It's six o'clock in the evening. Without the light turning on and off, the air from the fan has been steady, but is only just enough to keep him breathing. The air doesn't add as much comfort as he had thought, he's drenched in sweat, his back hurts and he can't feel his legs. He can't seem to get his arms in a comfortable position, they're either hugging his body or jammed between him and the box. The space in the box feels somehow even more cramped than before.
Who could do this to another human being? He almost wishes the man on the tape had just shot him instead of throwing him in a box and telling him to do it himself. Why did the man take Nick, and not the distracted police officer? Because you followed the evidence. Because that's what CSIs do.
The guy on the tape didn't even say his name, was this even about Nick at all? Grissom's words still haunt him from that night in the station. Nigel Crane on the other side of the glass, watching Nick even though he can't physically see him.
"I don't think it was about you, Nick."
As if that offers any comfort.
He wonders if they are still looking for him. Were they given a ransom? He vaguely remembers a case from four years ago, where the victim was buried alive for a ransom. Would the department even be able to pay it?
He darkly envisions a collection jar in the break room with his name on it, his friends and co-workers dropping coins and dollar bills into the jar. Coins...he flipped a coin with Warrick for that trash run. He's never gambling with Warrick again.
He sighs, remembering his good mood from the previous night, his playful teasing of Warrick, singing along to one of his favorite songs in the car...
"It was Christmas in Las Vegas, when the locals take the town. Theresa hit a streak and laid her waitress apron down"
He remembers the cool air of nighttime in Nevada blowing gently on his face, and smiles.
"She was playing penny poker, over at the old Gold Spike"
He remembers what it feels like to breathe fresh air.
"She tired of Texas hold 'em, so she switched to let it ride"
He remembers what it feels like to be alive.
His singing trails off, and he's left in silence once again. He checks his watch. One minute has passed. Time seems to have stretched, every second ticking by feels like an hour. Maybe he should stop checking the time. Maybe if he does, they'll find him sooner.
If they ever find him at all.
He tries to envision himself on the other side of the glass, where would he even begin to look for someone buried underneath the earth? He remembers that Grissom and Sara had found the woman buried alive in the desert using an infrared camera, maybe they're using the same to find him now…
But what if he's not buried in an easily searchable space? What if people are walking above him, completely unaware that there is a body hidden beneath the surface?
Suddenly, he hears a soft scratching noise, he strains to locate the source. The noise gets louder, it's not just scratching, it almost sounds like...creaking? Crunching? He looks up at the dirt above him, searching for signs of movement. He cracks one of the remaining glow sticks for more light as the scratching gets louder. Is there someone digging above him?
"Hey!" he shouts. He shakes the glow stick, knocks on the glass, shouting to attract attention to himself. "I'm in here! Hey!"
His voice cracks, and he feels like he doesn't have much time before he loses his voice. His throat is dry and stings as he begins to sing again, clinging onto the hope that whoever is above him can hear him. He doesn't care that his singing is terrible, he doesn't care that he's starting to cry, he doesn't care that it could be his own abductor digging him out to drug him again and put him in another terrifying situation. He just cares about getting out of this alive.
"I'm here!" he cries out one final time, pounding helplessly against the box. The dirt isn't moving the but the sounds are continuing, getting even louder. He should be able to see some sign of movement, should be able to hear voices calling from above, telling him that they're coming…
He looks to the sides, maybe the box isn't oriented horizontally like he thinks it is. Nothing up top, nothing to the left and nothing to the right...but at the bottom, he sees the source of the noise, and his heart drops.
The "scratching" he heard wasn't scratching, it was the sound of dirt starting to seep through the two bullet holes he created when he shot the light. Dirt was flowing through like water, and the creaking noise was coming from the cracks around the hole, which were spreading out, rapidly.
He feels the panic rise as his breathing intensifies. His left hand trembles, still clutching the glow stick. He holds his right hand against the top of the box, which remains undamaged. The cracks have spread to the sides of the box, and are now spreading further, faster. The cracks reach past his waist, coming up to his torso and then his neck and then his head. Dirt has spilled over his pants, almost completely covering his feet.
"No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no" he pleads in a whisper. It's just as he feared when he shot that damn light hours ago. Between these cracks and the pressure of the earth, this box is going to collapse sooner or later, and he can't do a single thing to stop it.
Oh my God.