The Ditch: Part 1

hE kept still.
Holding his breath for a minute and then letting it slowly creep out for the next two. The breeze blew over him and the grass swayed back and forth under its power crashing into him like waves. He was completely frozen, unmovable. The dirt on his face crinkled and cracked like a hard mask. He kept his eyes closed making his complex blue eyes invisible, along with the world which disappeared into his darkness. His ears perked up. Besides the breeze there was little noise to distract from the happenings of the world around him; the sound of the birds in the trees as they called to each other, the buzzing of the flies and nats that flew around and landed on his head so still it could have been mistaken as a rock or dead animal. He listened for the sound of cars to whiz by on the nearby highway, he dreaded hearing the sound of a car decelerating. Of the engine clicking off and the sound of car doors opening and slamming shut. But not only had he not heard these but he hadn't heard the sound of a car for nearly 4 hours. Warrenville was a small town and after 11 the streets and businesses went dead. So much so that it had become a local town saying that anyone out in Warrenville after 10 had nothing but mischief on his mind. The guilelessness of the saying was overshadowed only by its truth.
For he was up to no good.
Slowly his hands pressed down on the Earth as he pushed himself up. Revealing his features slowly to the moonlight. First his shortly cut black hair, then his sharp shark fin nose. His thin neck which branched out to a small frame supported by wiry legs. As an alpha male he was unimpressive but when he finally opened his eyes, it was as if someone had just turned on a lamp. His surroundings became lighter, the darkness of the wilderness lost some of its mystery as things came into a soft focus.
His eyes fell immediately on his goal. Ahead of him by a football field he could barely make it out but he knew it was there. Six by Ten feet long 13 feet deep, he had been there before. He knew the land around it perfectly down the gopher hole he had fallen into on his first visit twisting his ankle in the process. Now the land was as familiar to him as his dreams and like his dreams he ventured here at will and without fear or reluctance.
He lifted his feet and began the march. He steps sunk into the ground and he left imprints of his feet in the soil. He knew that by tomorrow men in suits with badges and dogs would be examining these prints. Following his actions now in the future wondering what was going through his head. They would be surprised to learn he wasn't thinking about his family or friends, but their work and how futile their efforts would prove.
His march picked up speed, he was losing patience for the show and wanted the act done and over with. He was tired of thinking about it and simply wanted it. His feet clomping down hard with each step, hard steps; tomorrow they will think someone (or thing) was chasing him. And perhaps they would be right. Perhaps he was running from what his life had been. From the hour to hour day to day routine of life and from the obligations he no longer wished to have. From the pressures and pains of the past that had cut him so deeply that he could never seem to be far enough away from them. From the insecurities of himself that were constantly holding him back from his true potential. There was no question about it, he was certainly running. And if everything went to plan nothing would ever catch him and he would be free forever.
Sweat poured down his face and turned brown from collecting the dirt that had caked on his face. He was scared. Tonight would be the end of a life he dispised. Tonight would be the last time anyone looked at him and called him Fred Turner.
Tonight Fred Turner was going to die.
And he couldn't wait.