Gravediggers (12 page)

On the page after that, though, there's something useful. The author, whoever he or she may be, has drawn a rudimentary map, a big triangular peak representing the mountain, and on it I can see landmarks, including a detailed miniature stone wall, evil sigil and all, and a tiny cabin, beneath which is a sigil with a skull at its center. A little ways up is another place, decorated with a crosslike sigil in the middle of a circle, with a miniature dream catcher over it. At the very top of the mountain, right below the point, appears to be a cave with a figure in front of it, a hunched stick figure with wispy hair. A thick black line runs up the triangle, connecting all the landmarks. There's more writing around it, all done in the same odd script, but try as I may—
remember when Sorin from Romania tried to teach you the Cyrillic alphabet online, Kendra, remember
—I can't decipher it.

When I show it to the boys, they perk up, if only slightly. “Beats no map at all, I guess,” PJ says, sighing.

“What do we think this is?” Ian points to the cross-circle, the landmark we haven't reached yet.

“Unsure,” I say. “It has to be important, though, seeing as it has this dream catcher over it. So far these symbols have been found only in the places we've run into something strange. The wall, the cabin, they've all had symbols like this on or in them. It must all tie together with the . . . creatures. What it
does
mean, though”—I feel my heart swell and my voice go tight and high with excitement—“is that if we can trace our way back to the cabin, we can find our way to whatever trail this is”—I trace the center line on the map from the peak of the mountain downward—“and presumably make it back to Homeroom Earth.”

Ian nods, his eyes glowing with the prospect of getting home. “Awesome. So.” He looks around us and shrugs. “I guess we need to figure out a plan, huh?”

“Kendra?” asks PJ, looking hopefully at me. “Any ideas?”

Excellent—with PJ referring to me, Ian will probably follow suit, and so our plans won't constitute “Run!” or “Go after it!” or other amazing Buckley family remedies.
Now, it's time to think, Kendra, to work your muscle of choice. Sort out the information you've been given, use it to build and back up an argument, aaand . . . postulate!

“Our goal is to either escape those things,” I say, “or find a way to destroy them. To achieve that goal, we need to analyze what we know about them and come up with a strategy. First, we believe these creatures to be linked to this old woman—”

“Zombies,” says Ian, eyes wide and accusatory.

“Let's call them ‘creatures' for now,” I say. “I'm not sure I'm comfortable with that word yet.”

“No,” says Ian, jabbing out a hand, “
zombies
.”

“Look, Ian, I understand that you believe that's what attacked us; it's just that maybe there's a more reasonable explanation—”

Before I can finish, he grabs me by the shoulders and spins me around rudely. I'm about to protest when I see shapes off in the distance, slowly staggering our way.

 

 

 

 

Chapter Twelve
PJ

T
hey're here.

It's hopeless. They've found us. It doesn't matter how, whether it was the sound of the tree crushing their sister or some kind of undead sixth sense that tells them where warm meat is. Those white eyes shine out of the shadows and fix on us, and then the moaning starts, the grasping, the stench of rotting flesh. They crunch through the underbrush, marching in our direction one sickening foot after another. No matter what we do, no matter how far we run, they know where we are, and they find us.

My ankle hurts so much. It's like my heart is beating inside of it.

Any hope I had from seeing Kendra's map is swallowed up by the horizon of lifeless gazes, black rotting mouths, and dirt-caked hands. The entire forest shakes in a chorus of hungry gasps that builds into a single sorrowful moan. There may have only been twelve Pine City Dancers, but there are definitely more than that here, some gray faced and fresh, some withered and ancient, all moving forward with the same blind drive.

“Right,” says Kendra in a low voice, “I see.”

“They're going to catch up to us if we rest in one place for too long,” says Ian. “If we stay on the go, we should be able to outrun them.”

“I don't know how much more I can climb,” I admit.

“If we're lucky,” says Kendra after a moment of staring into the oncoming horde, “we won't have to.”

She points to our new map of the mountain, so scribbled and basic that it might as well be one of the treasure maps Ian and I used to draw when we were little. Her finger traces the central line running up the mountain, the one that connects to all the other landmarks on the map, and that we're hoping and praying is some sort of road back home.

“If we get past this ravine and hike uphill for another quarter mile, we should hit this central path. We could follow it downhill.” She looks over the edge of the small gorge in front of us. “This will be a good obstacle to put between us and them, too.”

“But they might reach
us
before we reach the path,” I say, the crunch of dead feet behind me the only thing I can hear. “This map isn't exactly . . . exact.”

“It's our best bet,” she says. “This is all we have.”

That's our strategy now. “Our best bet.” “All we've got.” “This or nothing.”

We climb to our feet, myself a little slower than the other two. My legs ache, and my muscles are sore, and I can't put any weight on my ankle without it exploding in unspeakable pain. My face must speak for me, because Ian comes up next to me and puts a hand on my shoulder.

“You gonna be okay, PJ?” he whispers. “Maybe you should lose the backpack.”

