Resurrection Diaries

Lying here in the dim light cast from my phone’s screen, I’m past the stage of intense panic I felt some time ago, now resigned to my inevitable fate. My breathing is shallow, and every lungful is now a struggle. The red battery indicator tells me I have minutes left to see the horror of this prison, so it’s the right time for me to record the details of the events that led to my current predicament. If I don’t escape, maybe someone will find my phone and tell my family the sorry tale of my demise.

Several weeks ago, late in the evening of my 18th birthday, my friends and I began a deep and drunken conversation about mortality. I’d been considering the meaning of life for some time, as you do when you break out of childhood and look at the world with fresh wide-open eyes. And we got to wonder about how each of us would prefer to die, if we had a choice. A strange conversation for sure, but it’s important to understand, as it foreshadowed a plan we hatched, which eventually through circumstances beyond my control, that led me here.

It’s strange but I feel calm. Maybe a lack of oxygen—I’d researched the symptoms, and I knew what to look for—but that was before I was here in that situation. Maybe I’m just confused. Only an autopsy will reveal the truth, but it won’t matter much to me.

Jesus, I’m starving hungry. One packet of sandwiches was not enough. Not for a growing girl—or at least that’s what mum would say. I wonder if my prince will ride up on his steed and rescue me? Unfortunately, it won’t be Frankie, but I’ll get to that part of the story soon. Okay, let’s rewind.

Building it was fun. I’d always liked woodwork, so this project was a joy. The art and craft of working with natural products always makes me smile. Once the spark of ambition lit the bulb, there’d been no stopping it. Frankie was manic, literally dragging me to the timber yard, and as soon as we saw Jason Swain behind the counter, we knew we’d been dealt a great hand. Jason was in our class, and even though he’s a sad sap—the class freakshow—a friendly face was a real bonus.

Whoa, hold on just a minute. Before I get into the real meat—the blood and guts—of this story, I need to explain something. One of our classmates, I think it was Anna Captsone but I’m not 100% on that, said Jason Swain was the spit of some UK guy called Fred West. I’d never heard of him, but apparently, he killed a bunch of people and it got a good laugh. Was this foreshadowing what might come later? Maybe.

Anyway, Jason was one of those kids who loved computers and electronics. He was constantly yaking about his CB friends—probably jacking off to convos with weirdos from Japan or some shit. No idea why I’m telling you this, but my mind’s all over the place. Anyway, Jason Swain. We knew he could be of some use, sometime, and seeing him there in the timer yard, I knew it was time to use my feminine charm.

Frankie had all the plans for the project. “Two large sheets of plywood, 120 cm long, two smaller ones, 80 cm long. Each piece needs to be 80 cm wide, with a 10mm gauge.”

“I’ve got some off cuts around the back,” Jason muttered, but even as he said it, it was clear he saw the determination in Frankie’s eyes.

“I’ve got money,” Frankie said, an indignant finger tapping his wallet. He pointed in the direction of the best prime timber.

“No way,” Jason said. “Bill will kill me.” He paused. “That stuff’s reserved for one of his clients.”

“We’ll pay you, stupid,” I said. “Just a little five finger discount on the nails and hammer.” I winked at him, exaggerating it with a bob of my head. “If you know what I mean? For a couple of old friends.”

I winked at him. Fuck, what an idiot. The poor sap’s face turned beetroot. It wasn’t like I’d offered to strip for him or give him a hand job. Not that he’d like that, from what I’d heard. He was more into little furry animals or something. Who the fuck really knows what goes on behind the closed door of a teenage boy’s bedroom?

With a grunt, Jason had trundled off and grabbed the wood from the rack.

“Perfucked,” Frankie had said. “We need nails.” I loved it when Frankie got enthusiastic. His most endearing quality. “And a big fucking hammer.”

“A normal hammer will do,” I said, laughing. “Big enough to bash your thick head.” That made Jason laugh. Looking back on it, his eyes had glinted with a kind of deeper thought as he play-acted smashing Frankie’s head in.

“Hey, quit it, freak,” Frankie said. “Or I’ll do it for real.”

Jason glared at Frankie, but he backed off, his complexion fierce. “Take your shit and fuck off.”

“Come on, dude, I didn’t mean it,” Frankie said. “I’m just yanking your chain. Don’t be a little bitch about it.”

It all seemed so innocent at the time. Playground banter. But lying here in this dark sarcophagus, waiting for the inevitable, it’s all so goddamned clear. Obvious, in fact.

When we’d packed the wood, nails and hammer into Frankie’s car, Jason turned to Frankie and said, “Sorry about that back there.”

“No worries, mate.”

Then Jason’s face broke into a grin. “Do you want to see my radio?” It was like he was a different person. Excited. Like a wind-up toy, fully sprung.

“Radio?” I questioned. Was this his CB shit, or something else?

