Thump, thump, thump.
The air is so close. So stale. How long can someone last underground? How long can they last underground with CF, BPD, a touch of asthma, and while very possibly having a panic attack?
Minutes turn into hours. Or days. I don’t know. Pinpricks flash over my face, my body telling me it’s running out of oxygen. The thumping has stopped. She might still be around, but I don’t have a choice anymore. I have to act now.
My back still supporting the lid, I pull my shirt up and hold it in a tight fist at the crown of my head, making a little pocket of space where the dirt won’t be able to get into my mouth.
The air is warmer and closer now, and even though I was cloaked in complete darkness before, it somehow feels blacker by degrees.
It’s now or never.
I take a deep breath, say a prayer, and slip out of the coffin, into the small gap created when the dirt shifted into the coffin. The lid scrapes down my back as it closes with a dull thud.
I’m instantly surrounded by dirt. It seals against me like cellophane. It wears me like a second skin. It gets in my mouth and my eyes, despite the shirt. A scream builds in me that could wake the dead, but I don’t breathe. Can’t.
My foot catches hold of the coffin lid. I lever myself onto it and, using every ounce of the feeble strength left in me, push against the weighted dirt until I’m standing on top of the coffin. Still not enough. Still no air.
It can’t be much farther if I’m six feet under. I take a final breath beneath the shirt and let go, stretching both hands above me. Dirt sucks against my face, stinging my eyes and getting in my mouth even as I keep both tightly closed. The urge to breathe becomes unbearable. I’m going to die. Suffocate, mummified in dirt.
I claw up, up, up.
Dirt packs deep beneath my fingernails, the cold of it making my fingers brittle and unusable. I keep working. Force myself to keep working.
My head breaks the surface. I take a huge, gasping breath, sagging onto the ground with my body still buried. I did it. Oh my God, I did it. I have a sudden, wild desire to scream at the sky.
But I’m not free yet. I dig and twist and turn and grapple at the solid earth around me until I land in a heap next to the plot, desperately gulping for air. My inhaler. I can almost taste the chemical mist in the back of my throat just thinking about it.
I smear dirt from my eyes. Ethan. I have to contact him. I have to call the cops. I have to—
A twig snaps behind me.
I freeze.
“Why do you have to make everything so damn hard?”
My blood turns to ice, and I scuttle from the voice like a crab. Lyla leans against a twisted cypress tree, her arms draped over the handle of a shovel. “I thought I needed to watch out for you. Make sure no one rushed to your rescue, like they always do.” She laughs to herself, shaking her head. “But I didn’t expect you to save yourself.” She pushes off the tree and tests the weight of the shovel in her hands. “I have to admit, it’s kind of impressive.” She swings the shovel back.
I roll out of the way as the blade wedges deep into the ground. A rush of energy shoots through me, and I clamber to my feet, stumbling over myself to get away. Lyla tries to heft the shovel out of the hard-packed earth, but it’s stuck. She tries again. There’s a sucking noise as it comes free.
Hard wheezes are forced out of my mouth in time with my limping, pathetic steps.
“Don’t bother running, Hope,” she calls after me. “You won’t get away.”
My shoe snags on a tree root, and I crash to the ground. I push up on my forearms, catching my breath. Lyla swings the shovel, the metal swishing loudly in the quiet graveyard. My fingers are cold and clumsy as I grab a broken tree branch and haul myself to my feet. I spin to face her.
Lyla sees my weapon and laughs. She crosses to me in three big strides, the shovel dragging behind her. I swing the branch back. She catches it midair, snatches it from my hand, and throws. It clatters dully as it lands somewhere far away.
Something primal comes awake inside me. I kick her in the stomach. She grunts, and I spin away, grabbing the discarded shovel. I grip the handle tight.
She spits into the dirt, her chest rising and falling fast.
“Go for it,” she says. “I’d love to see you try.”
Her words are barely out before I swing the shovel, quick as lightning. I hit her leg. She buckles and falls into the dirt. I swing to strike again, but she lunges at me. I stagger back, and it throws me off balance. I trip, landing so hard the wind is knocked out of me. She wrests the shovel from my grip, and then she’s on her feet, her normally perfect ponytail limping by her left ear.