Zombie Raccoons & Killer Bunnies Read online

  He unlocked the driver’s side door and climbed out of the car.

  The weather in southwest Ohio in early June could range from cool and mild to hot and sweltering. But that was Ohio, where the weather changed as often as people’s minds. Unfortunately for Kevin, it felt more like mid-August, the air steamy, thick, and damp. Even worse, he still had on the suit he’d worn for Nancy’s graduation, and the instant he emerged from the Altima’s air-conditioned environment, sweat began beading on his forehead and pooling beneath his armpits. He considered leaving his jacket and tie in the car and rolling up his shirt sleeves, but even though he would be more physically comfortable, he decided against it. A momentous moment like this called for a certain level of formality, so the suit would stay on and he’d just have to endure the discomfort. He could do that; after all, he’d had a lot of practice. An entire lifetime’s worth it seemed sometimes.

  Let’s have a pity party for Kevvy-wevvy, he thought. One, two, three—awwwww!

  Half amused and half disgusted at himself, Kevin walked across the uneven grass that covered the small strip of land in front of the graveyard—Looks like the county’s behind in their mowing—and stepped up to the gate. The graveyard was enclosed by a salmon-colored brick wall that measured five feet high, nine feet on either side of the gate and at the wall’s four corners where conical black-brick turrets pointed skyward. Kevin thought the graveyard’s designer must’ve been going for a somber yet dignified effect, and he couldn’t say the man had missed. The gate was in fact a pair, held shut by an ancient rusted padlock. Not locked, though. The padlock hung open on the gate, just as it had done during Kevin’s childhood. He wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that the padlock rested in the same exact position that it had then, untouched by hands all these long decades. Human hands, anyway.

  A metal plaque was bolted on the turret to the right of the entrance, its surface dingy, the letters worn some but still legible.

  QUAKER BRANCH MEMORIAL BURIAL GROUND. EST. 1957.

  Kevin knew the date referred to the construction of the wall. The graveyard itself was much older.

  He took hold of one of the gate’s bars, careful to grip a section where the black paint hadn’t flaked off too much—Didn’t come all the way here to get tetanus, he thought, almost smiling—and pushed. The gate resisted at first, the bottom edge digging into the ground, and he gave it a bit more muscle. Finally, the gate budged a few feet, giving him enough space to slide through, even with his less-than-modest gut. The gate hadn’t made a sound when it moved, no slow creaking or harsh grinding, and Kevin recalled that it had been similarly silent the last time he was here. Now, just as then, he was vaguely disappointed. A proper cemetery gate should open with some manner of sinister sound to establish the appropriate atmosphere.

  Once inside, he paused to look around. Large oak and elm trees bordered the outside of the graveyard, making it impossible to see what, if anything, lay beyond, There were no trees inside, no bushes, no greenery of any kind save grass. Just as outside, the grass was uneven, almost a foot high in some places, in others trimmed so close to the ground that bare patches of dry earth peeked through. There were a good number of gravestones, over a hundred, he estimated, and they were divided into two roughly even sections. On his left were the newer stones, dating from around the time the outer wall had been constructed. They were larger, more varied in type, and the legends engraved upon them were still readable. To Kevin’s right was what he thought of as the old section. Here the headstones were much smaller, set closer together, and more uniform in shape. They were colored either stony gray or chalk-white, their edges softened by the passage of one season after another and the elements’ less than tender ministrations. Kevin knew from previous experience that the inscriptions—those that remained legible, that is—were both simpler and somehow more elegant than those in the newer section. WILHEMINA MOTE, B. 1834, D. 1867. JACOB HOBBLIT, B. 1856, B. 1859. The birth and death dates were almost always closer together in that section, as well. Sometimes too close.

