Chapter 2
The jagged hole widened with every desperate heave of Leo’s bleeding hands, the splintered pine giving way under the sheer force of his terror and determination. Clara blinked rapidly against the influx of cold air, her chest heaving as she fought for every oxygen-starved breath. Father Thomas knelt beside the boy, finally shaking off his paralyzed disbelief. Without a word, the priest reached into his inner jacket pocket, pulled out a small silver pocketknife, and worked the blade under the thick gray duct tape sealing Clara’s mouth.
With a sharp, agonizing rip, the tape came away. Clara gasped, a ragged, choking sound tearing from her throat as she coughed violently, her raw vocal cords struggling to form words.
"Leo... the air... it was running out," she whispered, her voice a fragile rasp that barely carried over the rustling autumn leaves.
"I'm here, Mom. I'm right here," Leo choked out, his tears mixing with the sweat on her cold forehead as he helped guide her head and shoulders out of the cramped wooden prison.
Father Thomas grabbed the other side of the coffin rim, his black suit sleeves staining with dark earth as he helped heave the heavy lid entirely off its hinges. The tragedy of the situation hung heavily in the damp air. Just two hours earlier, the county coroner and the municipal clerk had signed off on Clara’s sudden medical death certificate, mistaking a deep, drug-induced diabetic coma for biological expiration. Pressured by mounting municipal debts and an overwhelmed rural health system, the parish had fast-tracked the burial to clear the cemetery ledger for incoming plague victims.
Clara pulled herself up, shivering violently in her white burial dress. Her hands were bruised from clawing at the padded satin lining of the casket during her terrifying awakening underground. She looked around the desolate graveyard, her gaze locking onto the church steeple rising dimly through the mist.
"They... they knew I had a pulse," Clara said, her voice trembling with a mixture of profound relief and rising fury. "The nurse... she checked my wrist, but the supervisor told her to sign the papers anyway. They needed the bed."
Father Thomas closed his eyes, bowing his head in deep, agonizing shame. As the parish administrator, he had countersigned the emergency burial authorization without verifying the medical charts personally, trusting a system that had clearly failed its most vulnerable citizens.
"I am so deeply sorry," the priest murmured, his voice thick with guilt. "We trusted the bureaucrats over human decency. This stays between us until we find out who authorized the fast-track protocol."
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Leo glared at the priest, his youthful features hardening into a bitter mask. Trust was a luxury they could no longer afford.
***
