Gravediggers (17 page)

“At least now we know getting them in the head doesn't do anything,” says Kendra, trying to help. “You've furthered our knowledge of how we can combat these—”

“We need to get out of here,” I tell her. “If we don't, I might have a nervous breakdown.”

She nods hard. “I know. Wait a second. . . .” She fishes the diary out of her backpack and flips to the map. Her finger lands on the third landmark up, a little cross with a tiny dream catcher drawn over it. “If we started out where the cabin is, we should be getting close to this place here. If it's protected by the same power that's keeping them from setting foot on the path, it might be a good place to hide out for a bit and see if they leave.”

“They always find us,” I tell her, trying not to sound as crazy as I feel. “How do we escape them?”

She glares at the horde in the woods, hate in her eyes. “They're slow,” she says, “and stupid. If we jog, we should be able to outrun them. Do you have the energy?”

Not really, but whatever it takes to get us away from the moaning. I start running without giving her a response, and Kendra follows close behind. The zombies baby step after us, but we're kids and they're corpses, so they eat our dust, which feels amazing.

Our exit is hard to miss, even from a hundred yards away—there are all these trees carved with symbols that look like someone went crazy midway through drawing a math problem, and then bam, two of them are painted all over with white circles. Between the two is a narrow trail that cuts through the forest. Kendra puts her hand to one of the trees and peels it back with a sticky sound.

“Rum,” she says.

Looking at the trail, I see that the grass is heavy with nuts and coffee beans. No matter what's at the end of this trail, it's been guarded from any zombie attack.

We walk down the narrow path, trail mix crunching beneath our feet, trees brushing our shoulders on either side. Branches lean in around us, and we have to stay crouched and sure-footed to not catch our clothes on them. It's a creepy little hiking trail, and I'm still pretty on edge after my little PJ moment back there, but there's no sign of the zombie horde, which is enough to turn down the pressure on my exhausted brain at least a few notches.

“There's something up ahead,” says Kendra.

The trail ends at a wide clearing, the grass underfoot brown and superdead, the trees on all sides leafless and scary, their bark peeling and their branches jagged and clawlike, leaning in over us. All through the clearing are piles of rocks, perfectly stacked, each one painted white and surrounded by circles of white paint, radiating in rings on the grass. Something about the place, the rock piles, the awful trees, the white paint, it all gives off that weird feeling, like what I felt in the cabin last night or in the woods before that when I was freaking out at Kendra. Something in the air bothers me like crazy, like bugs crawling over my body.

“Where are we?” I mumble.

“It's a graveyard,” whispers Kendra, running her hands through her hair and shivering. “An Indian burial ground. These piles of stones are grave markers.”

“Great,” I say, “more dead people.”

My eyes follow the lines of white paint leading off each grave as they all come together in the center of the clearing at one extra-large rock pile, on top of which sits something new but familiar.

“Look,” I tell Kendra. Quickly, I tiptoe between the grave markers, doing my best not to step on any of the white lines connecting them, until I'm next to the little stone platform. On top of it sits a circle of wood, strung in its middle with strings, feathers, beads, bones—the dream catcher, the one from the diary.

“Check it out,” I tell her, “we found it!”

“Found what?” she asks.

I grab the dream catcher in my hand and lift it up for her to see. “Remember, from the diary—” But no way, man, I can't even finish my sentence, something's up. My hand buzzes and my whole body tingles, like the dream catcher is electrified.

“Ian, put that down!” shouts Kendra. “We don't know what it does!” I try to respond, but I can't, because just as the dream catcher stops Tasering my hand, the ground starts rumbling beneath my feet.

 

 

 

Chapter Seventeen
Kendra

I
f I'm going to admit the existence of magic, some parameters need to be established. First, if magic
does
exist, it's
probably
just some kind of energy current that we don't have a name for. It's science we haven't gotten to yet. Next, magic, like any system, must have rules that govern it. No ordered system exists without some boundaries, and magic can be no different. Finally, if magic does exist, then we must be able to affect it in some way.

Just because I'm beginning to maybe,
somewhat
believe that we're in a supernatural situation here does not mean I believe in fate or destiny or space aliens building the pyramids or any of that nonsense. I have facts here, cold hard facts. Walking corpses that don't die. Secret messages about dark forces traveling the woods we're currently trapped in. An Indian burial ground with a dream catcher in it, a dream catcher that appears in a piece of text written by a dead, or re-dead, zom—

See, for example, that is still an unacceptable word in my mind. But I have facts. So fine, we're dealing with magic. It's believable, in this situation. During certain adventures, being rational only hinders progress, so one must accept the unexplainable.

Now, if I'm right and we can affect the system of magic around us, the question is whether or not we should. For example, if there is a magical totem sitting on a platform that appears to have been
specifically built
to seat it, perhaps we shouldn't errantly pick it up. Sadly, Ian Buckley is not one for scientific consideration, so he waves the dream catcher over his head like a trophy, and almost immediately the forest floor beneath us starts shaking.

