Buried Alive

AS I slept, I found the air oppressive. Sweat fell from my forehead down into my ear.
I coughed.
The pain in my head reminded me of the goose-egg above my right brow.
I remembered the scuffle.
The dark van.
The gag.
My eyes shot open to darkness.
The coffin closed in on me; claustrophobia, my only companion.
Martrand Residence: 1:30am.
The phone rang as Arlene rushed to answer it. Andrew was late.
“Hello!” she was frantic, “Goddamnit, Andrew I expected you here at Ten-Thir…”
“Arlene?” came a voice. It was unfamiliar. Deep. An unkindly sound as her own name echoed in her mind.
“This is Arlene.. who is this?”
“YES, I said. To whom am I speaking, damnit?!”
“Arlene. Andrew is not here right now.” said the voice.
The gravity of those words pulled her into the chair beside the phone, “Andrew? Where… where is he?”
“Oh, I’m afraid he’s sleeping. He can’t come to the phone right now. I’m sure he’s comfy in his little coffin!”
“Coffin? where..?!”
“You have 36 hours to find him; then he dies,”

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