  Past the newer section, nestled against the graveyard’s east wall, sat a simple wooden building, its sides gray, boards fraying in places as if the structure had been fashioned from cloth instead of wood. Two windows were visible from this angle, a door set between them, a small plaque affixed to the right of the door. Kevin couldn’t make out the words from where he stood, but he didn’t need to. He knew what the plaque said, could recite it from memory. THIS BUILDING IS A REPLICA OF A QUAKER MEETING HOUSE THAT STOOD ACROSS THE STREET FROM 1803 TO 1849. ERECTED BY THE BOY SCOUTS OF AMERICA, ASH CREEK TROOP, 1962.

  The plaque didn’t mention the fate of the original meeting house, and Kevin had always wondered what had happened to it. Had it burned down? Or simply grown old and fallen apart? Happens to the best of us, he thought. The worst of us, too. He also wondered why the scouts had chosen to reconstruct it. It seemed like a rather morbid project to Kevin, but then he’d never been a Boy Scout. Maybe it had been a jolly good time for those young upstanding citizens-to-be. Or maybe it had just been one more damn thing to do to earn another meaningless badge.

  Looking at the meeting house—the replica, he reminded himself—Kevin experienced a flash of memory so intense and visceral, for an instant it was as if he’d traveled back in time forty years. He was inside the meeting house, sitting with his back against the door, tears streaming down his cheeks. On the other side of the door was an excited snuffling accompanied by the sound of claws scratching against wood. From time to time there came a thump, both felt and heard, as something heavy shoved its body against the door in an attempt to force it open. And of course there were the sounds of his sobs and his plaintive whispered pleas. Go away, please go away . . .

  Kevin gave his head a single sharp shake to dispel the memory, but while it retreated, it didn’t go far. He felt moisture on his face, and he reached up and wiped it away, telling himself that it was only sweat and almost believing it.

  The memory reminded him, as if he needed to be reminded, that there was one part of the graveyard he had up to this point assiduously avoided looking at: straight down the middle, back against the south wall. It wouldn’t here now, not after all this time. So there was no reason not to look, right?

  But the hole was still there, looking just as large as he remembered it. A three-foot circumference around which were scattered a number of old broken headstones, looking as if at some point they’d been flung forth from the hole and allowed to lay where they landed. And next to the hole, sitting back on its hind legs and gnawing a length of bone held clutched in its front paws, was a groundhog the size of a sheep. The creature looked at Kevin with its glossy black eyes, completely unfazed by the human’s presence, regarding him impassively as it chewed on the bone, its teeth making soft shhh-shhh-shhh sounds.

  Up to this moment the air had been still, but now a breeze moved through the graveyard, causing the branches in the trees that surrounded the outer walls to sway. The soft rustling of their leaves sounded to Kevin’s ears like a chorus of whispering voices all saying the same thing.

  Welcome back.

  Kevin pedaled his bike faster, not caring that he couldn’t see the road clearly through the tears in his eyes. Maybe if he went fast enough, the wind he kicked up would dry them. Or maybe he’d end up getting creamed by a car because his vision was blurred. Either way would be fine with him right now.

  Houses flashed past: trees in the yards, cars in the driveways. Ranches, two stories . . . the same sort of homes that you’d find in town, except there was more space between them out here—sometimes as much as an acre or two. Though Kevin technically lived in the country, it was still close enough to town that there weren’t many farms around, certainly none within a mile or so. It was late August, and he’d be starting fourth grade next week, not that he cared. He used to look forward to the beginning of the school year, but not anymore. Now he didn’t look forward to anything.

  The wind blowing against his
face was hot and dry, and while it blew the tears from his eyes, its heat stung his face. He wondered if he was sunburned. Probably, he figured. He’d been out long enough. He couldn’t decide whether he liked the pain, couldn’t decide whether to keep feeling it or ignore it. He decided to worry about it later.

  He’d been out riding since breakfast, and his Yellow Submarine T-shirt was soaked with sweat and clung to his scrawny body as though it were glued to him. His shorts were damp too, and he could imagine another kid seeing him, calling out, “Hey, did you pee your pants?” and then bursting out with mocking laughter. Kevin would have to toss his clothes into the washer whenever he finally got home. He had to wash all his clothes, his sheets and pillow cases, too. And he had to do the dishes, both his and his mother’s. If he didn’t, the sink would become so full that cups and plates would slide off the mound and crash to the kitchen floor.

