Free Coffin Collector by William Massa Page B

refinement, the man had to be at least in his eighties or nineties. Long silver strands of hair clung to his liver-spotted skull, and gnarled fingers clawed a cane. A blinding white suit, black loafers, and red shirt oozed Italian style and sophistication. The tanned, wrinkled skin clashed with the fabric’s crisp sheen. Exotic rings adorned his bony fingers, and his gold watch glittered in the warehouse’s pale light.
    “Who are you? What do you want from me?” Travis’ voice sounded timid and terrified, and he wished he’d kept his mouth shut.  
    Why provide these freaks with further satisfaction?
    Two of the men zeroed in on him. He flinched as they approached and backed away into the patch of soil. Powerful hands grabbed his arms and brusquely dragged him toward the waiting casket.  
    “What the hell is this shit? Please, you can’t do this. Help! Someone—!”
    The words died on his lips as a fist snapped his head back. He spat blood.  
    The third man removed the lid of the eerie coffin. Fear flickered over the goon’s features. The kidnapper visibly shared Travis’ atavistic revulsion for the coffin, and somehow that was the most terrifying thing yet.
    The lid landed in the dirt, the insides of the moldy coffin now revealed. Travis’ heart skipped a beat. The wooden box waiting for him wasn’t empty. Skeletal remains gleamed inside the casket, all flesh stripped clean from the yellowed bone. Travis couldn’t fathom the dark motives driving these men, but their intent was clear: they planned to put him in the strange coffin with the skeleton and bury him inside this fucked-up warehouse of horrors.  
    As soon as the horrible certainty sliced through his mind, one of the goons brought the handle of his pistol down on Travis’s head. He slumped forward, hitting the ground face-first, his blood mixing with the earth. The white pants and expensive loafers of the old man came into view. The figure paused at the edge of the soil bed, seemingly eager for a front row seat but unwilling to get any dirt on those polished shoes.
    “Bury him,” the old man said in Italian.  
    From his peripheral vision, Travis saw one of the men snatch a shovel. The other two goons dragged Travis to his feet. He protested and pulled away, so they pistol-whipped him again for good measure. The world swam in and out of focus as it had the night before at the bar. That moment seemed so far away now, part of another reality. For a split second, he entertained the hope that it might all just be some nightmare. A warehouse full of coffins, the prospect of being buried alive, mummified corpses—this shit was text-book Freudian. But the sensation of his body being roughly lifted and dropped into the casket, the cracking of bones as his weight landed on the skeleton, the foul stench of the remains next to him... The tangible patina of reality felt too raw, too vivid to be a construct of his subconscious even if helped along by some potent Italian liqueur the night before. Not even a full bottle of absinthe could conjure such a fucked-up mindtrip.
    This shit was happening for real. And there was nothing he could do to stop it. He wanted to scream, but his lips didn’t work. The casket’s lid slammed shut, drenching him in renewed darkness.  
    The next sensation was of one of movement as the goons heaved the casket toward the waiting hole. Moments later, Travis’ whole body shook as the coffin landed at the bottom of the freshly dug grave. The corpse’s bones poked into him, and his head bounced against the sealed lid. He weakly pounded the walls of the coffin, blood bubbling down his lips.  
    The oppressive darkness sapped his will to live, to fight.  
    A slight vibration of something hitting the casket. Dirt, Travis realized.  
    They were beginning to fill up the grave. Bury him alive. A last vestige of survival instinct surged through his body. He pressed against the lid with all his strength, but it wouldn’t budge despite his