One after another, the neatly stacked grave markers tumble to the ground. The dirt underneath them seems to swell and billow outward, and then the earth itself grows limbs, skinny black arms with wiry claws at the ends of them. Then the hands grab onto the grass and pull, and the ground shakes harder as larger shapes haul themselves out of the black earth beneath the grave sites.

To call these Indian dead “corpses” wouldn't be quite right—without eyes, faces, muscles, or clothes, they're no more than rot-covered skeletons, grayish bones held together by putrid filth, tattered shrouds, and writhing masses of night crawlers. But somehow, without any bodies to speak of, they pull themselves out of the ground, cough up blackened clouds of dust, and climb unsteadily to their feet, letting loose a wave of unspeakable stench that burns my nostrils.

At first, they simply rise, standing on two legs but otherwise lifeless. But one of them turns its skull toward me, and though it can't see, hear, or smell me, it knows I'm there. The others, seven in total, raise their hands for me and begin stumbling slowly forward. My mouth goes dry, my hands twitch at my side, and my legs freeze up, unable to move as the skeletons close in. . . .

“Kendra!” Ian calls out to me from across the graveyard. He whips the dream catcher like a Frisbee, and it spins through the air over the rotten skeleton heads. Somehow, through my distress, I manage to catch it. The skeletons all hiss at it, their bony hands becoming gnarled claws, but Ian is working his arm, throwing fallen grave stones like they were baseballs and doing pretty well at it. The Indian dead are even less balanced and coordinated than the zombies, and every rock to the face sends them sprawling backward and falling to the ground.

Once they're all struggling to regain their footing, Ian sprints across the burial ground.

“Time to go,” he shouts, grabbing my arm as he darts past me, and without a word I let him drag me, moving as fast as my legs can carry me down the narrow trail back toward the path.

We burst back onto the pounded dirt road, gasping for breath, happy to be out of the cemetery and back on the path to PJ. But then I see something that yanks a shriek out of my mouth. With our removal of the totem, the rules appear to have changed. Drastically.

The path is no longer safe, but instead is full of creatures making their way slowly up the hill. For a moment, they stare at us dumbly, as though they're surprised we still exist, and then they begin a new round of wild moaning and outstretched hands, closing in. Behind us, we hear crunching footsteps along the trail.

Corpses in front. Skeletons bringing up the rear.

My mind feels like a classroom after the last bell, swiftly empty. My heart feels like it's being dropped down a long, dark hole.

The creature with the bushy mustache comes closing in on us, and before I can think of swatting his outstretched hand, I hold up the dream catcher in front of me, brandishing it like a shield in my shaking hands.

The dream catcher seems to tingle in my grip as though momentarily charged, and the zombie recoils, hands clawing at the air in front of the dream catcher but never touching it, backing away,
afraid
of the totem.

“Whoa,” says Ian. “They don't like that.”

“Like a cross for vampires,” I say.

“I thought vampires weren't real,” he mumbles.

“Shut up,” I tell him.

I inch forward; the walking corpse backs farther away. The brawny man with the half face stumbles up beside me, but I whirl at him with the dream catcher, and
yes
, he cries out and pulls back as though it were red-hot.

“Come on,” I say, and slowly, Ian and I inch our way up the path, away from the oncoming horde.

They crowd in on all sides, the circle of string, wood, and bone the only thing standing between us and certain death. Ian huddles next to me yelling out directions—“Three o'clock! Eleven o'clock! Right behind us!”—and I pivot, forcing the dream catcher in the face of any shuffling cadaver that gets too close for comfort, my terror turning into excitement with every frightened moan.

Through the web of strings, I can see every pockmark and blue collapsed vein in their dead faces, every shudder of their jaws and clench of their brows. A chill rushes down my spine at the whole ordeal. In their faces isn't simply disgusting decay or pure malevolence; it's a lack of life, the absence of a spark behind those eyes. Of everything about these monsters, that shakes me the most—there is literally not a single thought in those heads, no rationale, no humanity whatsoever, just instinct, rage, and hunger.

Right then and there, I promise myself to destroy this witch's power and set these pitiful creatures free from this prison. She'll pay for what she did to these poor people.

Finally, we break through the mass of decaying bodies and retake the high ground, the entire shambling horde a few yards behind us at all times. The Indian skeletons have lurched onto the path and joined the corpses; for a moment, I hope that some sort of combat will ensue, with corpses and skeletons taking care of each other, but the restless Native American dead pay no attention to the Pine City Dancers and vice versa. Instead they blend into a walking mass of death, their eyes focused on the dream catcher now rather than us. This must be the totem that Deborah mentioned in her diary, the web we must break to set these creatures free.

“Let's get moving,” I say, and at once we turn and sprint up the path, leaving the lumbering horde to follow us at their slow and steady pace. Under my arm, the dream catcher feels heavy, still humming with whatever unnatural power it contains.

 

The peak grows in the distance, then vanishes beneath the horizon, meaning we're probably close. Around us, the looming trees begin to thin out, and the murky overcast sky reappears, now over huge swaths of tall grass and claustrophobic swarms of sticker bushes. A cold breeze ruffles my hair, and on it is the smell of smoke. We can't be far now.