  He wondered if his mother had any idea he’d been out this long, and if she did, was she worried? Not that she’d get out of her chair, let alone leave the house, if she was. Sometimes Kevin wondered what would happen if the house caught on fire. Would his mom just keep sitting in that old chair of hers, staring at the TV even after the air had become so filled with smoke that the screen was no longer visible? Would she sit there while the flames drew ever closer and began licking at her flesh? Maybe.

  She hadn’t liked leaving the house when Dad was alive, but he usually had been able to coax her outside. But now . . .

  Kevin didn’t want to think about now, so he pedaled faster and concentrated on the stinging wind biting into his face.

  Eventually he realized he was hungry, and he figured he might as well go home and make himself some lunch. He didn’t care about food anymore; it was all so much tasteless mush to chew and swallow. But if he didn’t eat, he’d become so hungry that he wouldn’t be able to ignore his growling stomach, shaking hands, and throbbing head. It was easier to just eat and get it done with so he could avoid the annoyance. He’d ridden that day without any particular destination, just traveling up and down country roads, riding just to ride, pedaling so he wouldn’t have to think or feel. But he was on Jay Road now, only about a mile from his house. He could be home in only a few minutes—if he took the shortest route. Unfortunately, that would be riding past the old Quaker graveyard, and Kevin wasn’t sure he wanted to do that.

  He’d been to the graveyard a few times before but always with his father, never alone. It had seemed scary back then, but because he was with his dad, it was fun-scary, not scary-scary. But since his father died—almost a year ago, now, though it sometimes seemed to Kevin to be much longer—he hadn’t wanted anything to do with graveyards and cemeteries, or anything else that related to death in any way. But if he wanted to get home fast, he’d have to go past Quaker Branch.

  He almost took the long way. But it had been almost a year since his dad had succumbed to lung cancer, and Kevin was going to be in fourth grade, was practically a fourth-grader already. He figured it was time he started acting his age. He bet when Dad was a kid, he wouldn’t have been afraid to ride past the graveyard.

  That settled the matter. Kevin turned off Jay Road onto Hoke. His road—Culver—branched off from Hoke . . . right after the graveyard. He thought about pedaling his ass off and flying by the graveyard at superspeed, but if he did that, he’d zoom right past Culver. There was no way he’d make the turn going fast; he’d end up in a ditch or sprawled on the street, scraped up and bleeding. He didn’t care if he got hurt, but if he was injured, he’d have to clean and dress his own wounds, and he didn’t feel like doing all that work. So he slowed as he drew near Quaker Branch, telling himself to keep his gaze fixed straight ahead and not look as he went past. But the graveyard was on his right, and it was set so close to the road that it was hard not to look. And there were memories within those walls . . . memories of him and his dad. In the end, he couldn’t not look.

  When he did, he braked to a stop in front of the black gate without being aware he was doing so. Through the gate’s bars, on the far side of the graveyard, a large animal sat back on its haunches, its round head turned toward Kevin, wet black eyes staring at him. Its fur was brownish-gray shot through with coarse silver-white hairs, and it held something in its forelegs . . . something curved, white, and smooth. At first Kevin thought it was a giant rat—the creature looked to be three feet tall, if not larger—and it was plump, almost as round as a beach ball.

  Kevin’s imagination whispered through his mind. You know how it got so fat, don’t you? It’s got tunnels all through the graveyard. It’s broken into the graves, gnawed through the coffins, and—

  Kevin clamped down on those thoughts, clamped down hard. It wasn’t a rat, it couldn’t be. Rats didn’t get that big . . . did they?

  The creature, whatever it was, continued sitting there and staring at him, completely motionless. Kevin might have thought the animal was some kind of statue, or maybe stuffed and mounted by a taxidermist, so still was it. But despite the absence of movement, he knew it was alive. He could feel intelligence looking out at him from those wet black eyes, gauging, judging . . .