“No,” I say. “I'm fine. I'll be okay.” My backpack's cargo is precious. I can't lose Kyra's book. Getting home and reading Kyra her bedtime story is my goal. I need it. “It's okay, I'll keep up.”

The slope down into the ravine isn't a
straight
drop, but it's about fifteen feet of incredibly steep loose earth, and it ends in a brown-rainwater-filled pit. Kendra goes first, easing herself down the edge of the ravine hand over hand on a series of overhanging branches and well-placed rocks, and then carefully hopping around the pit in the bottom.

When she's safely down, she calls up, “Ian, help lower PJ. I'll ease him down from here.”

“Okay, man, here we go,” says Ian, grabbing my one hand in both of his and digging in his heels. My whole body shakes as I take my first step backward down the edge of the ravine. Slowly, Ian shuffles forward and I take baby hops backward, wincing any time pressure is put on my ankle. Staring straight ahead, I see Ian, cheeks puffed and red, lowering me down into a hole, a dozen hungry figures swaying a ways behind him.

“I've got him,” says a voice from behind me, and two thin hands wrap around my waist. “PJ, push off the edge with your good foot on ‘now.' Three, two, one,
now
!
”

Ian's hands unclamp from mine, my working foot presses against the sloping dirt, and Kendra yanks me backward. For a moment, I'm in midair, with no control over my own movement, and total panic seizes me, jabs at my heart and eyes like a cold needle. Then, I land on my butt, Kendra falling next to me, narrowly missing the blackish puddle. The ground kicks me in the tailbone but feels good and solid underfoot (or underbutt).

“You okay?” I ask Kendra.

“Fine,” she says, stretching her back with a pained face.

“Can you guys spot me while I lower myself down—” There's a crunch and a moan, and Ian's head whips behind him, and suddenly he comes screaming over the edge of the ravine, arms and legs spinning in the air, mouth open in a stunned yelp. He manages to land crouched on his feet directly in the puddle before us, sending streaks of mud flying through the air, spattering on our faces and clothes, leaving Ian brown and filthy from the knees and elbows down.

At the edge of the ravine stands one of the zombies in a torn flannel, gray filthy hands shaking at his side, green-gray face twisted in a ravenous sneer of blind hunger. The moonlight gleams off his dead white eyes. His gore-streaked mouth opens and lets out a desperate moan. Off in the distance, more moans respond to his, and a mad dance of shadows runs through the night as the ravenous crowd begins catching up with him.

My fingers instinctively scramble for the camera in my pocket, but Ian and Kendra yank me to my feet before I can get the shot.

“Sorry about the mud,” says Ian.

“At least you got down,” I say. “Besides, Kendra's right—now we have time to climb while they find their way around the drop—”

There's a gray blur, a sickening splat, another splash of mud and filth. We all cry out and leap back from the giant puddle, fright still stabbing me in the chest.

No more than two seconds after it lands, the zombie climbs up on his hands and knees and comes at us. His face, now drenched with muck, seems to be melting, the flesh hanging in great loose gobs off his decayed skull. We all scream and backpedal as he jabs out a bloated hand at us, but then there's another blur, and another zombie comes falling face-first on top of the first one. There's a crunch and pop of bone, and then the second zombie sits up, sees us, and reaches out his hands. At the edge of the ravine, a third one puts out his boot into thin air and steps forward.

It's raining zombies.

“They're like lemmings going over the edge of a cliff,” yells Kendra, backing away from the growing heap of writhing corpses. “They're just so stupid.”

“But they feel no pain,” says Ian. “They'll be on their feet again any second!” We turn to the rocky uphill in front of us to the tune of crashing bodies.

After the ravine, the ground gets much steeper, and the soft, wet forest floor is replaced with jagged stones in rocky moss-eaten earth. I hobble and curse and do everything in my power not to scream every time I put the slightest amount of pressure on my ankle. Before, the woods were rough but manageable, and now they're an obstacle course, and every loose stone is a trip wire, sending me sprawling to my knees and leaving my friends to try to steady me. Over and over, Kendra and Ian walk ahead, stop, and waste precious time doubling back to help me. Sweat pours down my face. My working ankle throbs. My chest hurts when I breathe.

And soon, the sound of stumbling groans dies out in the background. The zombies are back on their feet. And they're gaining on us.

No matter how hard I hop, I look back and there they are, stiff shapes in the distance, growing bigger before my eyes. They come from all sides, from behind every tree, their faces only able to express blind hunger or twisted rage as they lurch diligently along. Soon, I can hear every snarl and footstep behind us, can sense their slow-moving presence at my back, can almost feel their cold, bony hands scraping at my skin. It's hopeless. Our doom seems pretty unavoidable.

My foot meets a patch of moss, and I stumble into a puddle of mud. Ian and Kendra run over and help me to my feet.

Kendra pulls one of my arms over her shoulder. “We can carry him for a while, right?”

