Gravediggers (20 page)

“We were on our way to lend assistance at the instruction of the Wardens' Council when you arrived,” she says.

“Is that right,” says O'Dea, sneering. “Guess you're a little too late, huh?”

Ratna Furani nods and smiles even wider, but it's a smile I know, the kind of smile Kendra's given me one too many times. “Too late for many things,” she says. “We heard the noise from within the earth, and felt the karma of this place change. If we'd been here in time, these unorganized imitators would not have destroyed this ancient and hallowed city.”

More than anything, it's that one word,
imitators
, that gets me. All the other stuff, the hours of fighting cave zombies and getting punched by some nut-bar world-ending psycho and fending off a big meat-eating mushroom, it's like that's all stored up in a pile, and that word,
imitators
, strikes the match in my head and tosses it onto that heap of trouble, until I can't take it anymore and I open up my mouth and let the fire out.

“I'm not imitating anything!” I say, jabbing a finger at the old woman. “You hear me, lady? I'm the real deal. I am Gravedigger numero uno. And I just
saved your butt
, so I wouldn't mind a thank you.”

Her smile goes down about two notches. The women on either side of her look at me like I've got a tattoo of a pony on my face.

“Containment would have prevailed,” says Ratna in an intense tone. “It always has.”

“Ms. Furani,
ma'am
, today containment
failed
,” I say with a chuckle, because let's face it, I want to get at this woman, and nothing gets at a person more than someone laughing in their face. “Five people
waltzed
into this sunken zombie city, and one of them nearly busted the whole thing wide open and killed everyone on earth. And he did it just. To show you. That he could. So in some kind of way, he was right. You guys came up short today. And thankfully, me and my friends”—I motion to PJ and Kendra—“were here to clean up your mess. We went down into the place you guys have been guarding for years like a bunch of scared little kids, and we wiped out the threat of anyone else using it to hurt you. So, before you go making accusations, remember that you
need us
. That we're here for a reason. And honestly, it'd be best to stay out of our way.”

“You dare speak to me in such a way?” she says, looking deeply offended even though
I'm
the one who just fought the God mushroom. The Wardens on either side of her look down at me, like cobras ready to strike. “Such insolence! Such—such—”

“Flippancy?” croaks Kendra, softly. “That's a good word. I did that one.”

“Miss, I'm twelve,” I tell her. “Insolence is the name of the game. I beg your esteemed pardon, but seriously.” I point to my bruised body, my filth-caked clothes, my split lip from a punch to the face. “You don't know where I've been today.”

Silence. Behind me, I can
feel
O'Dea face palming and shaking her head, but I couldn't care less. I feel great, I feel in control and full of energy and just Gravediggered out from head to toe.

And then one of Ratna's attendant Wardens whispers to her, and her smile's back, but in a bad way.

“You call yourselves Gravediggers,” she says, pointing over my shoulder. “And yet you shirk your duty.”

“What?” I ask.

“That one is cursed,” she says. “He bears the bite of the demons. He must be either contained or destroyed.”

Aw, no.

My head moves slow, because I know what's coming, and there, over my shoulder, I follow her finger to PJ, back by the cave entrance, staring straight at the ground. Even if he didn't have his bit hand clasped in the other one, you can see it on him in the fading sunlight. His skin's all pale and waxy with deep dark spots under his eyes and cheekbones. There's a slight weakness about him, and a whole ton of agitation.

“PJ?” says Kendra, blinking hard and fast. “You're—you—one of them, a . . . a zombie, managed to—” She chokes on the last words, putting her hands to her mouth.

“I will handle this, sisters,” says O'Dea, her voice as cold and scary as I've ever heard it. “He is one of my team. He will receive the proper attention.”

“You cannot be serious,” gasps the Indonesian Warden. “You think we will let you take the very
curse of Kudus
out into the open world? He must be dealt with immediately!”

O'Dea gulps. Her eyes hit us, then them, then us. Then she steps in front of PJ and grimaces at the other Wardens. “Then you're going through me, sister,” she says, hard as hell.

Ratna gets a little pale, and the Wardens she brought with her share a look like they're wondering who has the guts to go to war with O'Dea. But with Kendra and I there as well, it doesn't feel uneven. They channel all the karma of the planet, but I can shoulder check someone really, really hard.

