Gravediggers (22 page)

“Well, now that we've settled that,” mumbles one of the cops, “would you mind telling us about these . . .
zombies
, young lady?”

Dad's eyebrows go up, but he says nothing.

 

 

 

Chapter Twenty-three
Kendra

I
an's heroics are heartwarming, especially given how petrifying his father is, but it's all a bit futile. We're in trouble, and the truth is proving ineffective.

I explain the past two days of our journey to the adults present. Their disbelief is staggering. Sure, even I'm feeling foolish finally using this awful, sophomoric, obnoxious word, but it's the only one that will best describe what we encountered up there: there were
zombies
on the mountain. Dead bodies reanimated, instilled with a hunger for human flesh. At first, Ian and PJ blush as I admit to our encounters with the super-natural, but a hardness develops in their eyes after a bit, an understanding that as long as the truth is being put out there in some form, it might as well be the whole truth, no matter how implausible it might sound.

The more we explain the zombies and O'Dea the Warden, the further the faces of the adults sink. After a few minutes, Professor Randy says, “Excuse me,” and motions for the cops to leave the room. Coach Leider watches them go, then turns back to us, his face full of worry but hardened into resolve.

“At the end of the day, it doesn't matter what happened up there,” says Coach. “You broke explicit orders from a superior, and that calls for punishment.” He sighs and shakes his head. “Can't believe I'm doing this—Ian, since you were the ringleader here, you've got three months' detention and . . . no more recreational sports for the rest of the year.”

Oh no. My heart aches as I watch Ian deflate with a breathy sigh. It's a death sentence for a middle school athlete.

“Larry, let's not go overboard here,” says Mr. Buckley.

“Sorry, Vince,” says Coach, “but it's the only way he'll learn.” He turns to PJ and me. “For you two, two months' detention. Wright, your library internet privileges are revoked.”

“That's hardly fair!” I sputter. “I—what about school research—you can't—”

“Should've thought of that before you ran off,” he says. “Stick to books. Wilson, I'll be talking to your teachers, and if they see anything even resembling a camera on your person, they're taking it. We clear?”

“Crystal,” grumbles PJ.

“Good,” says Coach with a nod. “Sorry, guys. We're really happy you're all okay, but rules are in place for a reason.” He observes us for a minute longer, then says, “All right, let's get you kids back to the bunks and into bed. It's been a long day.”

As we trundle out of the office, we pass Professor Randy, Ms. Brandt, and the police a ways down a linoleum hallway. Professor Randy is explaining something in whispers and big hand motions. I'm almost ready to ignore him in favor of sleep, until I catch two words:

“. . . shared hallucination . . .”

“Excuse me!” I say, marching toward them. Professor Randy turns around and holds up his palms in front of his goatlike face.

“Easy now, little camper,” he says. “What's the problem?”

“Are you telling these people that we
hallucinated
my story? Is that it?”

His mouth goes tight—caught red-handed. Slowly, he lowers to his knees to give me a patronizing smile. “You see, sweetheart,” he says, “I've got a degree in child psychology, and under stressful situations, young people have been known to come up with a false idea in their heads—”

“I
know
what a shared hallucination is,” I say. “I've read about post-traumatic stress disorder and schizophrenia. We didn't imagine anything. There were zombies up there.”

“Young lady,” says one of the cops, “zombies aren't real.”

“You think I don't know what?” I snap. “Of course they're not real. I've been saying that for the past two days. But they were up there nonetheless. How do you explain the human remains in the arts and crafts cabin?”

Professor Randy opens his mouth, but nothing comes out—he
has
no explanation. Finally, one of the police officers saves him: “Little girl, do you have any other proof?”

Against all my better judgment, I know what has to be done. “Tomorrow morning, we go up on the mountain. There's a diary written by one of the missing dancers that proves everything I'm saying.”

“Whoa, hold on!” PJ comes running up behind me. “Kendra, we just got
off
that rock. Do we really want to go back, just to prove a point?”

“PJ, they think we're crazy!” I tell him. “If we go up there, we can show them otherwise! O'Dea can explain the truth to them!” PJ stares off into space but finally nods along. When he looks back at Ian, Ian gives him a weary nod and a thumbs-up.