“I built it last weekend,” Jason proclaimed. “It’s fucking mint.”

“Nice,” I said. “Can I pick it up on this?” I held up my prized clockwork radio, the one I carried everywhere. Just in case of, well, you know, nuclear war or something.

“Whoa,” Jason spluttered. “That’s so cool.” His eyes were popping from their sockets as he reached to grab it, but I pulled it away. “Go on, show me yours.”

He blushed again before I handed it over and he examined it. “No problem. I can broadcast on any of these frequencies, even all the way down there.” He was pointing at the low frequency switch, the one Uncle Regie said was for submarines.

A few minutes later, Jason was back from his clapped-out Ford, CB in hand. He turned the dial and was about to show me how it worked when Frankie pushed between us. “Gotta go, fucktard. We have some secret shit to take care of.”

When I think back, it was quite unfair the way Frankie treated him. He knew Jason would have loved to be involved in whatever we were doing, but Frankie had a way of making people feel small, no matter who they are. He did it to me loads of times, so I felt sorry for Jason at that moment. Especially with that baleful look in his eyes.

“See ya,” I said.

“Tune in later for my evening broadcast,” Jason said. “Six o’clock sharp.”

“OK, OK,” I laughed, as Frankie pushed me towards his car. “Bye, Jay.”

Shit. I forgot something. To make sense of this, I need to go back to when this story really began. Last Christmas. I’d gotten a cool present from Uncle Reg. A big fat bag of clockwork gadgets. “Julie,” Uncle Reg had said, “if there’s ever one of those nuclear holocausts, you know, the ones the Prime Minister keeps ranting about, this’ll keep ya safe and in touch with me. At least until they get the power back on.”

“Really cool, Regie,” I’d said. I always called him Regie instead of Uncle… shit, I’m going off on one of those tangents again. Where was I? Right…

“…This radio’s special. It’s got all the bands too,” Regie said.

“Great,” I said with no clue what he meant.

“It’ll pick up stations from all over. FM, AM, PM, whatever. There’re all in there.” He pointed at a small switch below the dial. “You’ve even got DFES frequencies. Police, Ambulance, the Firies. Loads of cool stuff.”

“Whoa,” I said, “that is cool.” I was genuinely impressed.

“Did you know, that ever if you’re underground, in your nuclear bunker,” he said. “You’ll still be able to pick shit up.”

“Regie, language.”

Mum hadn’t been that impressed, but Regie was well cool.

But I didn’t care, as my mind was already racing. He’d said it would work underground. That really got me thinking.

Okay, now back to recent events. We had all the wood and shit we needed to build it. And we didn’t tell Jason Swain anything, which was even better. I didn’t want anyone knowing what we were doing, or potentially copying my idea. This was Frankie and I’s masterpiece.

We used my go-cart to ferry the materials all the way up to the top of the back field. No one ever went there so we knew we’d not be disturbed. Frankie held up his dad’s saw like it was some kind of hunting trophy. Big scary teeth. Enough to rip through one of my mum’s stupid boyfriends in seconds, and those things are dense as anything.

We set to work, and it took us the best part of the day to finish to the plan.

“Measure twice, cut once,” Fankie said, hammering the last panel into place.

“Nice,” I said, looking at the finished product. “It’s fucking mint, mate. Mint.”

Frankie was very pleased with himself. “Shall we do it tomorrow afternoon? You know, take it for a spin?”

Take it for a spin sounded so stupid, but I guess it was a good enough analogy. It’s not like I’d be going anywhere, but sure, we could give it a trial run. “Sound good,” I said. “How long should we try? You know, the first time.”

“Four hours outta be enough, right?” Frankie asked. He looked like he was calculating something in his head. “I reckon the initial claustrophobia should pass after thirty minutes or so then you’ll relax into it. Get into some serious meditation or something. If you get on with it OK, I’ll go next weekend. Maybe try for six.”

“You got a deal, nut-bar,” I said, shaking my head. Fuck me this will be fun. “Mrs Bailey won’t know what hit her when she sees our here’s what the fuck we did this summer report.”

“Thought of a title yet?” I asked. “For the report.”

He looked at me and grinned. “Frankie and Julie’s Resurrection Diaries.”

“Hmm,” I said. “I’ll have a think.”

He wasn’t wrong. The first thirty minutes were horrible. I felt queasy, buried a meter and a half under the field, lying in a dirty box nailed together with three-inch panel pins. The thud, thud, thud of the sandy soil being shoveled back into the hole was one of the worst things I have ever experienced. A couple of times, I nearly cried out, but I held it together and kept my cool. There was no way I was letting Frankie think I was a girlie wuss. However, and I’ll point this out from when I saw my Grandma before her cremation, real coffins have a lovely soft lining. Pillows and velvet cushioning everywhere. A girls dream. This thing was like lying on the floor. Next time, I needed to bring my dunna.

