Gravediggers by Christopher Krovatin

like rum. Let’s hope that means something.” Then: “Ian, careful.”
    Ian has already scaled the wall and stares petulantly back at us from on top of it, trying to play conquistador, oblivious to the damage he could be doing to a historical landmark. Typical.
    â€œYou shouldn’t stand up there,” I yell at him.
    â€œWhy?” he says. “We’re going to have to climb over it anyway.”
    â€œBut still,” I snap back at him. “You never think about things, you just go ahead and do them. You ought to have some respect for—”
    â€œFor a wall ?” he moans, throwing up his hands. “What’s to respect? We have to climb it! Get over yourself!”
    That last crack was uncalled for, and I give him the dirtiest look I can before following him. As PJ and I climb up and leap down on the other side, the sun seems fainter, the air feels colder, and the reassuring scent of the forest is replaced with something sour and spoiled. The wall is made not just of stone, but of air, as though an invisible barrier stretches from the ground up into the sky. It’s not me alone—PJ hugs himself tightly, his skinny little body shuddering as we walk onward. Even Ian, with his headstrong bluster, frowns and wipes at the soles of his shoes.
    The hillside has gotten steeper since the wall, and we’re all struggling to keep pace, except for Ian, whose long, skinny legs yank him easily over any rock or felled tree in our path. Every time we pass a large burrow or a thick patch of bushes, he kneels beside it and peers into it, as though he’s lost something. As he crouches near a thick hollowed-out tree trunk, I hear him mumble, “Where are you, where are you . . .”
    â€œWhat are you looking for?” I ask him.
    He glances at me over his shoulder, then mumbles, “Nothing. Just . . . if you see anything that looks like clothing, let me know.”
    â€œIs this about the Pine City Dancers?” asks PJ, wiping sweat from his brow. “You’re still hung up on that?”
    â€œWell . . . you have to admit, it would be pretty cool if we found them,” says Ian.
    When I look at PJ, he shudders and looks around himself. “Jeremy Morris from the seventh grade told Ian that a modern dance troupe disappeared in these woods last year,” he groans. “That’s why we didn’t have a Homeroom Earth trip last year.”
    Ah. Of course Ian has no intention of helping our situation, only hunting down a campfire story and scaring the wits out of his best friend. What a weasel. “That story’s not true,” I declare.
    â€œBut what if it is?” asks Ian. “We could be heroes for finding these poor lost hikers and bringing back proof of their existence.”
    â€œFirst of all,” I say, “do you think our teachers would let us go hiking in woods where there might be dead bodies?” I look at PJ and shake my head in a What an idiot kind of way. He smiles back. “And second, what would you tell our teachers if you did find them? ‘I’m sorry I disobeyed the rules and left the path, but look, here’s a dead body.’ Good luck, Ian.”
    â€œYou’re thinking about this all wrong,” he says.
    â€œYou’re not thinking about it, period,” I tell him. “Same as when you ran off into the woods.”
    Ian gets a dark, mean look on his face. After a moment’s silence, he says, “Well, what are we going to tell the teachers about what happened today? We need a story, something they’ll believe.”
    â€œPJ and I can say you ran off after a deer, and we went after you to keep you from doing something stupid,” I say. “They’ll believe that.”
    â€œYeah, I bet you’d tell them that,” he snaps. “Anything to bring me down, huh, Queen Brain?”
    â€œI wasn’t concerned with you ,” I tell him. “I’m thinking