Arthur Bailey, a translator from Intercept Bureau 17, had already admitted to his crimes – his brutalised body a visible testament. Flagging him were two White Guards, their spiked truncheons dotted with blood and torn skin. One threw Arthur to the floor while the other placed a shovel beside him.

A slim, elegantly dressed man bounded up and introduced himself.

"I know who you are, Mr. Sherbet," Arthur admitted. "I've watched this show before."

"Excellent!" Exclaimed the host. "Then you know the rules. There are five graves and you only have enough time to excavate two of them. Your family is buried alive in one of those five tombs."

The effeminate presenter abandoned him to talk to the viewers. This was the most popular programme on the state-run and only TV channel. Millions watched it every week, families gathered together in their dilapidated rooms. It offered respite to the hunger grinding their bellies and the endless drudgery of the war effort against Zealandia.

As he grabbed the shovel, Arthur used it as a crutch to painfully raise himself up. His limbs still ached from the dislocations he had suffered on the rack. He had spent a month in hospital recovering before they dragged him to the set of 'The Burial Game.' He had begged for mercy but he knew it would end like this. First his body would be broken and then his soul. Forgiveness was first prize. The only prize. If he won his family would be spared but sent to slave away in the sulphur mines.

Mr. Sherbert struck the starting gong.

Arthur would begin with number two: his wife's favourite number. The ground was cold and hard, resisting the shovel's attacks. Already weak, he dug as hard as he could, sweat popping out of his desperate body. His fingers scraped at the dirt, throwing it over the side.

Burrowing… Burrowing.. Burrowing.

When he reached the coffin he smashed his fists on the damp, slimy wood. There was no response.

"One more go until the end of the show!" Mr. Sherbert sang.

Laughter from the audience at home echoed from nearby speakers.

Arthur was helped out of the deep hole he had dug and looked around. All the plots exhibited signs of recent excavation. There were never any clues.

He hobbled over to number three. Again, he persisted against the firm, dark earth. The shovel was gripped tightly as he worked, his body in pain, his thoughts focussed. He was wailing with the feeling of hopelessness and fear. He thought of his family buried alive, suffering because of his disloyalty to the Party.

As he neared the bottom of the grave the shovel broke through the rotten wood of an old coffin. He had failed.

Mr. Sherbert peered over.

"I have a surprise for you, Arthur."

Arthur looked up to see his family standing at the top of the hole. They all had shovels in their hands.

"Bury the traitor, children!" His wife commanded, tears forming in her eyes.