Chapter 163 – There’s nowhere to turn for help
Arabic. Arabic? Seriously, it was Arabic?
The man clearly couldn’t understand a word. He searched all over the phone, but had no clue what anything meant. With no other choice, he tried making a call—except he couldn’t remember any phone numbers. He patted around in his pockets: his wallet had been emptied, nothing left inside; all he had were some peanut shells, a pill bottle, and a small hip flask.
He took a few deep breaths, then dialled 911 as an international call.
“Hello, 911.” A woman’s voice came through when the call connected.
“Hello, I’ve been buried alive.” The man gasped heavily, barely able to breathe, rushing his words as panic surged through him. “Please, I’m begging you—save me. I’m running out of air.”
“Sir?” The operator sounded confused.
“I’m buried alive in a coffin! Come save me! Send someone to find me!” His right hand clenched the phone so tightly it trembled. His left hand held a lighter over his chest, his eyes darting toward the weak flame. His fingers tightened, as if clutching his own lifeline.
“Sir, slow down. What’s your name?”
“Paul. Paul Conroy.”
“Alright, Mr Conroy, can you tell me where you are right now?”
Paul squeezed his eyes shut in pain. “I don’t know.” His voice was raspy, frighteningly hoarse. His gaze flicked back and forth desperately, unable to find a single point to focus on. “I’m in a coffin! I don’t know where. Please, help me. I’m scared.”
“You’re in a coffin?”
“Yes.” Paul felt like he was about to suffocate. It was as if invisible hands were wrapped around his throat, his face swelling red from the lack of oxygen. Even speaking took all his strength. “It’s an old wooden coffin.”
“Are you in a funeral home?”
“No, no, no.” Paul denied it again and again—but even he was beginning to doubt himself. He truly had no idea where he was. “I don’t know. No.”
“How are you calling me right now?” The operator still didn’t seem to understand, asking questions at the same unhurried pace.
Paul was on the verge of blacking out, his mind drowning in chaos. “What?”
“If you’ve been buried alive in a coffin, how are you making a phone call?” she repeated.
“Uh… a phone. There’s an old phone here.” Paul instinctively strained upward, trying to find even the tiniest gap in the wood, desperate for a breath of fresh air.
“You’re calling from your own phone?”
“Yes. No—no, it’s not my phone. But yes, I’m using a phone to call.” His thoughts were mush, every response running purely on instinct. He didn’t even know what he was saying anymore; panic and despair clouded his eyes.
“When you climbed into the coffin, there was a phone in there?”
“Yes.” Paul nodded, but then his brow furrowed. “What? I didn’t climb in!” His teeth ground together now—he still couldn’t breathe properly, and the operator was wasting precious time.
“Then how did you get into the coffin?”
“I was put in here.” Paul’s fists clenched tight, eyes squeezed shut, forcing each word out through gritted teeth.
“Put into a coffin?” The operator sounded like she couldn’t quite believe it.
“Yes—please—help me!” Paul could no longer form full sentences; each word forced out on its own.
“You’re saying the coffin itself is buried?” The questions just wouldn’t stop.
Paul lifted his left hand to rub his aching temple, only to burn himself on the lighter, baring his teeth in pain. “Yes! I’m a truck driver—I’m an American citizen.” He sucked in huge gulps of air, barely able to continue. “It’s… It’s really hot in here. I can’t breathe.”
“Do you know your location?” The operator now sounded a bit helpless herself.
“I… I told you already. Somewhere in Iraq. Please, help me!” Paul’s thoughts had completely collapsed. Aside from repeating “please, help me,” his mind was blank.
“Iraq?”
“Yes. I’m a truck driver, I’m an American citizen, I work for CRT.” Finally, his brain seemed to restart, letting him speak a little faster.
“You’re a soldier?” The operator’s question pushed Paul straight to fury. He exploded:
“No! Please—weren’t you listening? I’m a truck driver, an American citizen. I’m a contractor working in Iraq—we were attacked in Baqubah. They… they were all shot dead.” His words suddenly broke off. He gasped for breath, as if his heart was pounding too fast to let him speak.
In that moment, it hit him: he was the only survivor. All his coworkers had been executed. The sudden wave of shock and grief threw him into silence.
“Who was killed?” the operator asked.
The question dragged Paul back into the moment. “All the other drivers.” He let out a laugh—sharp, humourless—because the absurdity of it all was too real, too brutal. The corners of his mouth twisted in bitter irony.
“All of this happened in Iraq? That country?”