“Tomorrow morning,” I say to the cops, “we'll go up. Be ready.” Then Ms. Brandt puts a hand on my shoulder and leads me to the bunk, my face hot with rage and determination. I won't let anyone say I'm some stress-crazed hallucinating crackpot. They'll see.

 

The bunk is dark, though one or two girls are illuminated in their beds with flashlights and books, and a few of them go so far as to give me a half-whispered “Hey” when I come trudging in. I nod back to them, but my eyes are focused on something else, something off in the next room that I've been dreaming of since our compass first failed us.

The shower water is scalding hot, almost to the point of discomfort, but it's beautiful. As it washes the soap off me, I think of every filthy patch of mud I've fallen into or slept in these past two days. I think of every long-dead hand that's wrapped itself around my arms and legs, of the cloud of awful bacteria that must have been released when, not ten yards in front of me, a zombie was torn to shreds by other zombies. These mental images keep me under the stream of hot water as long as possible, until the heat begins to subside and I hear Ms. Brandt stage-whisper, “Kendra, it's time for bed.”

My sleeping bag might as well be made of imported silk, and the thin waterproof mattress I'm lying on could easily be filled with swan feathers. Compared to what I've just been through, this bed is heaven.

As the bunk turns to pitch-black, it dawns on me that somehow, through this horrifying experience, I actually fulfilled my main objective on this trip. I made friends—two of them, even—and had an adventure. A smile creeps across my face at the idea, and then sleep waves its hand over my eyes, and I'm gone.

 

Its hand closes around my wrist. It is stronger than any grip I've ever felt. When I follow the unmovable arm to its body, I see Ian Buckley, face gray, eyes missing, mouth wide—

My body rockets into action. My limbs flail. My fist beats at the grip. A painful feeling comes out of my mouth as I scream.

“Kendra!”

The voice is familiar, and human, not far off, close, hanging over me.

Easy now, Kendra. You're going to hurt somebody.

Ms. Brandt holds me by the shoulders and steadies me. “Okay, honey, okay. Just a nightmare. Take a deep breath.” I do as she tells me, and the room evens out. The bunk is empty, save our troubled English teacher and a single goofy-looking police officer who looks terrified of me.

“Where is everyone?” is what comes first. The beds are all empty—no sleeping bags, no luggage.

“They're at breakfast,” she says. “Everyone packed their things earlier. We figured you might want to sleep in a little. But the sheriff says if you kids still want to go up on the mountain . . .”

Outside, the sun is blinding, and my body feels slow and
lethargic
(that's going on the list), glutted on the most sleep I've had in the past three days. Professor Randy is standing with a tall, broad-shouldered man whose star-shaped brooch and mirrored shades label him the sheriff. Immediately, I'm anxious—maybe I shouldn't have said anything.

What can you do, Kendra? These people were worried sick about you, and you said it was because of
zombies
.

PJ and Ian wait next to them and wave to me as I approach. It's pleasant to see them again, though I can sense they share my mix of embarrassment and worry. Both appear to have had as poor a night's sleep as I did, but poor Ian looks especially miserable. The reality of his situation must have dawned on him today. Even though Mr. Buckley is nowhere to be found, his invisible hand seems to weigh down on Ian's shoulder.

The sheriff sees me and grins. “Morning, little lady,” he says. “Man, look at that hair. I had a girlfriend in college with hair like that.”

“Good morning,” I reply in my iciest tone.

“Professor Randy and I have talked to the policemen who interviewed you,” he says, “and he says you were pretty adamant—sorry, you were
very sure
—”

“I know what
adamant
means.”

The sheriff's grin disappears. “They said you said
zombies
,” he says coolly. “Your boyfriends over here”—a cheap shot—“are saying the same thing. Professor Randy thinks you made it all up, but you seem pretty
adamant
that I come all the way out here and hike up that mountain. Now, I don't care if the Tooth Fairy is making moonshine up there. But my boys also mentioned that your buddy here knew about a gang of lost dancers from Pine City, and Randy said you mentioned a diary. So I'm here. I'm interested. What's the story?”

