Gravediggers by Christopher Krovatin Page B

PJ.
    â€œNothing,” I lie. “Just some notes on which berries are edible.”
    â€œGood call,” says PJ, nodding to himself, trying to play calm. “I could eat soon.”
    There’s no point in telling them—my panic might rub off on PJ, and Ian will probably declare me insane.
    Then a noise rings through the air, unlike any animal call we’ve heard. It’s a low, sonorous moan that seems to bounce between the trees and pass over us in a wave. I watch dread creep over PJ’s and Ian’s faces.
    â€œWhat was that?” asks PJ, looking up to me for reassurance.
    â€œFlammulated owl,” I fib, to him and myself. “They’re common in this region.”
    He nods, but he knows I’m lying. His eyes ask me, What are you really thinking?
    And with how scared my gut feels right now, I don’t want to tell him.
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Chapter Six
PJ
    I ’ve got to be strong, for Kyra.
    That’s what I keep repeating in my head. Kyra’s out there. She’s at home in bed in the blue sheets with the hippos on them, and she doesn’t know why you’re not reading her a story. She needs you to get back to camp and call home and read Burly Bunny and the Thunderstorm to her, because otherwise she’ll have bad dreams. That’s all that gets me up the mountain.
    We climb for what feels like miles, while the light fades and the shadows close in around us. The view of the sun disappearing behind the Bitterroot peaks should be beautiful, but we don’t have any time to think about it, just to race against it.
    Ian and Kendra are amazing. They make it look so easy. It’s like Ian’s body was built for the wild—skinny, muscular legs and arms, sharp hunter’s face, and a sweaty mop of blond hair that never gets in his eyes once. My mom always says he’s about to hit his “big growth spurt,” and I can see it now; every time he stretches and climbs, he looks like he’s about to rip out of his skin. He’s so into being the hero, the pioneer, that he doesn’t take the time to feel stupid, even when we’re lost out in the middle of Nowhere, Montana.
    And Kendra Wright’s brilliant, even with us, with me. Before she opens her mouth, she stops, blinks, reviews the situation in her head, and thinks of the thing that will most encourage us to do what she wants, what she thinks will best get us out of here. More than that, though, she is trying to figure out what to do next. All that awkwardness is just her way of thinking things through. It’s like she’s the anti-Ian.
    Between his hard head and her sharp mind, we’re dragging ourselves farther and farther along. That noise, that horrible sound that Kendra claims was an owl, seems to follow us, along with the creepy stone wall and the huge disappearing deer.
    Everything is terrifying out here. Every rock has a dark space underneath it that something probably lives in, and every pile of leaves looks like it has eyes somewhere inside it peering out at us. Even the trees start becoming a solid mass of shadows towering over us, reaching out with prickerlike branches, pulling us deeper into the wilderness. In horror movies, it’s all set pieces—carefully placed branches, choreographed rocks, prerecorded animal noises. Out here it’s random, wild. There’s no control, no motivation.
    I try to forget my fear, focus on the forest and the hike, but it’s always there. Ian can outrun it and Kendra can outthink it, but I have nothing, just a lump in my throat. My backpack is full of a million different bug repellents and first-aid accessories, and a Burly Bunny book about not being scared of lightning, but none of those things can help us out here against a poisonous snake or a ravenous coyote.
    Or the decayed bodies of the Pine City Dancers —no. I can’t let my mind wander, can’t let the fear overtake me. My hand fishes my camera out