"It's your choice," I said.

Without any better plan, I hopped up into the coffin.

In the kitchen, one of the military police shouted, "Clear!" Footsteps approached down the hall.

"Screw it." Bryce scrambled into the coffin beside me. I lowered the lid.

From the darkness inside, we could hear the sound of scrambling boots and the shuffling of the plastic chairs that had been set out for the service.

Now there came a tapping on the coffin. It was the tip of an assault rifle.

"We checking in here too?" said a voice.

Another set of footsteps approached.

"I've seen way too much lately to open up another coffin," said a second voice.

There was a pause. Neither of the men outside moved.

Finally, the first voice very quietly said, "Me too."

Their boots scraped away as the men left the room.

"Are they gone?" Bryce whispered. "Let's get the hell out of here."

I listened. Another set of footsteps, softer than the last, was approaching.

"Someone else is coming."

Now the softer footsteps approached the coffin. They stopped right beside us.

We heard someone set something on top of the coffin's lid.

There was the sound of someone going through a bag.

Then, next, there was the loud, grinding whir of an electric drill.

Someone was screwing the coffin's lid shut.

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