From the Grave - Shane Barrett

When he wakes up, everything is dark. He can smell blood and wood and damp soil, which makes no sense. He was in a county holding cell, and unless he’s somehow been hit so hard he’s been thrown back into the past in some wild west jail, he should be smelling metal and piss and weed.
And if he’s in the infirmary, it should smell like sour chemical cleaners.
His teeth ache. He’s pretty sure he’s probably missing a few more now, given how many times he was hit in the face, but he was pretty groggy after the first couple, so he doesn’t actually remember.
It’s his stomach that’s the worst. Someone had decided their brand of justice was to stab him the way he’s supposed to have stabbed that kid to death. Whatever contraband shiv they’d managed to get their hands on had only lasted through six times, not the eleven they were aiming for, but it had been effective nonetheless.
When he passed out on the cell floor he’d been bleeding from multiple wounds and he’d definitely had a severe concussion if not a skull fracture.
He hadn’t expected to wake up again.
He was hoping it was over. Why would they even bother and try to save his life? He’s going down for a third strike, murder two this time. He figured whoever found him would probably have been happy someone saved them and the taxpayers paying his room and board for a life sentence.
He doesn’t think it should be this dark, no matter where he is. Unless that hit to the head damaged his eyesight. Panicky, he blinks a few times, but the only thing visible above him is blackness.
Somewhere in all of that, he feels a dull ache, not exactly in his stomach, more like it’s in the core of himself as a whole. It’s not the kind of pain that comes with a stabbing. It’s more like hunger. An ache gnawing from the inside out.
He runs his tongue over his teeth, testing for loose or missing ones. Oddly enough, they’re all accounted for as far as he can tell. His tongue catches on a canine, maybe a broken one from the sudden throbbing in it and the way he feels the skin tear open.
And then there's blood in his mouth and some kind of feral growl that doesn’t sound human in his throat.
The ache inside explodes into a tearing need, and he snarls again, scrabbling at the wood overhead with newly sharp nails, as vicious as the teeth pressing against his lips.
Wood. Coffin. Earth.
He’s been buried.
He was dead.
He’s not dead anymore.
A visceral panic joins the hunger, and he can only think of one thing. Getting out of this place. He has to get free. He has to feed.
He brings his arms down to his sides and then slams his hands upward, as hard as he can manage. Some part of him realizes, dimly, that he should be only bruising his palms. Instead, the whole board over his head moves.
Wood splinters with a sharp crack and he can smell damp earth and oil and engine exhaust and...sweat. Humans. Blood.
He kicks and smashes his fists against the wood over his head until nails tear loose with screeches and splinters rain down mixed with stale dirt. He has to get out, has to get to the surface.
He claws the dirt away in handfuls, ignoring its ashy oily taste on his tongue. He'll wash it away soon.