“Audubon field guide to identify flora and fauna. A must if you’re going to dig inland Florida,” said Serge. “People have no idea all the critters that roam these parts.”
Bang, bang, bang, bang.
Coleman turned around again. “I think they want out.”
“Their wish will soon come true.” Serge stuck his head through the driver’s open window and looked up at constellations. “Let’s see how many I can name. There’s Gemini, Pegasus, Ursa Major and Minor, Benny the Truculent Dry Cleaner.” He brought his wind-blown head back inside. “Couldn’t have picked a better night to reenact the Tin Can lifestyle.”
“Serge! Watch out!”
But Serge had already seen it. A husky dark form dashed across the road. Serge swerved right.
From miles of back-road experience, he knew its mate could be right behind. Sure enough, a second, smaller form exploded from the underbrush. Serge slalomed the other way.
“Jesus!” said Coleman. “What the hell was that?”
Serge handed Coleman the field guide. “Page three-seventy-four.”
“You know it by heart?”
Bang, bang, bang.
Serge glanced back at the trunk, then the field guide in Coleman’s hands. “That gives me an idea.”
OKEECHOBEE COUNTY
Serge leaned into the Javelin’s open trunk with a tape measure. “Stop flopping around or I won’t get your right size. Trust me: You definitely don’t want the wrong size …”
“Serge,” said Coleman. “I’m getting tired.”
“Just keep digging.” Serge slammed the trunk and let the tape measure zip itself shut. He grabbed his own shovel and opened a low, rickety wooden gate in a barbed-wire fence. They began digging side by side. Every few minutes, Serge stopped and extended his tape measure into each of the two holes. All around them: nothing but peaceful darkness, trees bending in the wind. The only sign of human life nearly a mile away.
Coleman leaned against the end of his shovel for breath. “What if the farmer sees us?”
Serge stood chest deep in his own hole. A spade of dirt flew over his shoulder. “Too far away and probably asleep. Plus, his view is obstructed.”
Coleman looked up through a line of trees, where a porch light from a very distant farmhouse flickered in the branches. “Hope you’re right.” He resumed digging. A continuous grunting sound. Some of it was Coleman; some wasn’t. “Those things give me the creeps.”
On the far side of the fenced-in pen, dark forms milled about with guttural communication. “They’re totally harmless,” said Serge. “At least to us.”
A half hour later, another check with the tape measure. Serge was satisfied with his own hole. He walked over to Coleman’s and extended the metal strip. Not even close.
“Coleman, climb out and let me finish or we’ll be here all night.”
The edge of the second hole was at Coleman’s bellybutton. He tried to pull himself out. He fell six inches back down. He tried again. Same results. He panicked and attempted to scramble up the side, sneakers digging into the soil wall.
“Coleman, stop that. You’re just pulling dirt back down into the hole.”
“I’m going to die!”
Serge yanked Coleman up by the armpits. Then he jumped in the second hole and quickly finished the task with a flurry of shovel action. One last measure with the tape. He nodded. “Time to welcome today’s lucky contestants.”
Serge went back to the trunk, pulled out the first hostage and slammed the hood. The man’s hands were bound behind his back, but his feet were free. Serge ordered him at gunpoint through the squeaky gate. The man saw the holes. Terror. About to be buried alive! He took off running, but Serge quickly tackled him in the mud.
“Listen to him trying to scream,” said Coleman.
“That’s why I love duct tape.” Serge dragged the squirming man by the ankles and reached the edge of a hole. He pushed him in feet first. A horrified scream from behind the mouth tape. Until the man’s shoes hit bottom. Confusion replaced dread. The man looked around, the hole’s edge only up to his neck.
Serge grabbed a shovel and began filling dirt in around their guest.
“Putting the dirt back around a guy looks easier,” said Coleman.
“That’s always been my experience.”
Minutes later, Serge was done. He stomped in a circle around the man’s head, packing ground firmly.
“What now?” asked Coleman.
“Like shampoo. Repeat as needed.” He went back to the trunk for the second hostage. Into the other hole. Dirt shoveled in. Serge’s soil-packing dance again.
Two heads looked up with wide, puzzled eyes.
Serge smiled back. “Inland Florida is such a hoot!”
Time passed. An invisible moon tacked across the sky. The Javelin’s engine was running with the front hood up. A metal can rested on the radiator cap.
“Can you dig it?” Serge swept an arm across the dim panorama. “We’re blessed with a rare opportunity to soak in the pure, untainted natural essence of Florida exactly as the original Tin Can Tourists found her almost a century ago.”
“Even wiggling heads sticking out of the ground?”