“You also forsake your calling,” sighs Ratna. “You release the curse into the world.”

“Make no mistake, Sister Furani,” says O'Dea, lowering her head a little, “I will take care of this.”

Nothing else is said. The wind blows; we glare at one another. The four of us walk away slowly, and the Wardens watch us go.

Chapter Twenty

Kendra

“K
endra?”

The voice snaps me out of my vacant stare at the lined paper on my desk. In less than a second, I have been transported from the Indonesian cave in my mental vision to the brightly lit classroom, hung with black and orange streamers and construction paper pumpkin visages in honor of tomorrow's holiday. Jenny Dylan stands by my desk, clutching a sheath of papers and looking down on me with a bright and poised expression of wariness and pity.

“Yes?” I manage.

“I have PJ Wilson's homework for you,” she says, making sure to add, “again.”

As though you have not noticed the pattern, Kendra. As though she couldn't lay the papers on your desk and leave. “Again.” Who the heck does Jenny Dylan think she—

“Right,” I say, reaching out and taking the packet of assignments from her. “I'll see that he gets them. Thank you.”

Jenny nods, yet she doesn't budge. There were times, months ago, when I might have been intrigued and excited by the attention of one of the kids in my class—back when I was friendless, when I had only a smartphone and a web forum to keep me company.

A life you might be returning to, Kendra.

“What does PJ even have?” she asks, looking quizzical and almost slightly annoyed. “I mean . . . is it serious?”

“They really don't know,” I lie.

“But, like, he's getting treated, right?” she asks. “He's not going to die or whatever?”

For a moment, some Gravedigger instinct flares up in me and I imagine slamming my fist into Jenny Dylan's stomach and asking her if
she
's going to “die or whatever.” Good Lord, no wonder the Wardens had us disbanded.

Before this conversation can continue, Ms. Alexander calls Jenny's name, and she waves and backpedals for the door. A glance shows that I am the only remaining student in our homeroom, a departing flash of Jenny's chestnut ponytail the last vestige of another person my age. As I hoist my backpack onto my shoulder and begin to leave, Ms. Alexander, our new homeroom teacher, says, “Kendra?”

“Yes?” I sigh, turning to her.

“I'm sorry to hear that your friend is so sick,” she says. “He seemed like a sweet boy. If you ever need anyone to talk to, I'm here.”

What do you say to that, Kendra? “The sweetest I've ever known”? “It's okay; this is our job”? “There is no known cure for what he has”? Her intentions are kind, but her tone is simply too much like those of your parents during the divorce—concertedly sensitive, ready to Be There for Me at a moment's notice.

“Thank you,” I settle on, and make my way out into the hallway.

The blue linoleum hallways of our school are drenched in playful morbidity—ghosts and skeletons, noble vampires and scientific revenants (PJ would probably call them “Draculas” and “Frankensteins”), even the occasional proper zombie. My mind does its best to block it out, not because it references death, but because I am inherently aware of how much PJ loves Halloween, the lighthearted exaltation of fear and darkness. He might not even know it's tomorrow.

Unconsciously, my feet bring me to the school exit closest to the gym. The sound of rubber slapping polished wood fills my ears to the point of being deafening. Against my better judgment, I turn in to the double doors and observe the basketball court, the tall windows throughout it filtering in afternoon light. A whiff of foam padding and sweat fills my nostrils.

Boys' JV runs exercises, each boy running alongside the basket and performing a layup. Coach Leider claps and shouts, the echo of his deep baritone voice seeming to emanate from his square chin rather than the vast, cathedral-like space of the gym around him.

A few of the eighth grade boys file past the basket, tossing their balls. When Ian arrives at the basket, his eyes are cold and set, his movements mechanical. He makes the shot, but even Coach Leider can see his lack of motivation and stops him as he runs back to half-court, crouching down and whispering into his face. The words are too far off and overpowered by the noises of practice to reach my ears, but Coach's stare and hand motions make his message clear: something is wrong. It's Ian's job to find out what. Ian nods, but his gaze is miles away.