After half an hour, and the trauma of the burial passed, I opened my sandwiches and flicked on the torch. I’d made some notes in my diary earlier that day, so I updated them with my latest experience, then settled back slowly to chew on my ham roll.

A while passed, and I checked my watch. Three hours. Jesus, this was dull. And sore. But it was time for some tests. The darkness around me was absolute. Not like a dark night with no moon. Not like when you get under the covers and close your eyes, even if you do so really, really, tight. This was pure black. As black, I wrote… as the Devil’s heart. “Ooooh, nice simile,” I said aloud. Extra credit.

At least Frankie would be back in an hour. Fuck I was bored. Then I remembered I’d still got my radio. What a way to test it out. I fumbled in my bag and pulled it out. Flicked the switch on and twisted the dial.

As expected, none of the normal frequencies worked. The deep layer of muck between me and the surface saw to that, but I did find some guy’s voice bellowing an incomprehensible tirade about fishponds down in the bowels of the glowing dial. I swallowed. It was kind of strange. It sounded like a foreign channel, the guy shouting like one of those religious nuts from the telly. I continued tuning the dial. When the next channel emerged from the static, I nearly choked. It felt like an iron fist had punched me in the guts.

The presenter’s voice had changed. This time, I heard the all too familiar monotone of one of our local newscasters flooding the confined space of my faux timber tomb.

“Sad news just in,” the reporter said. “A young man was brutally murdered earlier this evening on the Wanneroo Road just south of Joondalup.”

What the hell? Who was that? Did I know them?

The reporter then continued, “The police say eighteen-year-old Frankie Barnes had been walking home after spending the day with some friends when an as-yet unidentified assailant fatally wounded him. The suspect is believed to have used a hammer in the attack, although no weapon has been found at the scene. Another child, Julie Ash, believed to have been with Barnes at the time of his murder, is reported missing. Police are appealing for witnesses to come forward with any information that might help with their enquiries.”

Oh god. Frankie.

Not two five hundred metres from here. Then it dawned on me. No one else knows about our plan. The experiment. It was supposed to be our surprise.

I checked my watch. Four hours had passed. I pressed hard on the lid of the makeshift coffin, but it didn’t budge. Far too heavy. To be honest, I probably didn’t have the strength to knock out the nails let alone a few tons of earth, so I stopped and considered my options. I wheeled the dial around, frantically searching for more information.

Surely someone would find me. They had to. It might take a few days, but they’d find me, right? We hadn’t even considered this eventuality. But why would you?

It had just turned six o’clock. I remembered Jason Swain had said it was time for his broadcast. I wheeled the dial around waiting for the static to change pitch. There… a faint voice emerging from the white noise. Distant, yet audible. He must have a huge burner on that transmitter to push his signal down here.

“And it’s good evening from Jason Swain at JSULF. I hope you’ve all tuned in for a fun-packed evening of music and witty chat from me, Jason Swain, your charamatic host with the most.”

He sounded so different on the radio. Calm and resolute.

“I hope you’re all keeping well, especially little Julie Ash, stuck all the way down there waiting for her friends to show up. Yes, that’s right. A little bird told me you’re a bit stuck tonight. But I’m sure all will work out in the end.”

My heart stopped. Jason Swain. What the hell was he playing at? Did he know I was in here? Maybe he would let my mum know and the cavalry would come riding in.

“In space, no one can hear you scream,” he said in his deepest horror movie voice.

I punched the lid, drawing blood from my knuckles.

After a few tunes to keep his one dumb-fuck listener happy, Jason turned his thoughts back to me. “I thought I’d conduct a little experiment of my own. For my report. My friends had done all the hard work in setting this one up. So all I had to do was remove one piece of the puzzle. Nothing a trusty hammer wouldn’t solve, if you know what I mean?”

I vomited, the rank smell of a half-digested sandwich sticking to my hair.

“I’m going to get an A this year, Jules. A little study into an urban legend, one I like to call the live burial. Imagine if that were to happen right here, in Western Australia. Just listen to this,” he said.

There was a click before he played a news report from earlier that day. “Frankie’s body was discovered by local hero, Jason Swain, a grieving classmate of the murdered teenager. He is reported to be very distressed. Full details from the coroner’s report have yet to be seen, but we learned through the detective in charge that Julie Ash remains missing at this time. No official statement has yet been released, but fears are rising that a serial killer could be at large.”

I screamed. I screamed like I’d never screamed before. My throat was raw as tears streamed down my face. And I screamed some more.

And that was that. Sorry, mum. Sorry, Frankie. And what’s worse, I can’t believe I’m not even going to get the credit for this stunt.

It’s time now for me to switch off my torch and close my eyes.

Goodnight.