had been dragged through acre after acre of soggy dirt. Now the wood was splattered with dark earth, so thick on one end it looked as if it had been dipped in mud.
She stepped closer and put a hand on top of the wooden lid, half expecting to feel some evil presence beneath, but there was nothing. She remembered the cold feeling she’d gotten near Malvern, the absence of humanity. This could be the same.
She licked her lips and tried to open the lid. Something held it shut. Well, she supposed that made sense. The half-deads wouldn’t want it flapping open as they moved it around. She felt around the edges and found three nails holding the lid down.
She tried her radio but got no response. Had she run so far that she was out of range? It seemed impossible. She felt as if she’d run no more than a quarter mile.
She looked around. She couldn’t really remember which direction she’d come from.
She didn’t think she’d be able to find her way back—and even if she did, that would mean leaving the casket behind. The safe thing, the smart thing to do was to accept that, to just head back, try to make contact with the ART, and hopefully bring the others to the casket. But it sounded like such an impossible errand. If she left the casket even for a few minutes, surely the half-deads would come back for it.
Wouldn’t they?
Her vision blurred for a moment and took its time sharpening up again. She was really going to need to sleep soon. As soon as Reyes was dead, she decided. As soon as she’d killed him. She took the clip out of her rifle and emptied out the bullets. The empty container had a sharp metal edge she could use to break the nails.
She would probably ruin the clip in the process, effectively destroying the rifle. She still had her Beretta, which she placed on top of the casket where she could grab it at a moment’s notice.
She slid the edge of the clip between the lid and the body of the casket and tried to saw at the first nail. The clip moved back and forth a few times before it slipped right out of the gap and across the back of her wrist, gouging a tiny cut into her skin.
Tiny flecks of blood spattered the casket and her breath solidified in her chest for a moment. She half expected to hear Reyes stir inside, that the blood would call him somehow. But the casket remained motionless, as if it were completely empty.
She didn’t relish the prospect of looking inside and seeing the maggots, the bones, the deliquescent remains like those she had seen in Malvern’s coffin. Still.
Reyes’ heart would be in there, dried and shrunken until she could crush it in her hands. She took up the clip and wedged it under the coffin lid again. She put her back into it and the nail broke, the wood shrieking as it came loose. The second nail parted almost instantly when she put some pressure on it. Sweat was collecting under her helmet and running down the back of her ears. Her back ached and she knew that when she stood up straight again it would scream with pain. Just one nail left. She got the clip under the lid one more time, but before she started to saw at the final nail she closed her eyes and thought of Deanna, bloody and helpless on the kitchen floor. It gave her back some strength, to think of just how badly she wanted to destroy Reyes. The third nail came out in pieces so that she had to hack at the wood to get it free, but she did it. The lid was open, she could just throw it back and look inside.
Some basic fear possessed her and she stopped for a second, goosebumps breaking out all over her arms. She stood up, and the stiffness in her back made her groan. She picked up her Beretta from the top of the casket and she looked around, looking for any ruined faces peering out of the corn. She didn’t see anything.
The heart. She had to destroy the heart. With her boot she pried open the lid, then kicked it wide. She raised her weapon and pointed it down into the red silk-lined interior of the casket.
Nothing. It was empty. In her fatigued state she could hear the vampire laughing at her, cackling in cold delight.
Then something cut her across the back of the legs, slicing right through her uniform pants and making her body sing with pain. She collapsed, falling forward, right into the casket. It all happened in the time it took her to switch off the safety on her pistol. The lid of the casket came down across her back and knocked her down onto the upholstery. It had all been a trick.
35.
Light dripped into the casket from a crack where she’d damaged the lid. Otherwise she was trapped in total darkness. She tried to heave, to buck open the casket but they were sitting on it, the half-deads were sitting on it and laughing at her. She heard them drive nails through the lid, sealing it shut again. She couldn’t get any leverage to push against them, she could barely roll over. Her legs burned with a narrow edge of pain where she’d been cut. She was trapped—they would bury her alive.
She screamed to think of it, to imagine being buried under six feet of dirt. Already she could smell nothing but her own sweat and her own fear, the air in the coffin growing stale as it circulated in and out of her lungs. Every time it went out of her it had a little less oxygen in it. How long would it take to use all the oxygen up?
She screamed again but it was no use. The only ones who could hear her would take delight in her distress. It didn’t matter—she screamed a third time, and slapped at the padded lid of the casket, desperate to get free.
Her body slid around inside the casket and she realized the half-deads were dragging her away from the firebreak. Her body bounced painfully as the casket grated over ridges and furrows, broken cornstalks, stones half- buried in the ground.
Caxton’s heart raced and her breath came faster and faster. She couldn’t stop it.
She could feel her Beretta flopping around at the bottom of the coffin. She must have dropped it inside when they cut her legs. She tried to reach for it but her shoulders hit the side of the coffin and she couldn’t bend down far enough. The constriction drove home just how small her prison was—only a little bigger than her own body—and she screamed again at the thought that she couldn’t sit up, she couldn’t bring her knees up—every muscle in her body twitched as it felt the constraint.
The casket jumped as it was dragged over some particularly large obstruction and the pistol smacked her ankle with a smarting pain that turned the darkness around her green for a moment, an optical illusion born of exhaustion, panic and physical pain.
She tried to remember if the weapon’s safety was still on, if she had chambered a round. If she had—if the gun was ready to fire—it could go off with the next bump.
A cross point round could come out of its barrel faster than the speed of sound. It could shoot off in any direction, but a lot of those directions intersected her body.
Just one more thing to scream about.
She worked her hand down as far as she could. Her fingertips glanced off the hard edge of the gun’s barrel, she could feel the slickness of the metal. Her shoulder dug through the casket’s upholstery, came up hard against the wood beneath. She lunged, and shoved, and tried to brace herself with her legs.
Another bump, a jostling bump that smashed the bones of her shoulder together and made her grunt in shock, but the Beretta slid half an inch closer. She grabbed it with her fingertips and drew it, millimeter by millimeter, closer to her palm. It kept trying to bounce away again but she refused to let it go. Finally she had it in her hand and the weight and the power of the weapon helped her calm herself down, made her breathe just a little easier.
“Yes,” she shouted, as she worked her finger through the trigger guard.
The casket stopped moving with a sudden lurch that wrenched her back. One of the half-deads knocked on the lid. Its voice, though muffled, was as irritating as ever as it asked, “Everything okay in there?”
She tried to figure out where the voice was coming from using just her ears. It was difficult—the acoustics in the casket were terrible, echoes rolling back and forth in the narrow space. She pressed the barrel of the pistol against the casket lid.
The half-dead giggled at her. “I’d get comfortable if I were you. It’s a long—”
She squeezed the trigger and light and heat and noise filled up the casket in a wave of overpressure that made blood drip from her ears. She was blind and deaf and her hands were burning and she realized what a terrible mistake she’d made—what if she’d deafened herself permanently? What if the shock wave from the explosion had ruptured her ear drums?
Her vision came back slowly, showing her a slanting ray of weak sunlight that poured through a nearly perfectly circular hole in the lid of the coffin. She could see a little sky through the hole, the yellow of the dead corn