  Then Kevin realized what it was that he was looking at. Not a rat, but a groundhog. Still a damned big one, though.

  So it’s a groundhog, his imagination said. It still could’ve dug tunnels in the graveyard, still could be feeding here. Look at what it’s holding . . . does that look like a rib to you?

  The idea was ridiculous. Groundhogs didn’t eat meat . . . did they? Kevin wished his dad were here. He’d know. What’s more, he’d tell Kevin that the groundhog had probably just burrowed its way underneath the wall around the graveyard, or maybe squeezed its furry bulk between the bars of the gate. It was just curious, just exploring. It didn’t live here, didn’t have tunnels here, and it certainly wasn’t eating the remains of people, some of whom had been dead for more than a century. But Dad wasn’t here to tell Kevin these things, and for some reason, they didn’t sound as convincing when Kevin told them to himself.

  The groundhog continued sitting and staring, but now it began to move. It brought the smooth white curved thing it held toward its mouth and—eyes still fixed on Kevin—began to chew on one splintered end. Even though the groundhog was at least two hundred feet away, Kevin could hear the sounds it made as it chewed as clearly as if it were sitting right next to him. Soft shh-shh-shh sounds, almost like someone brushing their teeth.

  It wasn’t a bone, couldn’t be!

  Before he realized he was doing so, Kevin started yelling at the groundhog.

  “Get out of here! Go!”

  He expected the animal to startle, drop the bone, and go running off in the galumphing-undulating way groundhogs had when they really wanted to move. But this groundhog just continued to sit, stare, and chew.

  Shh-shh-shh, shh-shh-shh, shh-shh-shh . . .

  Kevin opened his mouth to yell again, but before he could, the groundhog stopped chewing. It looked at Kevin for a long moment, and Kevin looked back, unable to tear his gaze away from the strange animal. And then the groundhog dropped the bone—if that’s what it was—then fell forward onto all fours and began slowly coming toward Kevin.

  Kevin’s trance broke then, and he lifted his feet off the ground, jammed them onto the pedals, and got the hell out of there as fast as he could. He pedaled madly, and by the time he reached his house, sweat dripped off of him like rainwater, and while he had no memory of doing so, he realized he must’ve taken the corner turn onto his road at full speed and not wrecked somehow. He remembered something his father had once told him.

  It’s amazing what people can do when they’re motivated, Kevin.

  “No shit,” Kevin whispered.

  Kevin went out riding again after the first day of fourth grade. He didn’t even bother going into the house after he got off the school bus. He just dropped his book bag onto the front porch, hopped on his bike, and took off down the driveway. He doubted his mother would know that he’d gott
en home, let alone that he’d immediately left, and even if she did, he didn’t care.

  Kevin didn’t have many friends, and none of them were in his class this year. He’d seen Mike Todd and Steve Tomlinson out on the playground at recess, and while he’d been tempted to tell them about the groundhog in the graveyard, for some reason he hadn’t. It wasn’t that he feared they wouldn’t believe him—although Steve could be skeptical at times. It just felt as though he should keep the experience to himself, as if what had happened was private, just between him and the groundhog.

  He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about the giant groundhog, kept hearing the sound of the creature gnawing on its bone, kept seeing it coming toward him across the graveyard grounds . . . The whole thing had been scary, sure, and he was scared now as he pedaled down Culver Road toward Hoke and the Quaker Branch Memorial Burial Ground. But he felt something else, too, something he hadn’t felt in a long time: hope.

  He remembered staying up one Saturday with his dad about six months ago to watch the late-night horror show, Shock Theatre, hosted by Dr. Creep. They watched the TV down in the basement because Mom was watching another movie upstairs, and she didn’t want to change the channel. But that was okay. Kevin liked being down in the basement, alone with his dad, just the two of them. The film that evening had been Thirteen Ghosts with Vincent Price, and while Kevin didn’t remember much of the story, he’d never forgotten one scene where a skeleton came out of a pool to stalk a pretty blonde woman in a nightgown.