The witch's cave sneaks up on us, so we don't know we've arrived until we stumble out into the open clearing around it and have to scramble back into the forest. Ian and I crouch behind a fallen tree and carefully peek out at our aggressor, sitting before a tiny fire with her head raised, as though she's smelling the air. She's skinny and sharp instead of withered or
corpulent
(a good word from two weeks ago), and she's wearing pants and a jacket instead of a tattered dress and pointed hat, but her slapdash frizzy haircut and the way she prods the fire with a stick suggest to me that she's the witch we're looking for. Plus, she's the only living person we've seen since we got lost, so it only makes sense. Facts, people.

“Where's PJ?” says Ian, clenching his hands over and over, frantic to get moving. “What if she doesn't have him? What if she killed him and ate him? What if she's already turned him into one of those things out there—”

“He's probably in the cave,” I whisper.

Perhaps Ian's right, perhaps we're too late, but admitting that will only send him running at this woman, bellowing at the top of his lungs, and every time Ian does something without thinking, it results in tragedy. Rational thought is essential here. “Here's what I'm thinking—you run into the woods and start making noise, rustling bushes. Try a fake animal call or two. While she's distracted looking for you, I'll run in and get PJ. Once he's safe, I'm going to threaten her so she'll help us get home.”

“Threaten her? What're you going to do, beat her up?”

I hold up the dream catcher. “Something tells me she'll give us everything we want and more if I threaten to destroy this.” Ian gulps and stares into the woods, obviously worried. “What's wrong?”

“What if the noises I'm making attract the zombies?” he says, motioning back toward the woods and the creatures on our tail.

“You'll have to outrun them. If things get too hairy, climb a tree, and I'll meet you there with the dream catcher to chase them away. That work?”

Ian nods and then kneels down and starts retying his sneakers. Once he's ready, he softly says, “Look, if something happens and I don't . . . make it out of this, just tell my mom that I spent my last moments trying to look after PJ, like she told me to, okay?”

“You'll be fine,” I say. “Should I tell your dad anything?”

He snorts. “That I was running?” Then he hops to his feet, stretches a little, and trots off into the woods. The wait is painstaking, even if it's probably only a few minutes. Then, across the clearing, a large shrub rustles back and forth. It's time.

The witch leaps to her feet and yanks two heavy brown clubs, somewhere between bats and drumsticks, from the back of her jeans. She approaches the sound crouched, sticks raised over her head. Another bush rustles a few feet away, and something chirps. The witch whips around, sticks poised. Her eyes dart back and forth, confused but ready.

A few more feet away, something moos.

Really, Ian? Of all the sounds . . .

The witch turns toward the mooing but lowers her sticks—she can tell something is up. She keeps her head down and her shoulders hunched, ready for the attack.

Wait for it, Kendra. . . . A few more steps away, and she'll be too far to—

A chorus of moans floats out of the woods, and Ian yells, “Whoa!”

The sticks go up again, and she rings out the sound from earlier—
TOK TOK TOK.
The moaning turns to shrieks of pain.

Now. She's distracted. One chance. Save the day.

In three quick leaps, I reach the bonfire, hold the dream catcher over my head, and shout, “FREEZE!”

The witch woman spins around, mouth curled into a snarl, brandishing her sticks at me with her wiry arms. Closer, I can see sigils carved into the sticks, like the ones we've seen all over the woods. There's no longer a doubt in my mind that this is our culprit.

“One false move,” I tell her, “and I drop it into the fire.”

Her eyes settle on the dream catcher, and her face loses a shade of color. Panic grips the air. “Trust me, girl,” she says, “you don't want to do that.”

“Where is my friend?”

“First, put it down.”

“I want my friend,” I say, hard and clear, “and we want safe passage off this mountain. Give me those or your precious totem burns.”

“Don't go making threats at me, sweetie,” snaps the witch, pointing at the dream catcher with one of her sticks. “What you got there is dangerous. Stupid enough that you took it from where it rested, but you have
no idea
how bad things'll get if you burn it. Put it down on the ground, and we can talk. I've been expecting you.”

“I don't see my friend.”

“I am trying to
save your life
—”

“HELP!” comes a shout from the woods. In the background, excited moaning and feral snarls grow louder and louder. “Kendra, they're here! A little backup would be nice!” shouts Ian's voice.

“Trying to save your buddy's life, too,” she says, nodding over her shoulder. “Removing that totem, bringing those
things
to my home, all that I can handle. But if you burn that dream catcher—”

“Bring me my friend,” I yell at her, “or so help me—”

“Kendra?”

PJ stands at the mouth of the cave, eyes bugging out of his skull. His gaze goes from the witch to the woods to me and back again, and his lips quiver in confusion.

“There he is,” says the old woman, “safe and sound. Now give me what you got there, or else—”

Ian sprints into the clearing, his face sweaty and sheet white. “They're out there,” he stutters. He points at a slimy handprint on his leg. “One of 'em almost had me.
Really
could've used that backup.”

“Ian?” gasps PJ. “Wait, what do you mean,
they're
out there?”

As he says it, the creatures begin to appear around the edge of the clearing, moaning in excitement as they approach the witch.

“Oh my God, guys, what have you done?” shrieks PJ, backing toward the cave.