Caio Baby

“Is it a shallow grave?”

“Yes, it’s a shallow grave.”

“It has to be a shallow one.”

“I assure you, it’s a shallow one.”

“Good. It’s the appropriate thing.” The man’s voice crackles on the cell; Rick is a long way from town. Sunlight is fading. He won’t see sunrise. He leans, sweaty and dirty, on the shovel.

“What happens now?”

The man is quiet. “You never held much fascination for me,” he says.

“I’m sorry.”

“A tailored job should be better. I ought to be able to get my money back.”

“I wish I could help.”

“Lie down in the grave,” the man instructs.

Rick feels fear but he fights it down. There’s no point in being afraid, no point at all. With a word, this man can kill, and he’s going to, and there’s nothing Rick Hilton can do to save his life; not a goddamn thing. He leaves the shovel in the pile of dirt, the only marker he’s likely to get.

“Alright,” he mutters. “I’m in the grave.”

“Pull some of the dirt onto yourself.”

Rick pulls the cool brown earth up to his chin like a blanket. He remembers a childhood that was probably really someone else’s, but it’s a strange, comforting thing all the same.

The man says, “Listen closely.”

Rick swallows. “I’m listening.”

“Princeps… Goldstein… watchfob… thrush.”

Most of what is Rick Hilton closes off; a tiny pinhole of consciousness remains. “Command interface initiated,” he says.

“Accept order…” The man pauses, flipping pages in some other corner of the world. He finds what he’s looking for and says, “Accept order K87706, terminate.”

“K87706 terminate acknowledged,” Rick says. There’s an involuntary gasp. What remains of Rick Hilton still aware senses his heart slow and stop, but there’s not even a fight to be raised. It’s an order. It’s absolute. Consciousness fades, synapses starve, tissues shut down.

There’s a click as the man hangs up. The battery runs down as the flies gather to clean up after science’s mistake.