“Right,” agrees Ian, but the dark rings around his eyes and the grimace on his face tell me he's flagging. He grunts with fatigue as he gets under my other arm and hoists me up. When he looks over his other shoulder, the gasp that comes out of him tells me that the dead are getting a little close for comfort.

We walk like this for only a couple of yards, the two of them supporting me, me pedaling along with my good foot, but we're slowing down, and now we can't climb over any useful obstacles, rocks and ledges that would help throw off the zombies behind us. Instead, the undead's lack of pain or weariness just makes them superior hikers.

When I look back, I see the buttons on their flannel jackets, the buckles on their belts, and the blackish rotting patches on their faces and necks, the yellow crusts on their lips and eyelids. Even the ones with the messed-up legs, the draggers and hobblers, are moving faster than us.

“It shouldn't be much farther,” grunts Kendra.

“I think I see something up ahead,” says Ian.

A web of brambles and interwoven sticker bushes tears at my pants as we burst through the underbrush and come upon a jagged wall of rocks, stretching up some thirty feet, creating a craggy scar between the trees of the forest. Ivy and briars slither out from every crevice. Multiple jagged boulders seem strategically placed all up the wall, giving it multiple smaller ledges throughout. It probably wouldn't be the worst climb in the world—if my ankle wasn't horribly sprained.

“The map didn't mention this,” groans Kendra, her eyes scanning up and down the cliff face.

“We can do this,” says Ian, taking it in and mapping it out in his head. “See, these rocks aren't that big, and the vines growing out of here make decent ropes.”

“I think those are poison ivy,” Kendra bellows.

“Then our hands will itch!” yells Ian. Behind us, the moaning grows, and his face gets more and more panicked. “They can't
fall
up a mountain. This is a
real
obstacle. And right now, it's our best bet—”

“You two keep saying that!” I shout. Something hard and heavy rises up from the pit of my stomach and fills my throat. My eyes burn. My head blurs. It's hard to breathe. “We put a ravine between us and them, they fall down it! We put an hour of uphill hiking between us, they scale it! We're done for! It's
over
!”

“We
can
do this,” says Ian, and then he looks at me, his face hard and pale. “PJ,
you
can do this. I know you can. You've got to try. Otherwise—”

Before he can keep trying to convince me, the decision is made for us: from behind a nearby tree stomps a zombie, a tall one in a torn peacoat and a red stocking cap, pus-colored teeth gnashing beneath a bushy gray mustache. His milky eyes settle on the three of us, and those hands come up as he stumbles stiffly toward us, moaning and clawing at the air.

The first rock is slimy and cold beneath my belly as we scramble up onto it. Ian and Kendra immediately launch up onto the second one before I can even get back on my feet, hanging like mountain climbers from big hairy strings of ivy. I manage to climb up onto the next rock outcropping just as the zombie comes crashing into the first one; I'm halfway up when icy fingertips glance on my ankle, and then my good foot shoves me up the next two before I know what's happening. Without even trying, I'm halfway up the wall. Maybe Ian's right. Maybe I can do this.

Below us, they come spilling out of the woods, hungry moans rising out of breathless throats. The mustached ghoul stares straight up the rock wall at me, raising his hands over his head. His mouth chews open and closed, black goo smacking between crusty chapped lips, and his eyes, white with death, never leave mine. The other zombies have caught up with him, and I can see them now, gathering at the bottom of the cliff—the skinny woman in pink spandex, swaying in her ballet shoes as she tiptoes en pointe toward us; a wiry black woman missing most of her lips and one of her eyes, old flesh drawn tight over her face and neck; Bill from the basement, chubby and slow, his torn cheek leaking black scum; the big guy with no shirt, his half face crawling with maggots, his eyes mean looking under his sloping brow. Each one is individually revolting, but as they pile up below us, they amass into an indistinguishable crowd of upraised hands that sends shudders up and down every sinew in my body.

But for once, Ian and Kendra are right—the crowds of undead crash against the wall of boulders, building in number but never attempting to climb.

“Come on, PJ!” yells Kendra, some twelve feet up. I look up the rockface to see the two of them overhead, peering down from a jagged stone ledge impatiently. It's only a really hard jump and some climbing ahead, but with the throbbing in my ankle and the weakness in my arms, it might as well be the entire mountain.

Maybe
, I tell myself,
maybe I can just wait it out here. Maybe help will come, and someone with a rope will pull me up—

“PJ, you need to climb!” screams Ian. “Grab that vine and hoist yourself up. I'm going to hang over the edge and grab your arm.”

“I don't think I can do it,” I try to say, but really sob.

“You're wrong!” he calls back. “I
know
you, man! For someone as strong as you, this is
nothing
!” He dangles his torso over the edge, Kendra kneeling behind him and grabbing his ankles, and stretches his muddy hands out toward me.

A few feet below his hands hangs the vine he's talking about, a furry stretch of ivy wrapped across the next big rock ledge. I jump as hard as my good foot will allow and feel my hand close around it. With one strong yank, I pull myself up toward Ian, stretching my hand up to his, his smiling face dripping with sweat, outlined by the cloudy night sky—