Лайза Макманн - Cryer's Cross

And then — as the half-moon dips behind the broken-down building — all, everyone, everything is quiet once again in the graveyard of the Cryer’s Reform School for Delinquent Boys.

A trapped soul waits for redemption.

It waits. And waits.

For her to take her last breath.

It is still dark when the dirt stirs.

Kendall, struggling for air, feels something edging at her mind. She knows something feels terribly wrong about all of this. She knows from the voices that she must go through all of this to save Nico, but where is he? And how could this possibly help him? Her OCD brain churns, and the single thought slips in. This is wrong. This is wrong. She starts to count now. Counts the heartbeats, counts the pebbles in her mouth, counts the minutes as they pass. Some of the fog in her head clears. Enough. Just enough.

Enough to struggle.

The grasp, the hold of the voice weakens. Just enough. And with Kendall’s one remaining free arm, she pushes the layer of dirt from her face, spits out the gravel from her mouth, and gives one last rasping cry before she passes out. “Jacián.”

The voice in her head — not Nico’s, never Nico’s — cries out as if in pain.

In the morning it rains.

The water washes dirt from her eyes.

The voice remains, crying out to her, but she knows now that it’s not Nico. She fights the voice with her own weapon, her own tool. The whirring thoughts are welcomed. She holds the power.

She can’t move at first. The rain makes the grave cover like a straitjacket, like wide belts holding her in.

She can only turn her head. Cough the dirt out.

In the rainy morning light she sees more clearly now. Thinks more clearly. The markers, white crosses.

The bones her boots are touching are old. This place, so forlorn. Abandoned. Stuck in a different time.

The only sound is rain on leaves, rain on dirt, rain on skin.

All the events of the previous day start coming back to her as she surfaces and takes back control of her senses. Clears the fuzz in her brain. “Oh my God!” she cries out. “What is happening?” She panics and begins to struggle. The horror of what nearly happened, the claustrophobia, being submerged in wet dirt, gives her the superhuman strength she needs to push out from under it. She grips the side of the grave and pulls, heaves herself to her stomach, coughing.

Her throat hurts and she’s freezing, filthy, covered in scratches and bruises. She lifts her head and looks around the overgrown yard, seeing all the crosses now.

Twenty-four of them.

Lined up in four equal quadrants.

With aisles between each section.

In the two spots next to Kendall, the dirt is somewhat fresher. Raised up. She looks closer and sees a decomposing hand sticking out from one and bones from the other. She crawls to the one closest and starts digging.

Long brown hair comes away in her hand — it’s not Nico. Could it be Tiffany?

Kendall becomes increasingly aware of the stench in the graveyard.

She dry heaves off to the side, and crawls over to the other grave. Looks at the decomposing hand, wipes her eyes and looks again. The tissue wavers before her eyes. And then she sees why.

Maggots.

She turns, gagging from the sight and smell, gagging again from all the dirt drying out her throat.

She begins digging with what little strength she has left, her fingers bleeding. “Please no, please no, please no,” she cries softly, over and over.

She scrapes the dirt away. Brushes it from his black, bloated face, his white-blond hair confirming her worst fear.

“No!” Her cry rasps from deep inside her chest. She falls away onto her back, sobbing, until she has nothing else left. She rolls as far away as she can before she’s too exhausted to move.

She lies there, quiet, no longer feeling cold or pain. No longer caring.

Nico is dead.

As the rain slows and the hours tick forward into evening, there is a noise.

“Kendall!” she hears. It seems so far away.

She is delusional. Too weak to shout. “Nico?” She rasps. Rain puddles around her. Everything is dark.

Someone picks her up, wraps a coat around her, carries her like a baby. She hears more voices far away, exclaiming in horror.

They move quickly. A branch slaps her face, and she startles.

“Shit, sorry,” he says.

“Jacián,” she whispers. Her chest sears in pain with every breath. She struggles in his arms.

“Sit tight. We’ve got a ways to go.”

“They’re dead.”

“Yes.” He jiggles her as he breaks into a jog, leaving the thickest woods behind. And eventually, back on the path at Cryer’s Pass, he hoists her up onto his four-runner and glides in next to her, holding her around the shoulders, helping her sit up. Takes off toward the ranch. “I’m sorry,” he says. “It’s going to be bumpy here for a bit.”

“How did you find me?” She leans into him, too cold to shiver. Too tired to open her eyes. Her throat feels like she swallowed broken glass.

He pulls the coat tightly around her and holds her as he drives. His mouth is close, warm near her ear.

“They called the search first thing this morning when your parents noticed you were gone, around five.

Soon after, everybody rolled into town. We’re getting too good at this.” He adjusts his grip on Kendall’s shoulder and steps on the gas as they approach a clearing.

“I remembered what you said about the desk,” he continues. “Yeah, it was weird, but I would have tried anything at that point. I’m so pissed at myself for not. . Oh hell, never mind.” He scowls, but she doesn’t see it. “So, anyway, I went to school to look for clues. Old Mr. Greenwood let me in. I sat at the desk, read all the graffiti. In the middle it said ‘Deep in the woods beyond Cryer’s Pass.’ I almost didn’t think it would mean anything because the carvings looked so old, but I mentioned it to my grandfather, and he almost fainted. He called the sheriff and old Mr. Greenwood. They took the truck out here, but it got caught in the vines trying to drive over. So we’re going this way.”

His voice sounds far away, and the voice of the desk doesn’t leave her. Everything in her brain is mud.

“Don’t let them bury me,” she says.

“Oh, Kendall.” His voice breaks. “Did somebody do this to you? Did anyone touch you?”

She shakes her head. “No. It’s just the voices. They made me. . do things. . ” She lets a sob escape, and then explodes into a racking cough.

“Voices? You mean. .,” he says slowly, “you heard something, when you touched the desk?”

“Yes, the voices.” Kendall grips her throat as it burns.

“Shh. . You can explain once we get you to the hospital.”

They reach Hector’s ranch, and Jacián pulls the quad up next to the barn. He carries Kendall to his truck, starts it up to get the heat flowing, and then picks up the barn phone to make a quick call to

Kendall’s parents.

“I’ve got her. She’s alive. I’m taking her to Bozeman Hospital. It’s faster than waiting on an ambulance.

Is that okay?. . Good. She’s talking, but she’s been out in the rain all night and day.”

He listens for a moment and then says, “See you there.”

He rushes into the truck and takes off down the road, the heater on full blast. He slides Kendall over to him and cradles his arm around her. Halfway to Bozeman she’s shivering. Jacián says that’s a good sign.

He pulls up to the emergency room and carries her inside, grabbing an empty wheelchair and the first person in scrubs that he sees. “Hey, man, she’s freezing. Soaking wet,” he says, setting Kendall down in the wheelchair. The orderly hesitates, glances at the waiting room and then at Kendall’s blue lips, and takes her away. Someone at the desk hands Jacián a clipboard with forms on it. He stares at it blankly.