The rain didn’t wash away the grief; it only made the mud heavy, sticking to my shoes like a guilty conscience. They said the illness took Elena quickly. A rare pathogen, they called it. Something rapid, something that turned the blood against the body in a matter of hours.
Everything moved fast—too fast. There were signatures I didn’t remember scrawling, sympathy from doctors who wouldn’t make eye contact, and finally, that sealed white coffin.
“It’s for the best, Mr. Vance,” Dr. Aris had said, his hand resting too firmly on my shoulder. “The viral load remains high even post-mortem. For public safety, we must seal the casket immediately. No viewing.”
I was expected to mourn and let go. That’s what the pamphlet the funeral director handed me said: Steps to Letting Go.
But as I stood over the fresh mound of earth at the Cedar Hill Cemetery, the only thing I felt was a cold, hard knot in my stomach. It wasn’t just loss. It was suspicion. Elena had been a marathon runner. She ate organic. She had gone in for a routine check-up on a Tuesday morning, and by Tuesday evening, I was a widower.
I drove home to a house that was too quiet. Her coffee mug was still on the counter, a lipstick stain on the rim. I sat in the dark, staring at the wall, clutching my phone. I wanted to call her. It was a stupid, masochistic impulse, but I dialed her number just to hear her voicemail.
Ring.
Ring.
Click.
My heart hammered against my ribs. It didn’t go to voicemail. Someone had picked up.
“Elena?” I whispered, my voice cracking.
Static. Then, a sound that made my blood freeze. The distinct, rhythmic beeping of a heart monitor.
“Who is this?” I shouted.
The line went dead.
I looked at the phone, trembling. I tried to rationalize it. A glitch. A crossed line. But then the notification popped up. A text message from Elena.
Don’t trust Aris.
I grabbed my keys. I didn’t go to the police; they would think I was hallucinating from grief. I drove back to the hospital, St. Jude’s Private Clinic. It was a sleek, modern building that looked more like a tech firm than a place of healing.
I stormed the reception. “I want Elena Vance’s records. Now.”
The receptionist, a young woman who looked terrified, typed on her keyboard. “Sir, the system shows… the file is restricted. Classified clearance only.”
“She’s my wife!”
Security guards were already moving toward me. I backed away, realizing a scene would get me arrested, not informed. I retreated to the parking lot, watching the building from the shadows of my car.
At 2:00 AM, a black van pulled up to the service entrance. Two men in hazmat suits rolled a gurney out. Not in. Out.
I squinted through the rain. The figure on the gurney was small, covered in a sheet. But as they lifted it into the van, the wind caught the edge of the fabric. I saw a flash of auburn hair. Elena’s hair.
They weren’t burying bodies. They were moving them.
My mind raced back to the cemetery. The sealed coffin. The weight of it.
I floored the gas, but not toward the van. I couldn’t catch them. I needed proof. I needed to know what was in the ground.
The cemetery gates were locked, but I hopped the fence, ignoring the tear in my suit pants. The mud was slick, treacherous. I had a shovel I kept in the trunk for snow, and I began to dig.
It was grueling work. The rain mixed with my sweat. My muscles screamed, but the adrenaline silenced them. Thud. Metal.
I cleared the dirt from the white lid. My breath came in ragged gasps. I used the edge of the shovel to pry the latch. It was sealed tight, industrialized glue and heavy locks. I smashed the locking mechanism until the metal twisted and groaned.
With a final heave, I threw the lid back.
I shone my flashlight into the abyss.
It wasn’t empty. But Elena wasn’t there.
Inside the coffin lay three large bags of construction sand, arranged to simulate the weight of a body. And on top of the sand, taped to the center, was a glossy brochure.
The Chimera Project: Evolution Starts With Sacrifice.
Beneath the brochure was a burner phone. As I stared at it, the screen lit up. A video call was incoming.
I answered.
The camera showed a sterile white room. In the center was a glass cell. Elena was inside, hooked up to tubes, her eyes wide with terror, pounding on the glass. She was screaming, but the room was soundproof.
The camera panned, turning to face a man in a surgical mask. He pulled it down. Dr. Aris.
“You weren’t supposed to dig, Mr. Vance,” he said, his voice tinny through the speaker. “Most people are relieved to let go. But now, you’ve made things complicated.”
“Where is she?” I roared at the empty graveyard.
“She is part of something greater now,” Aris said calm. “She has the genetic markers we need. The perfect host. You should be proud. Her ‘death’ will save millions.”
“I’m coming for you,” I snarled.
“No, David,” Aris smiled sadistically. “You’re a grieving husband who couldn’t handle the loss. A tragedy, really.”
A red laser dot appeared on the center of my chest.
I looked up at the tree line. Silhouettes of men with rifles stood against the stormy sky.
“Run,” Elena mouthed on the screen.
I didn’t run. I dove into the open grave just as the first shot cracked the air, the bullet shattering the coffin lid where my head had been seconds before.
Lying in the mud, next to the sandbags meant to replace my wife, I typed a command into the burner phone Aris had left—a foolish mistake. He thought he was taunting me, but the phone was connected to their local network. I wasn’t just an accountant; I used to work cyber-security for the DoD before I retired.
I initiated a trace.
The bullets chewed up the earth above me. I had seconds before they came to the edge of the hole to finish the job.
Location Found: 44.5° N, Sector 4.
I scrambled out the other side of the grave, using the headstones as cover, disappearing into the dark, rain-soaked woods.
They think I’m dead. They think I’m grieving. But I’m not David the widower anymore. I’m the man who is going to burn the Chimera Project to the ground.
Elena is alive. And God help anyone who stands between me and her.
