Kevin's jeep pulled up to the barely seen fence of the old cemetery, now only a long ridge in the snow. Smaller bumps in the field behind it suggested the location of tombstones. The roar of the wind was strangely muted here. Only a slight fall of snowflakes reminded them of the blizzard that had locked Lawndale in its grip for a month.
"Wow, Andrea, how are you going to find the right grave in all this snow?"
Kevin sounded exhausted, and only his mothers strong coffee was keeping him going. That, and a sense of duty. Jane was his buddy, and she was cool. He didn't quite understand the whole "soul bonding"thing. Granted, he now thought Andrea was sort of cool now, too, but wasn't she a witch? Well, after all this weird stuff was over, he would ask his folks about it. Well, maybe his mother, at least. Mothers always seemed to understand things better than dads, in Kevin's opinion.
Andrea didn't answer as she stared out at the gently falling snow. Doubt's had filled her mind, after their narrow escape from the ghosts at Daria's house. Sure, she liked Jane and Daria. But she knew she was way out of her league in all this. Bits and pieces of knowledge picked up over the years by a curious mind. That was being thrown against what? Ghosts? The memory of that eerie voice that had spoken with Sandi in this very graveyard still shook her, and she was glad it was so quiet now. Still like Kevin, a sense of responsibility nagged at her, telling her that she was the only one in a position to do something about this.
Now, how to find the grave under all this snow. A vague memory drifted into her head, and she frowned, then spoke up.
"Kevin, do you have a piece of string, and a small weight, a nut or something, that I could tie on the end?"
Kevin thought, then reached across Andrea, and popped open the glove box.. Reaching in, he fumbled around for a moment, then pulled out several shoelaces and his class ring..
"I, uh, chucked it in there when Brit broke up with me. I just didn't want to see it anymore."
Andrea just silently nodded, and choosing the thinnest shoelace, tied one end to the ring, and the other ring to her left hands stretched out forefinger. She made a fist with her other fingers and thumb, then swung the door open ad slid outside, her feet crunch in the deep snow. Kevin sat still for a moment, then quickly followed her. Holding her arm out, she slowly pivoted around, staring at the gently swinging ring. Kevin was bursting with questions, but by know knew enough not to interrupt. On Andrea's third turn, the ring stopped its slow swing, and suddenly began to spin in a small circle., like she was twirling it. Her hand was still motionless, though. Staring ahead, she memorized the few visible landmarks in the snow covered graveyard, them moved slowly ahead, wading through the deep snow. Kevin followed her closely, and the two were soon gasping for each breath. In between his pants, Kevin asked,
"Wow, that was crazy! What do you call that?"
"Dowsing. And before you ask, you can dowse for other things besides water.'
"Oh, okay."
Several minutes of fumbling around brought them to a slight mound. Careful digging with their gloved hands revealed the top of a headstone, but to their surprise, the lettering was in what Andrea thought was Japanese letters. Andrea stared down at it. She could feel something strange here, an emptiness. For some reason, she thought of the grave as the last fading few notes of an echo. It was just then she realized she had no real idea of how to conduct a seance. They couldn't sit around a table and hold hands, not out here in the snow. She would have to improvise again, and hope (pray?) she didn't screw up, big time.
"Kevin, take your gloves off, please."
"Oh, man. Are you going to cut me, again?"
"No, no, I just need our bare skin to touch. Now, stand facing me on the other side, but don't step on the grave, all right?"
"Don't worry about that! I'm not stepping on any dead guys , uh, you know!"
"Very smart of you. Now, be quiet, and no matter what you see, don't let go of me, okay?"
"Uh, sure, Andrea."
She thought deeply for a long minute, sighed, and spoke.
"I'm asking whoever might be hearing me, in this place, to communicate with us. People are dying, and it's something to do with Sandi Griffin, and whoever talked to her, here in this cemetery. Please, we'd like to help her, and the girls Tiffany Blum-Deckler, Stacy Rowe, Quinn and Daria Morgendorffer, and Jane Lane. I have reason to think they, and the city of Lawndale, are in grave danger. Please, if you are able to help us at all, or know anything that might, please, give us some sort of a sign."
At first, it seemed as if they had wasted their time. The only sounds were the hissing of the snow across the slowly shifting drifts. Then, a small funnel of snow stirred the snow covered mound between them. Kevin's eyes widened, but he steadfastly maintained his grip with Andrea, even though his hands felt like frozen rock. The tiny windstorm died away, leaving only a ruffled oval of snow on the mound. The snow kept moving, until it stopped, forming the likeness of a face. Eyes, nose, lips. When the eyes opened, Andrea felt as if the earth had opened under her feet.