As he turns away from Coach, his eyes find me, and a swift shock shoots through my system. My hand raises in a wave, and I instinctively smile—

Ian's eyes dart away, and he jogs off after a loose basketball.

A gust of disappointment carries me out of the doors to school, down the stone steps, through the crisp chill and smoke scent of the October air.

Logic must be respected here. It's not his fault. His parents went berserk. This time, Vince and Emily Buckley had looked into our story, called the hotels we were listed at in New York, screamed at our parents. (The Banjarmasin police are apparently searching for us as we speak due to our “disappearance” within the cave, a thought that is both terribly sad and somewhat exciting.) And when we got back, they put Ian on lockdown. He's never to speak to either one of us again; if they catch him spending time with us, my parents told me, the Buckleys will move. They will literally pick up and disappear.

You've all been lying to the people you love too much, Kendra. It's time you took your medicine. Besides, why so eager for him to notice you?

My mother waits for me outside of her car and gives me a quick wave as I reach it. Before I disappeared for a weekend, she might have smiled and inquired about my day. Now, there is a cold reception and a stony tone of voice. I am not the obedient daughter she believed herself to have raised.

“Samantha Wilson called me at work,” she says as we speed away from school. “She was hoping you would visit Peter Jacob this evening. He appears to be progressing, in her mind. Would you like to go see him?”

“Is that all right with you?” I ask. A question to answer a question is a tactic my mother loves to employ. She almost smiles.

“It is.”

“All right. Once I've dropped my backpack off, I'll—”

“And after you've finished your homework,” she says, as though I'd forgotten such a thing. “And had dinner, and finished that workbook lesson your father gave you.”

“My friend is sick.”

She purses her lips and sighs sharply. “Kendra, consistency is important in life. You must be prepared to maintain normalcy, contain your passions. Containment is key.”

The phrase sends my eyes snapping back to my mother, shock replacing my sadness. “What?”

“Something your grandmother used to say,” she says. “It was about maintaining a personal standard, not letting your emotions overwhelm you.”

Come on, Kendra—was that what it really meant
?

“Mom, did Grandma ever mention a . . . ‘Warden' to you?” I ask.

My mother frowns. “Not that I remember. Like a prison warden? Why?”

“No reason,” I say, making a mental note to take an in-depth look into my family tree in the near future.

 

H
omework is, as always, a breeze. Dinner, meanwhile, is interminable. Herman, my mother's boyfriend, tells a seemingly endless story about a lunch mix-up at work that I'm expected to laugh at. He even has the nerve to ask me what I'm “being” for Halloween, and I glare at him like he's a noisy toddler until my mother butts in, saying that I am “too old for that kind of thing.”

Finally, I am excused and run up to my room to get suited up for visiting PJ—my bike helmet, my jacket, and a copy of Vincent Price's
The Last Man on Earth
, a film I have never seen but believe, according to Wikipedia, will be right up PJ's alley.

Just as I'm about to venture out, a clatter draws my attention to my bedroom window. At first, I wonder if it's a tree branch or some sort of imagined phantom noise, but then a pebble strikes the glass near my face. A scrawny silhouette stands in the shadows of our backyard, hooded, staring up at me.

“Yo,” says Ian as I emerge from our house. Hearing his voice for the first time in a week immediately sparks a visceral reaction in me, but his complete aversion to me for these past few days keeps me guarded, bitter.

“What is it, Ian?” I ask, doing my best to sound stable and sure. “I'm on my way out.”

“Are you going to see PJ?” he asks. “His mom contacted my parents and said he wanted to see me, and I thought they might have . . .”

A pause, the silence between us thick. This seems like a foolish question to be unresponsive to, and yet here I am.

Stay tough, Kendra. He wouldn't even look at you today.

“Well,” I tell him, “I suppose I should be grateful you'll even deign to speak to me again. Shall we?”

His face softens considerably. “Aw, come on, Kendra, you know that's—my parents don't—”

“Forget it, Ian,” I tell him in a casual tone. “I understand. We had a rough time, and you decided that—”
Do not break down, Kendra.
“—that this, our, uh,
partnership
, was a little much for you. It's no loss on my part; it just means I have to take care of your dying friend. Alone.” That one gets him. He nearly crumbles, and it hurts me to do it, but it's what I want to say. “Shall we go?”

