Chapter 2: Scratching at the Wood
The air in the mourning room grew thick with a tense, electric hostility. Julian slowly stood up, towering over Maria. The grief that had paralyzed him just moments before was rapidly being replaced by a cold, burning intuition.
"Who signed the death certificate?" Julian demanded, his voice dropping an octave, steady and sharp.
"Dr. Aris," Maria replied, not missing a beat, though a bead of sweat traced its way down her temple. "Your father's private physician. Now, please, Julian, the men from the crematorium will be here in an hour. You need to step away."
"The crematorium?" Julian’s eyes widened in horror. "My father explicitly stated in his will that he wanted to be buried next to my mother in the family plot. He bought the plot twenty years ago. Why are you cremating him?"
Maria’s flawless composure cracked for a fraction of a second. "The... the viral infection. The state health department mandated it. We had no choice."
Inside the box, Richard’s heart rate began to spike, though his chest barely rose. Cremation. The word echoed in the cramped, airless space. The terror was absolute. He was going to be burned alive. The paralysis was slowly, agonizingly beginning to wear off—he could feel the agonizing pins and needles in his fingertips—but it wouldn't be fast enough. He needed Julian to fight.
"Show me the paperwork," Julian said, taking a step toward her. "Show me the mandate from the health department. Show me Dr. Aris's report."
"I don't have to show you anything!" Maria shrieked, her facade crumbling. "I am his wife! I am the executor of his estate, and I am making the decisions! Security!"
The heavy doors swung open, and two large, imposing men in dark suits stepped into the room. They weren't the estate's usual security team; Julian had never seen them before. They looked like hired muscle.
"Escort Julian to the guest wing," Maria ordered, pointing a trembling finger at him. "He is hysterical with grief."
"Don't touch me," Julian warned as the men approached. His eyes darted around the room, landing on the heavy brass fire poker resting on the stone hearth.
Just then, a faint, almost imperceptible sound broke the silence.
Thump.
It was muffled, weak, and hollow. It came from inside the mahogany box.
Julian froze. Maria froze. The security guards paused.
Inside, Richard had managed to muster every ounce of returning strength in his body to violently jerk his right elbow against the side of the casket. The effort nearly caused him to black out, but the sound had been made.
"What was that?" Julian whispered, his eyes fixed on the wood.
"The wood settling," Maria lied, her voice pitching into absolute panic. "Get him out of here! Now!"
The guards lunged. Julian dodged the first man, diving toward the fireplace. His hand wrapped around the cold, heavy brass of the fire poker. He swung it wildly, catching the first guard in the shoulder, sending him crashing into a row of candles. The room plunged into chaotic shadows. The second guard tackled Julian around the waist, bringing him hard to the marble floor.
Thump. Thump.
The sound was undeniable now. It was rhythmic. It was desperate.
Adrenaline, pure and primal, surged through Julian's veins. With a roar of defiance, he kicked the guard off, scrambled to his feet, and sprinted toward the casket. Maria threw herself in front of it, screaming, but Julian shoved her aside with enough force to send her sprawling onto the rugs.
He raised the heavy brass poker high above his head and brought it crashing down onto the brass locking mechanism of the casket. The metal screamed and bent. He swung again, shattering the lock entirely.
"No! Stop him!" Maria shrieked, scrambling to her feet.
Julian dropped the poker, gripped the edge of the heavy mahogany lid, and threw it open.
The dim light of the mourning room flooded into the box. Julian looked down, the breath completely leaving his lungs.
His father was pale, sweating profusely, and shivering. His eyes were wide open, dilated with sheer terror. And stretched across his mouth was a thick strip of industrial black duct tape.
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Richard looked up at his son, tears spilling over his cheeks, and managed a single, weak nod.
He was alive.
