I watch the tube for a little while. It doesn’t move. It’s dead, because I killed it.
I pick up a piece of the bar that held my waist. The surface is deeply pitted, crumbly with that crimson powder…rust, maybe? Rust that ate away much of the metal, making the bar thin and brittle. Had it been solid, there is no way I could have broken free.
My eyes aren’t stinging anymore. They’ve stopped watering. I can see the rest of the room.
There are eleven more coffins. Two parallel rows of six, lined up end to end. A wide aisle filled with a flat sea of untouched gray separates the rows. The thick dust coats the coffins, makes hard edges look like soft curves.
I was in the last one in the left-hand row. I can see it clearly now, see all the detail. It is decorated with intricate carvings: cartoonish people with big noses and huge, wild headdresses; squat pyramids with lots of steps; simple versions of the sun; big cats with exaggerated eyes and tooth-filled snarls.
This room is long and narrow, like it was made specifically to hold these coffins. It doesn’t seem that bright in here now that my eyes have gotten used to it—the arched ceiling has only a few lights that work, barely enough to illuminate stone walls that are covered with gray-coated carvings.
At the far end of the room, I see an archway. In that archway…doors, maybe? They look heavy and solid, but I don’t see any handles.
Something at the foot of my coffin catches my eye. A flat area, about the size of my hand, surrounded by dozens of small bumps, all of it hazed in puffy gray.
I reach out, trembling, and brush dust from one of the small shapes. It’s a jewel: deep orange, glowing like frozen fire.
I wipe clear the flat area. It’s engraved with seven letters and one period.
M. Savage
Is that my name?
I hear something. A small sound. Very quiet, very faint. It makes me think of being trapped in the dark, and then I realize why.
It’s a girl’s scream, coming from inside another coffin.
THREE
My wobbly legs still can’t quite support me. I lean on the coffins to stay on my feet, stumble my way toward the scream.
Each step kicks up a small cloud of dust, as if I am the first person ever to set foot here.
The noisy coffin is halfway up the left-hand row. As I get closer, I can make out faint words coming from within.
“Help me! Mommy, get me out of here!”
I put my hand on the dust-caked lid. I feel tiny vibrations: the girl inside is struggling. I think of that long, bloody needle jutting from the white tube.
With big swipes, I brush the dust from her coffin, accidentally creating a brief fog. The polished carvings gleam under the lights.
I rap my knuckles on the lid; her screaming stops.
“Calm down,” I say. “I’ll try and get you out.”
There is a pause. Then she speaks, the coffin cutting the volume of her words but not the desperation they carry.
“Who are you?”
Who am I? No idea. Somehow, I don’t think telling her I’m Savage is going to make her less afraid. I don’t even have a first name, only an initial, but maybe that will work.
“My name is Em. What’s yours?”
“I…I don’t know.”
A feeling of relief explodes inside of me, so intense I almost fall down again: I’m not the only one.
I have to get this girl out.
“Are there bars holding you down?”
“Something is,” she says. “I don’t know what, I can’t see anything. I can’t move. It’s so dark in here, please help me!”
“I told you to stay calm.” My voice echoes off the stone walls, and I hear how harsh it sounds. She’s afraid, she’s trapped; yelling at her isn’t going to help.
“It’s okay,” I say in a softer tone. “Listen, you have to break those bars.”
“Break them?” Her voice cracks. “I tried, they’re too thick!”
“Try harder. I broke mine.”
Another pause. I listen to her grunting and struggling, then hear the raw terror carried on her words.
“I can’t break them, I told you I’m not strong enough. Get me out, please get me out!”
I slap the lid, hard.
“Be quiet,” I say. “I’ll find a way to open it.”
Why can’t she get out like I did? Is she weaker than I am? Her fear is contagious, radiating from the coffin and coiling inside my chest. At first I was afraid I would die in the dark, but if this girl dies, I will be alone—somehow, that is even worse.
Not knowing what else to do, I push against the lid. Nothing happens. I slide my fingertips under what feels like the edge and I lift—gently at first, then with what little strength I have. Still nothing. I feel the long seam that runs down the middle, that separates the lid halves…too tight to get my fingers in there.