"Crap, crap, crap." Bryce started hyperventilating. He couldn't speak any louder than a terrified whisper. He pounded three times on the coffin's lid.

Then he stopped. His body went limp.

He'd passed out.

"Hey!" I yelled. "Hey!"

I started pounding on the lid. It was time to give myself up. I was ready to get out of this already over-heated, cramped space. The game was up. Whatever was going to happen to us after they arrested us couldn't be any worse than getting locked inside a coffin.

But the drilling didn't stop.

I heard a second screw biting into the wood and felt the lid tighten. The meager light that had been making its way beneath the lid dimmed.

I pounded again. "Hey! I'm in here. I'm in here!"

"Crap," someone said. It was a male voice, young. Maybe a teenager. "This is a loud one."

"Don't listen to it," said another voice. It was another teenager. "You keep forgetting what they said in training."

"I didn't forget. It's just loud this time."

"Well, don't even say anything about it. When you say something it just makes it worse. Just pretend like you don't hear anything. Let's just get this over with."

I pounded twice as hard on the lid. "Let me out! Someone's in here!"

The drilling paused.

"It's an illusion, remember?" the second voice said. "They're dead. They're not really conscious. It just seems like they are. They're like puppets, remember? The bodies will die later. If we don't do this, the disease is going to keep spreading. Give me the drill."

Another screw. Then another. The lid tightened again. The dim light vanished.

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