Terror

Only big enough for Nick to turn over, the box that imprisoned him was buried six feet below ground. Lying on his back, Nick Stokes, a crime scene investigator for the Las Vegas Crime Lab, tried to keep his cool. Having been knocked unconscious by an unknown assailant while processing a crime scene, Nick had woken up disoriented and confused.

Feeling around the small confines of the box, Nick had found a tape recorder, light sticks and his gun. He knew the gun was loaded, and knew it would be easy to pull the trigger and end this nightmare, but he was too strong for that. Or, he thought he was. Now, as he lay bathed in the eerie green glow of the sticks, Nick began to wonder how long he would be able to resist placing the gun beneath his chin and pulling the trigger.

Nick had grown up in Texas, the son of a prominent lawyer and a loving mother. He always felt loved and secure, and as he lay flat on his back in the dark, Nick wondered if he would ever see them again. He had been interested in crime-solving for as long as he could remember, and after graduation from high school, had gone to Texas A&M to major in Forensics. Nick was smart and usually cool under pressure, but not now. He could feel his grip on his sanity slowly slipping away as he thought more and more about the dire situation he was in. Surely, if he stayed rational and calm, he could wait it out until he was found. His friends back at the lab would have to have missed him, and were probably looking for him right now. They'd find him. They were criminal investigators, for god's sake. They would find him. Nick just prayed they wouldn't be too late.

Lapsing into a fitful sleep, Nick was brutally awakened by a bright light shining into his face. Throwing an arm up over his eyes, he tried to block the intense glare. After being in the dark box, the sudden light was painful to his eyes. The fan beside his head that had been supplying air for him to breathe whirred to a stop. Without the circulation of the fan, Nick knew his air supply in the box would soon run out.

"Hurry up and go off!" he whispered to the offending light, but it stayed on, its light illuminating his strange, claustrophobic world.

After a few moments, the light finally went out, and Nick placed his arm across his chest. How long had it been, he wondered, but didn't look at his watch. He didn't want to; he had a rough idea of how much time he had in the box before he would die, and he was reluctant to confirm the time, for then he'd be counting down the minutes. But it was so hot in the box. So terribly hot, even with the fan whirring quietly in his ear. Nick felt the sweat break out on his forehead; felt it trickle down his temple and into his short black hair. Nick's shoulder blades, sacrum and the back of his head began to hurt from laying on the hard surface of the box's floor.

"God, how long is it going to take?" he whispered, wondering if his friends were on their way.

The fan stopped as the light came back on, and Nick squeezed his eyes tightly against the glare. Suddenly, a sound like a rifle shot filled his ears, and he realized it originated near his feet. Glancing down, Nick saw the crack in the Plexiglas wall of the box as it began near his left foot and spider-webbed along the side of the coffin.

"What now?" Nick thought, and picked up the gun, checking the magazine. For a moment, he put the muzzle to his temple, his finger quivering on the trigger. As he thought of his life so far, and his family, a tear streaked down his cheek. This was not at all how he expected his life to end. Part of his job involved processing suicides, and he'd seen the hurt and anger in the faces of the victim's family. A picture of his parents, faces twisted in anguish and despair, filled his mind, and Nick jerked the gun away from his head.

"Not yet," he yelled, and aimed at the light at his feet. Squinting, he sighted and pulled the trigger, plunging the interior of the coffin once more into darkness. The glow stick he'd been using had dimmed, and Nick reached for another, twisting it in his hand, and breaking it open. The green glow lit the box, and Nick breathed a sigh of relief as the fan came on once more.
"Stay calm," he told himself, and shifted to take some of the pressure off his back and buttocks. He didn't know how long he'd lain there, half-dozing and thinking of his family, when he felt it. At first, it was an itchy spot on his arm, and he reached up to scratch it, when he felt a sharp pinch and an intense burning sensation on his skin. He slapped at his arm, and then the sensation came again, more this time, all over his arm. Gasping, Nick brushed at his arm again, and the burning, stinging pain enveloped his hand.

"What the hell?" he gasped in fear, and shined the glow stick onto his hand. Fire ants: tiny, red segmented insects all over his hand and arm.

"Oh, my god," Nick whispered, as his arm began to burn as if he'd lain it upon a bed of coals.

