The Burial Part 2

It was nightfall when he finally regained his consciousness. The cool, dampish sand was refreshing against his back. He was in so much discomfort that he wished he had not woken up. It had been two days since he last had a bit to drink. His mouth was parched, making it painful to swallow. His eyes, inflamed and crusted with discharge and dried blood from a cut near his temple, were congested from the lack of sleep. He had known for some time that his left leg was infected but he had not sensed the agony of rotten flesh until now. He laid there for several minutes, registering the slow deterioration of his body. He gradually pried opened his eyes and allowed them to adjust to the moonlight. How long had he been asleep? Could he afford to waste these last precious hours? There was still plenty of work to do. He had to find water. Then he had to finish digging. His head was faint. The blood loss from his arm was more detrimental than he had predicted. His grip had loosened in his sleep and he could barely feel the tips of his fingers. But he was sure that the large gash in his left arm had formed a decent clot. He was not dying just yet. He tried to squeeze his left hand into a fist and not to his surprise his fingers barely moved. He was about to quit when he heard it for the first time.
  At first, he thought that his mind was playing tricks. It did that quite frequently these days. It could barely tell time. It took an effort to even remember who and where he was. He was so malnourished that full-on hallucinations were common occurrences. Several days ago, he could have sworn he had heard a helicopter whirling above him. When he had strained to hear it more clearly, he woke up and realized that the noise had been a part of a dream. Dreams were frequent too. Now that he was nearing his end, everything and everyone from his past seemed to come to life in the most vivid forms when he shut his eyes.
But he was sure this time. He was awake and this was not a dream. From a distance, someone screamed. Almost a faint wail. It could have been something screaming. He could not quite decide. He could not make out its source nor the direction whence it came. The stifled cry could have come from an animal, a woman or a child. Somehow he was sure that it was not a man. Instinctively, almost upon cue to hearing the sound, as if to protect himself from further harm, his hand tightened into a fist, ready to fight.

The Burial Part 1

He dug his hands into the bare, white sand and tightened his grip. The sand was hot, but not scorching. It was painful but he could take physical pain. There is a threshold for everything and that line has not been crossed yet. He pulled his hands out, damaged and broken. He felt a sharp, searing pain shoot up his arms and straight into his brain. He struggled to stand up and took several steps towards his goal. Moments later, his entire body was in shock. His muscles were seizing and his body became paralysed. With a loud thump, his rigid frame fell sideways onto the sand. His grip still tight, blood came trickling through his fingers, forming little red puddles in the sand.