Ian glances at me, and through his fatigue he looks stalwart. PJ smiles and cocks an exhausted eyebrow; I think he finds this funny.

“Let's go up the mountain and find out,” I finally answer.

“Young lady,” says the sheriff, “I am serious.”

“There's a wall,” I tell them. “An old Indian stone wall, about a mile up. Covered in old symbols and vines. Do you know it?”

The sheriff frowns, but Professor Randy nods coolly. “Yeah, I've heard of it. The locals don't like it. They say it's cursed.”

“Then that's where we'll start,” I tell him.

Everyone turns toward the parking lot. I say hi to Ian and PJ. Ian marches rigidly, head down, so PJ and I fall as far back as we can and whisper.

“He got it bad last night,” says PJ. “His pops yelled at him for two hours after we went to bed. We could all hear it from inside the cabin.”

“That's terrible.”

“Yeah, well . . . look, what do we tell O'Dea?” he murmurs. “When we show up with the cops? I doubt she wants us blowing up her spot like this.”

“She'll understand,” I tell him. “Maybe if we show them the truth, they can do something about it. Set up some fences to keep people from wandering up there and turning into monsters.”

We pile into a state police SUV—Ian, PJ, Professor Randy, the sheriff and I. We roll out of the parking lot and onto the mountain road leading to Homeroom Earth, and a few yards in, Randy says, “Stop right here.” He gets out and unfastens a chain across a dirt hiking path winding off into the woods, a path I never would have seen if not for Randy undoing the chain. He gets back into the car, and the sheriff turns us into the woods.

We drive for a while, taking tight curves through the impervious line of trees on either side of us. At first, I'm almost bouncing with excitement at the prospect of being the first human being to provide proof of the living dead. Soon, though, watching the heavy trees pass us brings back nauseous memories of our trip, and my stomach turns sour. Finally, the road ends in a small cul-de-sac, and Professor Randy urges us out. The soft earth underfoot and the smell of pine needles and decay are sickeningly familiar.

“It's right up here, if I remember correctly,” he says, motioning to us.

The walk we take can barely be called a hike, but the movement of treading my way up the mountain brings back even more vivid recollections. All three of us feel it and are doing everything not to turn and run. Ian kneads his hands. PJ wraps his arms around himself and glances at every tree.

At first, I wonder if it's a lost cause, but then I see the wall in the distance, its gray flatness bisecting the brown-and-green forest floor. “There,” I say, pointing, and suddenly Ian and PJ and I are jogging toward it, drawn to its reality after doubting our own for so long.

When we reach it, it's the same wall, choked with plant life, glistening with rum. This time, however, there are orange signs on posts in front of it reading
PRIVATE PROPERTY—KEEP OUT—TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT—O'DEA FOREE, OWNER.

“That's one way to go about it,” says Ian.

I drink in the forest on the other side of the wall. It looks no different from the woods we're standing in, but there's a cold, looming quality to it, as though the curse itself stands at the wall staring down at us, inviting us in. Slowly, my foot goes to the top of the wall, ready to launch me over it and into the insanity of the mountain.

We could be lost for days. But then again, it would mean so much—

“Wait,” says PJ. “Look.”

He kneels down at the base of one of the signs and rises with his handheld camera in his grip. Ian and I huddle around him as he presses the Play button.

The video is shaky, made by an amateur. We see trees, sky, hard rock floor, and then a gnarled hand rises into view holding something—a dream catcher, huge, the size of a truck wheel, strung with finger bones and teeth and a million and one other pieces of zombie detritus. The camera pans over to a bonfire, roaring with twigs and leaves, and then it lifts something else into view—Deborah Palmer's diary. A hard, gravelly voice mumbles, “Sorry,” and then the hand tosses the book into the flames.

“NO!”
I scream as the pages blacken and curl. Professor Randy and the sheriff come trundling up behind us. The breath feels yanked out of my chest. PJ lowers the camera to his side, shaking his head and sighing.

“No,” I moan, “no, no, no,
no
!”