Adrenaline shot through his veins as the burning crept along his arm, shoulder, and neck. His other arm was beginning to hurt, too, as was his legs, where the ants had crawled up his boots, under his thick denim jeans.

"Go away!" Nick shouted, his voice heavy with the panic that gripped his throat.

"Get off of me, you bastards!" he cried out as they began to attack his face and head.

The bites from the ants were so painful, almost unbearable, and Nick fought to keep from crying out; from using up any of the precious oxygen left in his cage. Shoving his hand into his pocket, Nick grasped the latex exam gloves he had for the crime scene, and tore off two good sized pieces, shoving them in his nostrils. This would keep the malicious ants from entering his nose, stinging it and causing it to swell shut. Next, he retrieved his last piece of the pink bubble-gum he always carried, and crammed it in his mouth, chewing desperately until it was a sugary, sticky wad. Taking it out, he pulled it in two and plugged up his ears. As if in anger, an ant bit hard on his earlobe, causing Nick to scream in pain.

"Come on, Grissom," he pleaded silently, "please find me."

Unbeknownst to Nick, his abductor had set up a web cam to allow the other members of his team to view his predicament over the internet. Grissom had seen the ants, and Catherine was working feverishly to pin-point the location of the ants, knowing that there were no fire-ants in Nevada. Nick was unaware how long he lay, mouth shut tightly against the stinging ants, hearing muffled, and breathing made more difficult by the latex in his nose. He had left a goodbye message on the tape recorder, telling his family he loved them, and apologizing to Grissom for letting him down. Nick didn't want to move; he knew better, for as long as the fire ants felt no movement, they wouldn't sting him so much. But, Nick depressed the 'play' button on the recorder, listening again to his strangled, frightened voice as he spoke into the machine.

"Grissom," he had said, "I know you did your best to find me. I'm sorry I let you down; sorry I let the team down. I only wanted to be the best crime scene investigator I could, and I shouldn't have let my guard down tonight. Please get this to my parents."

Nick shut off the recorder. He couldn't bear to listen to his message to his mother and father again; it had been hard enough to tell them goodbye, and he had hated the whimpering and trembling voice he'd recorded it in. Nick Stokes didn't cry; not often, and he damn sure wasn't going to die feeling sorry for himself. He felt dizzy and lightheaded from the fire ant venom, and his heart began to pound in his ears. Nick knew he was close to dying, and he felt another tear squeeze out between his lashes and trail down his face. In response, a fire ant bit him painfully just beneath the eye. Nick sucked in a breath, the latex clogging his nose.

The dream was twisted, convoluted and horrific. Dr. Robbins and Nick's father were standing over him on the autopsy table, cracking jokes as Robbins cut Nick's chest open with a common kitchen knife. Nick was conscious, and watched as the coroner pulled his rib cage away and tossed it over his shoulder, laughing at a joke his father was telling him. Maniacally, the doctor began pulling Nick's organs from his chest: his liver, stomach, and his heart, handing them to Nick's father. Nick watched in horror from somewhere near the ceiling as the two men went about the business of rummaging around in Nick's chest. From far away, Nick could hear a faint scraping sound. It seemed to be coming from right above him, above his chest.

Opening his eyes, Nick realized he was still in the coffin, and the remaining shreds of the whacky dream faded away as he tried hard to listen through the sticky gum in his ears. He felt mentally weary, and his entire body burned from the fire ant burns. Grasping the pistol at his side once more, Nick brought it up and placed it under his chin.

"Screw this; I'm out of here," he whispered, and held the gun tightly, feeling the metal pressing into his feverish skin. Suddenly, he heard a pounding; it seemed to come from right over his face, and Nick's eyes snapped open. He was unsure if his mind was playing a cruel trick on him as he looked into Warrick Brown's concerned, worried face.

"Don't do it, Nicky!" Warrick hollered, waving his hand at his friend. "We're going to get you out; put the gun down."

Nick felt hot, salty tears run down his face as he realized his ordeal was almost over. He'd never been so happy to see Warrick as he was now, and he pounded on the Plexiglas top of the coffin. Warrick disappeared, and Grissom's face appeared before him.
"Nick, just hang on; we're getting you out." His boss instructed, and Nick nodded, breath coming in sobs as he tried to be patient. His nightmare was over, and Nick could hardly wait to go home.