Darkness surrounded the crumpled figure. Its desiccated body unrecognisable even if there were enough light to see by. It pressed in from all sides, cloying, suffocating.

It tried to move, but its limbs were pinned by an immense weight. When it struggled for breath, its lungs filled with gritty filth and it realised, not surrounded by darkness, but by earth.

It was buried. Buried alive, unable to breathe or move, and yet alive.

For a moment it tried to thrash about, unreasonable terror seizing its mind. But it could not move, not an inch. Its body felt stiff, frozen. For what felt like an eternity its mind raged and terror was all-pervading. Then, so slowly, thought began to resurface. It would have been heaving great gulps of air to regain some form of composure. Instead even more dirt flooded its mouth and lungs which almost restarted the whole process. But it refused to succumb to panic again. What was the point? It should have been dead already. It wasn't for some reason, and that didn't seem like it was about to change.

It wondered at that for a time. How could it be buried, lungs filled with dirt, and yet still live. The cold soil that pinned it on all sides did little to alleviate its confusion.

So it waited. It could not tell for how long it lay there in the earth. Nor how long it had been there before coming to awareness. Time held no meaning. There was only darkness, and the cold earth.

After a time it began to consider its options. If it were buried, how would it escape? There must be a solution. There must be a reason it was buried, though not dead. Seemingly unable to die.

There was movement. Minute, but in the complete stillness of the earth it was like an avalanche to the buried thing. Loose soil shifted until it could feel the limb of another, scrabbling in the dirt for its desperate release.

The thing found with this new movement that it too could wriggle an arm. So it did, as aggressively as it could within the soil. This grew to a violent full body convulsion until it could shift first its shoulder, then its other arm, and finally its legs.

The two buried things fought and struggled together, fighting their way free of the earth inch by inch. Clawing with broken nails and bony fingers until at last, with a victorious well of success, the thing could feel the cool kiss of air, unhindered by the cloying ground.

One arm waved in the cool air. It felt the ground above, churned and broken, but clearly the surface. It patted the dirt, felt damp blades of grass, covered with dew. Despite still being buried from the elbow down, it was a sweet sensation, though dulled. As though it wore leather gloves.

With one arm free, it was a simple matter to extricate itself completely from its undesired grave.

It flopped to the ground, coughing dirt from parched lungs, gasping for air it apparently did not need, but gulping it in all the same. Its body was freed from the earth. It lay panting in the disturbed soil. A soft bed of grit.

The night was dark, pitch black. It could not see a thing. But it could feel. The other with whom it had been buried was struggling to free itself beside it. So with a great heave, the freed creature crawled back to the hole to assist its escapist partner.

"No, no, no! What are you doing?" a high-pitched whine pierced the dark, causing the thing to look about in some confusion. "Just leave him," it went on. The thing still had no idea who was speaking, or why. Only that it was human. A man. Alive.

It could taste the life of the man. Smell it on the night air. That could wait.

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Determined, it went back to freeing its friend from their prison. A sense of comradery, that if it were now free than the other that enabled its escape should be also.

"What did I just say?" The voice came again. This time it was accompanied by a violent shove that left the freed thing sprawling in its own open grave, atop its fellow. The other continued its battle to escape the earth, seeming unperturbed by this new weight atop it. Even tearing at the freed things clothing.

"Oh! Now look what you've done..." The freed one was hoisted back onto its feet. It felt about itself, disoriented. A man's arms were holding him up. He felt along the arms, to find a fairly round set of shoulders, and belly below that, covered in a soft silk shirt and leather jacket. And with the man’s close proximity came his smell. Sweat and cigars, and flesh beneath. Blood pumping, hot and fresh. Full of fat and sweet alcohol. It could smell it all, practically taste it in the air between them.

The night was still dark, but a soft glow was beginning to creep into the things vision. At last it’s eyes were adjusting. In frustration it cast its eyes about, but it could make out little in the still-faint light. But the man was right before it. 

Man. The word stuck in its head. A person. A human. Like itself. Not a thing, not a creature, but a man. And a man has a name. 

But that name eluded him.

“Come on,” the voice said. He was guided away from the hole he emerged from. His comrade still struggled in the dirt, he could hear. But he was led away anyway. Strangely, the man before him wasn’t holding his hand in the darkness, but rather his mind. It was an immediate and very unsettling feeling. And there was no escaping it. He was made to stand beside another. He could feel it’s presence beside him, so he reached out and touched the thing. Felt rotting clothes and leathery skin. He slid his own two fingers together, forefinger and thumb, and felt the same texture of skin. Like old leather. He touched his own arm, and beneath the old suit, through which he could poke his fingers, the skin was the same. Broken in places. He could feel the tissue beneath. The bone…

He snatched his hand away.

What was happening? Where was he? How had he ended up like this? 

He searched his memories but they were as blank as his vision. 

Vision. There was light now. Cold, white light. Too bright to be night. He reached up to touch his face. His fingers explored the desiccated skin, leathery, stretched taut over bone, torn in places. Like a corpse. 

The thought made him yell. But his throat didn’t work properly and all that escaped was a rattling moan. He felt his throat, it was torn and ragged. A dried, open wound.

What was happening? 

“What is happening?” said the voice. It was right before him. And with it the smell of the living man. His vision was growing brighter. Stronger. He could see shapes and colours. The world resolving before him like a television screen being tuned in at last. “Your eyes,” said the living man. “Your eyes, they’re regrowing. How is this possible?” 

The dead man, for that is surely what he was he now realised, reached up to feel his face, his eyes. Lidless, he inadvertently poked himself in the eye. The pain was dulled, like the skin of his hands. Old, dead. But his vision was returning. His eyes little more than globulous pustules, but working once more. 

“Incredible!” The voice went on. Hands touched the dead man’s face, poked around his reforming eyes. He wanted to lash out, shove the hands away, but he could not. That same will that guided him from his grave a moment ago returned. It pressed down on him like another layer of gravity. It was heavy, cloying. Filled his senses and his body until his actions weren’t his own. 

The hands withdrew. Vision was returning rapidly now, and the dead man could see the stranger before him. He was a slightly blurry outline, and as his eyelids returned, he could squint, and make out most of the living man’s detail. He was short, though muscular. He wore a fine coat and a hat. He squinted back up at the dead man, and shook his head. He realised too that it wasn’t night time at all, but morning. A cold, grey morning with a clear blue sky.

“What a fine mystery.” The roar of a car engine sounded in the distance, causing both men, living and dead, to glance around. For the first time the dead man took notice of their surroundings. A cemetery. It was secluded, surrounded by old trees and clawing vines. The dead were surfacing from several graves. Maybe ten bodies. As they emerged they automatically stumbled over to stand in a line with the dead man and several others. 

The living man turned back to the dead. “Well, this can wait until we get home, can’t it?” And with a wave of his hand the dead man found himself moving off with the rest of the dead things. Stumbling into the woods with no idea where he was going at all.