DEAD IN BED By Bailey Simms: The Complete First Book

PART 3, SECTION 26

For a while I went into a state of disconnected shock.

I just couldn't really believe that this was actually happening. I had this irrational sense that I was like some character in a video game who'd lost, but who would now just get to re-start from the beginning and try again. There had to be some way out. This wasn't how I was going to die.

But when I felt them move the coffin into a vehicle, I started pounding on the lid again and screaming. I didn't stop, not even when I heard an engine start and felt myself being driven away.

I paused only long enough to try to catch my breath and pull my cell phone out of my pocket.

In small towns in the middle of nowhere, coverage is spotty. As soon as you get outside the city limits, you're lucky if you get a signal. We were already out of range.

Who would I have called, anyway? Ian and Shawn were unreachable. My Dad? What could he have done, even if I'd been able to reach him? The coffin was being escorted under armed, military protection.

I kept pounding and screaming, even though I was pretty sure there wasn't anyone in the back of whatever truck or transport vehicle they'd put us in.

Bryce began to stir. My head was wedged against his shoulder. He was waking up. My arm was burning from pounding the lid, and I was going hoarse, but I didn't stop pounding and screaming. When Bryce remembered where he was, he started pounding too. He was crying.

I felt the vehicle make a sharp turn, then we started jostling over a rough road. We came to a stop.

There was the sound of a sliding door opening. Then, in the distance, I could hear a large diesel engine and a slow beeping.

It was a backhoe. I was certain of it. It sounded just like the one my dad had. The only reason anyone used a backhoe was to dig large, deep holes.

Bryce started sobbing harder and pounding the lid ferociously. For a moment I had a glimmer of hope when the wood splintered slightly under his fist. But realistically I knew there'd be no way he'd be able to break through. My dad was a good carpenter. The coffin was too strong.

"Screw you! Screw you!" Bryce was sobbing. His legs were flailing around, knocking into mine. "Screw you!" he screamed, again and again.

We felt the coffin being lifted by the backhoe. Someone must have put a rope or a strap around it, because we started swaying.

Then we felt ourselves being lowered. We dropped farther, then farther down.

Finally, the coffin came to a rest.

Neither of us stopped pounding and screaming. "Please!" I heard myself shouting. "Pleeeeease!" I said it over and over again.

Then there came a deafening whuuuf as the backhoe dumped a load of hundreds of pounds of dirt over the lid. The coffin jolted. The wood creaked. There was another whuuf of falling dirt, this one muted and barely audible.

And then there was only silence.

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