to laugh My entire house had been reduced to splinters, but my roof was still intact. The irony was painful.

I sat for a long time, listening the rain outside and hearing the house groan and creak. I was tired, so tired. I figured hypothermia setting in. I had stopped shaking—not a good sign. I leaned back on the mud and shut my eyes. I couldn’t stay awake. I knew I was dying, so I just embraced it. I let go, and allowed a very sad peace to embrace me. It was so much easier than fighting an unwinnable battle.

As I drifted off, I thought of my parents, and their dog Agnus. She was such a good girl. She always barked with so much joy when I saw her.

Bark! Bark! Bark!

I could almost hear her barking her happy bark—over and over.

Bark! Bark! Bark!

She was such a good girl. I’d really miss Agnus.

Bark! Bark! Bark!

So much barking, Agnus. I need to sleep. Shhh.

“Hello! Is there anybody in there?” said Agnus.

Bark! Bark! Bark!

“Hello!” said Agnus, again.

“Agnus!” I said. “I’m in here.”

“Hey! There’s someone alive in there! Get the saws!”

Bark! Bark! Bark!

Get the saws? Agnus couldn’t use a saw. Agnus also couldn’t talk.

I closed my eyes. I was so tired.

****

I felt arms lifting me. Was I going to heaven? I opened my eyes. The daylight hurt my eyes, so I squinted them shut again.

“You’re going to be alright. We’ve got you.” I looked at the dirty faces of my rescuers.

“This doesn’t look like the afterlife,” I said. “Unless someone has a very weird sense of humour.” I shut my eyes.

They loaded me on a stretcher, splinted my ankle (yes it was broken), taped up a gash on the side of my head, and wrapped me in a space blanket. Six orange helmeted angels started to carry me down the mud slide, three on each side.

Just like a coffin, I thought. Maybe I was dead.

“Hey,” I said. “Where’s Agnus?”

They stopped and looked at me, questioningly.

The man closest to me asked“Agnus? There was someone else in the house with you?” A worried look passed between the rescuers.

“No. I was alone,” I said. “Agnus, my parents’ dog. I heard her barking outside. She came to save me.”

The same man smiled, “Oh you mean Radar!” He turned and called to the search and rescue canine handler. “Hey, Marta, bring Radar over here.”

She trotted up, a Belgian Malinois at her hip, tongue lolling out the side, seeming to smile at me.

I reached my hand out to her. “Thank you, Radar. You found me.”

She licked my hand.

I smiled and shut my eyes.