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Stacy crawled into a small opening between the thickly packed piles of bones she had been tunneling through. Her vision wavered between the real world and the spirit world. She was grimly aware of the trail of sterile soil she was leaving behind her, of how just her touch was destroying any and all life forms around her The bones around her were slowly crumbling as well. Her bare skin was coated in mud, and the black rotting grease from the bones. Sheets of dark light, like a negative Aurora Borealis, played fitfully across her. Her eyes, if she had been able to see them, were empty pits, though an occasional spark would flare up and die in their depths, like a shooting star.
The cramped chamber was only dimly lit, but Stacy could see everything as though the sun was overhead. The jumble of human and animal bones was punctuated by the rounded domes of skulls. The chamber walls were thick with mold. Black, oily drops fell from the stalactites on the low ceiling. Stacy for a brief instant was almost childishly pleased she remembered that word. She trembled, still on her hands and knees in the loathsome muck. Her body felt heavy, almost leaden. Her lank hair hang down over her face. She wanted nothing else as much as to just collapse there for a precious few moments. Her mental and physical strengths had been pushed through the limits, and she felt like a hollow shell. Energy was flowing into her, but it weakened her as much as it helped her.
Stacy's mind fumbled with the opposites, the contradictions. Ice and fire, death and life. She vaguely realized that she was becoming something more then death.
Or less.
Undeath.
Such a simple word, so casually used. Stacy raised one hand to her face, staring at the still slender fingers. With just a touch, she knew she could kill anybody. Anybody at all. She was drowning in the tide of sensations. Along with the coldness radiating from the bones around her came feeling, flashes of life, not thoughts but pictures, each one exploding momentarily across her mind's eye. Hungry people, starving children. Their eyes were the worst, hungry eyes, while their hands withered into grasping claws.
Small villages with long low huts made of bark, brush and hides. Each one was buried deeply in the deep, drifting snow. A thin wisp of smoke escaped out a ragged opening in each roof, only to be ripped apart by the gusting wind, much as the tribe had been. Each year had been colder than the last, the spring and summers shorter. Less berries and nuts grew. The fish vanished from the rivers. The furred and feather game grew stunted, more wary, harder to hunt. Grey wolves, seldom a threat, now hunted men during the season's of cold and ice. Most of the old men and women of the tribe had died, but the ancient shaman told the survivors tales of how the world had its own seasons, of how man seasons ago the world had been colder, but then warmed again. The tribe had suffered then, too, but had prospered through the good times.
Now, food was so scarce, they had been forced to scatter out, breaking up into smaller clans, seldom seeing each other. They saved as much food as they could, drying meat and fish to last them through the cold times. Their lives revolved around the gathering and saving of food, all helping, the children gathering roots, nuts, and berries, the women hard at work preparing what to eat, saving the rest, tanning the skins that would become clothing, moccasins. The few hunters left meanwhile roamed farther and farther afield, searching desperately for the smallest of game. But now, they were afraid of the dark.
These were brave men. They had hunted bear and wolf, armed with only wooden spears, and stone knifes, hand crafted bows and arrows. But only a shaman could deal with spirits that dwelt in sky, land, and water. Several hunters had already disappeared, and that wasn't normal either. Deaths happened, accidents could slay the strongest and swiftest, game could turn, and attack the hunter. Life was harsh, and all knew it. But for a man to disappear completely?
Strange things would be whispered from empty sky, or the bare limbs of trees. Some of the strangest things would be heard from deep underground. A child might stray behind a small bush, and never again be seen, no matter how the mother would search. The small tracks would end abruptly, as if the child had been snatched away. But no bird known to them was that large.
Their shaman worked hard to protect them. But he was only one old man, though very wise. The spirits which helped men were weaker in the times of the ice and snow. The spirits which reigned now were pitiless, and hated all men.
Some of them had once been men or women themselves.
The hunter carefully approached the small grouping of huts. Smoke only drifted from one roof, even though there were at least six huts, with several families living there. His younger brother lived here. The deep snow around the huts had been trampled down into slush. Bones were scattered around, and all but one hut had been torn open. The hunters face remained impassive, but inwardly he shook. Gripping his axe and knife tightly, he moved toward the largest, central hut, the heart of the small village.
Bones and skulls had been woven into the brush around the hide flap covering the opening. The afternoon sky was darkening fast as he pushed his way into the hut. At first, his keen eyes saw nothing, only the small fire in the center. Then his blood froze, as he heard a low laugh.