He doesn't say anything, so I turn my back to him, blinking the stinging sensation out of my eyes and attempting to find the outline of my bike against our house in the gloom—

“No. Wait. Look.”

When I turn back to him, Ian has his hands held out in front of him, and he observes them as though baffled, like they did something he didn't command. His mouth opens and closes repeatedly, but he makes no sound.

“Ian, what is it? It's getting late—”

“I'm such a
part
, okay?!” he practically shouts. His eyes, wide and frightening, land on me. “I'm just some . . . like, an
arm
!”

Oh no. All right, Kendra, Ian is having a seizure. The first thing you'll want to do is find something to wedge in his mouth so he doesn't swallow his tongue.

“Like, I just do these actions that come to me, over and over!” he says, pumping his arm for emphasis. “Like a limb. But I'm just that! Just some arms and legs and a . . . a bunch of organs. But you're, just, so many things! PJ, too, but PJ I can almost get, all feelings all the time, that makes sense more, but you're . . . so
on top
!” He steps toward me, hands held out. His eyes have gone red, and tears cling in the corners, but he's doing a good job of keeping from breaking down. “And I really dig that. I'm so
into
how smart you are, Kendra. And how weird, and crazy you are, and all your Latin animal names, and how you have to blink hard before you say anything you already
know
. It's so cool to just . . . just . . . to
be around
you. That's what this week taught me. I can't do this, I can't do anything, just being alone, like I was before. Before the mountain. Remember me before the mountain? I, I had no idea, Kendra. Before you showed up. I thought I was strong, but I was just so alone, and it was you, all along, that I needed.”

My throat burns. My eyes tear up. The ideas I want to express catch in my mouth. As I take a step toward him, I take in Ian Buckley, the boy I used to hate, all muscle and glistening brow and gushing eyes that somehow seem lit up in the darkness.

I stare. He stares back. Our appreciation of each other hangs in the air. It is an energy all its own, like magic, only greater—there is no rite accompanying this, no sigil or deal with dark forces. It is pure and incredible and feels so undeniably right that I am stunned by it, my thoughts an indecipherable blur.

Yet, though I could arguably stand here all night, I know that it would be selfish. We are still incomplete. There's something to be taken care of, if we want to remain strong in each other's eyes.

“Do this with me,” I say, nodding to my bike.

“Okay,” he says, and we ride off to see PJ.

 

P
J's front steps bear a single-toothed jack-o'-lantern, its flame flickering weakly.

When she opens the door, Samantha Wilson looks bad. Her skin, normally clear and freckled, is waxy and pale. Dark, tender skin rings her eyes. Her hair sticks out at all angles. Her hands flutter over to us and squeeze our shoulders in a shaking, unsure manner.

“He's been having a really good day today,” she chirps as she leads us into her home. “He ate some soup, and he's been talking to his sister all day. And he even did some homework!” She laughs, as though the idea of PJ voluntarily doing homework was a miraculous sign of improvement.

As we pass the living room, I see PJ's father in an armchair watching TV and offer him a wave of salutation. He nods back at me, his eyes stony and ungiving. He will not even look at Ian. PJ's mother has gotten over it, but his father seems intent on reminding us, always: PJ, his only son, left with us, went somewhere, and got sick. We were there when the terrible thing happened.

We're always there.

Upstairs, we reach PJ's bedroom door, covered with a poster for the silent film
The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari
, which features a spidery black-clad man carrying a prone woman across a German Expressionist cityscape. His mother raps a knuckle twice against the door, and we hear PJ's breathy voice call out, “Just a minute!” There is some shuffling, a few bumps and footsteps, and then, softly, “Come on in.”

While his mother looks exhausted and frantic, PJ looks simply awful. His skin is yellow-gray, his eye sockets and cheeks sunken and dark, though his bright eyes still shine out from those deep, shaded pits. He sits, propped up against a pile of pillows, his chest rising and falling with every slow, labored breath. Surrounded by the expensive camera equipment and colorful, vibrant film posters that fill his room, he is especially small and weak, daunted. When we come in, he smiles, or attempts to, and the hopes that had arisen from the repeated claims that he's been doing better sink low into my stomach and calcify.