Act II: The Living Dead
Act II: The Living Dead
Inside the pitch-black, suffocating depths of the coffin.
There was no virus. There was no stroke.
Thomas Vance was ALIVE.
He lay trapped in the narrow, plush-lined prison, his eyes wide with absolute horror as the primal terror of claustrophobia gripped his soul. The air was thick, hot, and smelled faintly of chemical formaldehyde and his own sweat. His wrists and ankles weren't resting peacefully; they were brutally bound with heavy-duty zip ties, chained directly to the metal structural bars beneath the casket's velvet lining.
Worst of all, his mouth was sealed shut. Multiple layers of thick, industrial black duct tape were wrapped tightly around his head, crushing his lips and forcing him to breathe exclusively through his nose. Every breath was a agonizing battle against suffocation.
Thomas’s mind raced through the fragments of his memory. The late-night glass of scotch poured by Victoria. The sudden, paralyzing numbness that crept through his limbs. He remembered being conscious but unable to move or speak as the crooked doctor—bribed by his wife—pronounced him dead. He remembered the horror of being loaded into a body bag while still breathing. Victoria had used a rare, untraceable neurotoxin to mimic brain death, all to inherit his multi-billion-dollar empire before he could sign his new will.
Now, he was attending his own funeral.
Through the heavy, soundproof oak walls, the external world was a muffled symphony of agony. Every low note of the church organ felt like a nail being driven into his skull. And then, he heard it. It was faint, but unmistakable—the voice of Ethan. His son. The boy he had driven away, but the only person who actually loved him.
“Let me see him... just one last time!”
Ethan! Ethan, I’m here! Thomas screamed at the top of his lungs into the void of his mouth. He thrashed his torso, but the zip ties bit deep into his flesh, drawing blood. He opened his mouth wide against the tape, but the only sound that escaped was a pathetic, muffled “Mmmph... mmmph...” that died instantly within the heavy wood.
He was running out of time. The air inside the box was turning to pure carbon dioxide. His lungs burned like wildfire, and black spots began to dance across his vision. Suddenly, he heard Victoria’s muffled voice from above, urgently instructing someone to prepare the transport. They were going to burn him alive in the crematorium.
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Nfueled by pure, adrenaline-driven survival instinct, Thomas gathered the absolute last ounce of his fading strength. He managed to bend his knees slightly in the cramped space, raised his heavy leather dress shoes, and slammed his heels hard against the bottom wooden panel of the casket.
Thud. Thud.