"Come in, my brother, the feasting is rich!"
His brother grinned at him. He was sitting in the shadows on the other side of the small fire. The dim flame lit his features up in flashes, his swollen face. Even with the hide covering him, the hunter could see that his brothers joints had all swollen, twisted. In spite of the pain he must be feeling, his voice was relaxed, even humorous. A discarded pair of moccasins lay off to the side, split apart. He almost jumped at his brothers insane laugh.
"My feet burn, brother they burn like fire!"
His laughter shook the hides he was clothed in, and a jagged claw jutted out, scrapping the floor. He stared at the laughing man, and slowly backed out of the hut, his weapons grasped in shaking hands. It wasn't until he reached the cover of the thick forest that he turned and ran. His brothers wild laughter seemed to echo from the cloudless sky.
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The old man sat there quietly, staring at the small fire as the hunter finished his story. The flickering flames highlighted the deep wrinkles in his weathered face. He quietly stirred the glowing embers with a deers leg bone. His mind sifted the wisdom hard gained over his long life, his training by his own father and grandfather, the many secrets he had learned. He had journeyed many times in the spirit world, and had talked with many wise beings there. His own spirit animal huddled sleepily on his shoulders, unseen by all but himself. The little screech owl ruffled its feathers, clicking its beak.
"We must prepare for tonight. It will take strong medicine to fight that evil spirit."
"Are we going to attack it, grandfather?"
"No need, my grandson, it's hunger is deep and burning. It will come here."
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Angela Li regarded the school of Lawndale High as her personal fortress against a chaotic world, a place of discipline for ungrateful, spoiled children. She firmly believed that her sacrifices would never be appreciated but it was for the greater good. That was why she had instinctively bridled when the town mayor, Harry Smits, proposed that the school become a relief center for feeding townspeople left close to starving by the massive storm. The Cedars of Lawndale hospital was already packed with people, and the few city employees still able to work were scrounging diesel fuel for it's auxiliary generator.
They were also looking for food, but all of the big grocery stores, and the smaller convenience stores had already been stripped. Then a city council member remembered Angela Li's obsession with security for the high school, as well as the food supplies for the cafeteria. They discovered a gold mine.
The generator she had secretly installed was running the lights and heater for the school cafeteria. The few teachers and other staff members she had been able to contact had pulled the big mats from the gym into there for beds. Li's sullenness had been shattered by the people able to struggled into the school. She had seen refugees from natural disasters before, but these people were shell shocked. Several of the police and firefighters who had been trying to search for people, offering them warmth and food, had disappeared already. But where could they have gone? The city streets were close to impassible, even with four wheel drive, and the cities lone snowplow had been lost.
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Gus Wilson gunned the engine of the big truck as it crawled through the snow. The big blade bolted to the front end made slow going, even with the load of sand in the trucks dump bed. The old man had worked in the county roads department for close to thirty years, and he had never seen a storm as bad as this one. As he pushed grimly along the bypass road to the cities link with the Interstate highway, he wondered where on earth the state highway crews were. As warmly dressed as he was, the closer he got to the main storm surrounding the small city, the cold he got. His eyes flickered to the temperature gauge on his dashboard, and he grunted. The small needle was showing a pronounced swing to the far left of the gauge, even as his windshield sparkled with ice, despite his defroster running on high speed. Staring ahead, he swore and braked, the big truck's slow forward motion coming to a stop.
"Damn crazy people!"
He rolled the trucks window down with difficulty, sticking his head out, his breath a cloud of ice crystals.
"Hey, you! Uh, Miss? Are you all right? What the hell are you doing, walking around in this snow, barefoot? You'll freeze to death!"
The old man swung out of the truck, concerned. The young woman stood there demurely, her head down. Her shoulder length black hair hid her face. Gus noticed that the shoulders and chest of the girls light jacket was heavily stained dark red. Her slender hands were held to her face, as if she were crying. His mood softened. Had the poor kid survived a car accident or something?
"Uh, hey miss, are you all right? I can take you to the hospital. Here, lets get you in the truck, okay? You'll be okay, I promise you."
"No-o, I won't ev-er be ok-ay, no-ow, not ev-ver a-gain."
The girls voice was slurred, almost with a hiss. Each word was punctuated with an odd click. She extended her hands to him and raised her face, staring him in the eye.
Gus Wilson screamed, even as he understood.
It's hard to talk, without a face.