Page 10 of Not This Place

"Listen," Lazarus instructed, his gaze fixed on the dark below.

The boy listened. The whimpering continued, laced with fear. It was human, a voice straining against circumstance. The boy's grip on the bucket faltered, knuckles white.

"Remember this," Lazarus said, turning to look at his son. His eyes were steel, unyielding.

The boy nodded, dirt slipping from the bucket's rim. The sound from the hole clawed at the air.

But Lazarus felt no pity.

"Pour it," Lazarus said, his voice a low rumble against the rising wind. He stood over the hole, eyes unblinking, hands firm on his hips.

The boy hesitated, his small fingers tightening around the metal handle of the bucket. Dust and dirt clung to his palms. The weight of his father's expectation bore down on him, heavier than the bucket he held. The whimpering drifted up from the darkness again, more urgent this time, a human sound that twisted in the boy's belly.

"Pour it, son."

The command was simple. Steadfast. Lazarus's presence commanded obedience, an unspoken law as old as the land they stood upon. The boy swallowed hard, the taste of fear sharp on his tongue. With a trembling effort, he tilted the bucket.

Dirt cascaded into the hole, a steady stream of earth falling to darkness. Each granule seemed to cry out as it tumbled away, joining the symphony of whispers below. The boy watched, wide-eyed, as the dirt hit something soft, something alive. The whimpering crescendoed with each shovelful, now laced with pleas, muffled cries that begged for air, for light, for mercy.

"Keep going." Lazarus's voice cut through the pleas, relentless.

The boy poured, the contents of his bucket dwindling. The cries grew louder, desperate. They clawed their way up from the pit, reaching for the boy, pulling at his heart. But he did not stop. He could not. His father's will was immutable, a force as unyielding as the earth itself.

The gun appeared in Lazarus's hand, a silent specter that had materialized from the folds of his jacket. It was an extension of his resolve, its barrel aimed down into the abyss of the hole with an unflinching steadiness. His thumb pulled back the hammer with an ominous click, a sound that echoed against the walls of the pit.

"Quiet," Lazarus ordered, his voice no longer a father's gentle instruction but the cold, hard edge of authority. The words fell like stones, absolute and final.

A stifled sob caught on the raw Texas breeze, then nothing. The air grew thick with the silence that followed, punctuated only by the distant caw of a crow. The whimpering ceased, snuffed out like a flame under a boot heel. The presence in the hole, once so vocal in its despair, now held its breath, as if the very ground it lay upon commanded submission.

Lazarus stood motionless, the gun unwavering in his grip. The sun bore down, casting stark shadows that sliced across the land, segmenting it into parcels of light and dark. The heat radiated off the dirt, carrying with it the scent of sagebrush and the hint of something else—something feral.

In the hollow quiet, the boy's chest rose and fell rapidly, his eyes wide, locked onto the figure of his father. He looked for signs of the man he knew, the tender gestures now replaced with the grim tableau before him.

The earth around the hole lay disturbed, clods of soil displaced, their jagged edges sharp and accusing. The gun remained pointed downward, a silent sentinel over the unseen captive below. Lazarus's face was etched with the harsh lines of necessity, his jaw set, his eyes fixed on the void he guarded.

The world seemed to hold its breath, waiting for what would come next. But for now, there was only the gun, the man, the boy, and the grave-like silence that enveloped them all.

The whimpering quieted.

Lazarus lowered the gun. The metal cooled in his hand, a stark contrast to the heat that clung to everything else. He took a deep breath, his chest expanding with the weight of the morning's work. Without a word, he turned his back to the hole, the dark abyss that had swallowed their secret.

The boy hesitated, his small hand still gripping the empty bucket. Lazarus reached out and took it, his touch firm but reassuring. They began to walk, boots pressing into the parched earth. The land stretched out before them, an endless tapestry of scrub and dust.

"Come on," Lazarus said, his voice low, almost lost in the vastness around them. The boy nodded, his steps falling in line with his father's. Together, they traversed the rugged terrain, each footfall deliberate, pressing evidence of their presence into the ground.

The sun climbed higher, unrelenting. The air grew thick with heat, shimmering above the fields. Lazarus wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. His eyes scanned the horizon, taking in every detail—the way the barbed wire fence needed mending, the cattle grazing listlessly in the distance, the dry creek bed that hadn't seen water in months.

They reached the edge of a paddock. Lazarus stopped, squinting against the glare. He pointed to a distant oak tree, its branches gnarled and twisted from years of standing sentinel over the land. "That tree's been here longer than any of us," he said. "Seen droughts, floods... even blood."

The boy followed his gaze, his expression unreadable. Lazarus watched him, searching for signs of understanding, of acceptance. But the child's face remained innocent, untouched by the harsh lessons the land taught.

"Let's go back," Lazarus commanded. It was not a suggestion. He turned, expecting the boy to follow. But as they retraced their steps, Lazarus's mind lingered on the hole, on the secret.

Silence enveloped them, a cloak woven from the threads of unspoken thoughts and unasked questions. Each step carried the weight of the unknown, the burden of what had been done, of what might yet come to pass.

As they approached the house, Lazarus paused, looking back over the land they had walked. The hole lay out of sight, but its presence was felt—a silent witness to the morning's events.

"Inside," Lazarus instructed. The boy obeyed, leaving the door ajar as Lazarus remained outside, staring into the distance. And then he grabbed the shovel leaning against the house, marching back towards the hole in the ground.

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