Paul gave another joyless chuckle—his misery too raw and urgent, turning into dark humour instead. “Yes. Please—listen to me, okay? Just listen!” His laughter faded, replaced by a desperate plea. “The military gave me a security number, I kept it in my wallet—but now it’s gone.”
The operator cut him off, exasperated. “Mr Conroy, this is the emergency line in Youngstown, Ohio.”
Paul’s heaving chest suddenly slowed, as if time itself froze. “Ohio?” He stared in disbelief, every muscle in his body going still.
“Yes, sir.” The operator’s voice finally sounded steady again. “You said you’re in another country—I’m not sure how you reached us here. If you’d like, I can transfer you to the sheriff’s office.”
“You don’t understand. Forget it.” Paul shook his head and immediately hung up. He checked the battery—only three bars left. That was not good.
A hollow sense of irony washed over him. Calling 911 had been a mistake from the start. The operator hadn’t helped at all; her relentless questions never once hit the point. Their fragmented conversation had achieved nothing—it had wasted his phone battery, and worse, wasted the precious oxygen left in the coffin. And the cruel punchline? Paul realised, far too late, that 911 couldn’t save him at all.
Gavin knew it wasn’t the operator’s fault—but he still couldn’t stop worrying. After wasting that chance, how was Paul supposed to save himself now? And on Iraqi soil, how could anyone possibly rescue him? That creeping sense of suspense suddenly flared—Gavin could feel his adrenaline surge. He shifted in his seat without thinking, only then realising that his muscles had been tense for so long they’d gone numb. Yet the panic and dread still clogged his throat, keeping his eyes glued to the screen.
Paul turned off the lighter again. This time, he didn’t panic. He forced himself to calm down, gather his thoughts, then lit the lighter once more and began dialling.
He first called his wife, Linda—the home phone and then her cell. Unfortunately, she didn’t pick up either one. He could only leave messages, explaining his situation and hoping she would read them soon and call for help. After that, he dialled 411 to find the FBI number—but the operator refused to help unless he specified a state and city. Furious, he blurted out “Chicago.” The call was then transferred to the FBI in Chicago, where he explained his situation.
“Our convoy of truck drivers was delivering kitchen supplies to a community center, and some kids threw rocks at our trucks. Then a bomb went off up ahead, blowing up one of the trucks. A bunch of guys rushed out of the houses nearby and started shooting at us in the street… I was at the back of the convoy. I think a rock hit me on the head—I blacked out. I don’t remember anything after that. When I woke up, my hands were tied, and I was lying in a coffin.”
Paul tried desperately to explain everything—but the agent on the line just kept nitpicking the details. Why were kids throwing rocks? Who exactly was shooting? Why were they shooting? Why didn’t Paul get shot too? His tone was relentless, as if Paul were one of the terrorists himself, calling just to waste their time—and then he even started digging into Paul’s identity and background instead of helping.
Anger. Calm. Anger. Calm.
Paul’s emotions were being tortured back and forth—and to make things worse, the phone lost signal. The call dropped. Paul held his breath, pressing himself against the coffin walls, searching every inch for reception. Bit by bit, he finally found a spot with signal. He thought for a moment, then called his company.
Another battle with another operator: introduce himself, explain the situation, emergency protocol, endless questions—until finally he was transferred to HR manager Alan Davenport. Paul protested, HR wasn’t what he needed right now, he needed a crisis response! But the call still went through.
And then came waiting… a long wait… an endless wait—only to end in voicemail. And once again, he had to repeat everything… but before he could finish, the voicemail cut him off.
Staring at the phone as the busy tone beeped, Paul snapped—completely snapped.
“Damn! Damn! DAMN!”
He lashed out, punching and kicking wildly, pouring all his rage into the darkness—every ounce of terror and frustration exploding out of him. In the pitch-black coffin, he vented everything he had until he was utterly exhausted, then collapsed. He felt empty, numb… Silence. Stillness… even his breathing seemed to fade away.
Helplessness—nothing but helplessness. That deep, crushing powerlessness seeped through the screen, through the endless darkness. It was even more terrifying than despair because he had managed to grasp a strand of hope, believing that if he just followed it, he could escape this nightmare. But again and again, the same thing repeated: from 911 to the FBI to his own company, even to his own family—every institution, every person turned him away. He went in circles only to end up exactly where he started. Each time hope flickered to life, it was snuffed out immediately. The impact of that—so grand and devastating—it took the breath out of you.
Gavin felt it was unbelievably cruel—almost mockingly so. The heaviness in his chest seeped out slowly, carried by the fear and horror on the screen.
T/N – Suprise, suprise?