It’s called “communal mourning,” a gentler way to say “mass burial.” We drive to the next closest cemetery, twenty miles away, because the police have taped off the road leading to Silver Creek’s, which by now is a smoldering wasteland. I’m pretty sure the only person who will ever set foot in that place again will be Colt. Finally, a Hell suitable enough for him.
Dad unfolds the wheelchair before helping me out of the car. The painkillers I’m on make this seem like the ultimate act of affection. Mom watches as Dad adjusts my legs onto the footrests. She lifts her glasses and dabs at her eyes with a Kleenex. Her dress is simple and black, but despite her drab attire, I can’t remember the last time she’s looked this alive.
It’s a massive turnout—nearly half the town. People keep crowding around the wheelchair, trying to shake my hand.
“Please back off,” Dad says, gently but firmly. “This is not the place. He’s been through a lot. We all have.”
The priest stands at a podium and delivers a eulogy for all the dead children. A couple local television crews stand in the outskirts. I see a cameraman inconspicuously filming the crowd, trying to get an artsy shot with a tombstone in the foreground. I want to grab the camera away and show him how it’s done.
After the eulogy, everyone disperses to pay respects to the individual graves. The wheelchair rolls easily over the dead grass. Dad pushes me swiftly through the thinning crowd. In my mind, I make racecar sounds. Oh, painkillers, I think.
We arrive at Brian’s casket—shiny, black and monumental. My parents didn’t skimp.
A cloud rolls across the sun, turns the entire cemetery gray. The flowers on the casket shiver in the wind. Dad hunches deeper into his collar and puts an arm around Mom. She leans into him and they both cry. The temperature turns bitter cold and the wind kicks up, whipping an occasional snowflake sideways. I can’t help but think this is somehow Brian’s doing. Pride swells in my chest at the thought of my brother’s new power to make things chilly.
Harried cemetery attendants rush to remove the flowers. They hit the lever on the silver frame surrounding the grave and Brian’s casket lowers into the ground. I reach into my pocket and touch the bony tip of Brian’s thumb—the last remnant of the skeletal hand that accompanied me in the graveyard. Unaccounted for in the car crash, it somehow ended up in my pocket. I keep it as a lucky charm.
I look up and see Ally and her parents on the other side of grave, slowly revealed by the descending casket. Black tendrils of mascara run down her face and I realize it’s first time I’ve seen her wear makeup. I wave, but the wind pushes her hair across her face before I can see her response. Then, Dad’s pushing me, running to get us out of the cold.
***
After the funeral, a memorial service is held at a nearby non-denominational church. Black-suited strangers sip lemon-flavored beverages out of plastic cups and eat frosted animal cookies off of napkins. Everyone’s face looks like it’s filled with cement. It’s a smaller crowd than what was at the cemetery. I suspect a lot of people ducked out before the weather got worse. No sign of Ally, so I wheel myself into a corner with a good view out the window. A thin layer of snow has splattered the side of every car in the parking lot, blasted like a zombie headshot. I replay an image in my mind: Ally, revealed by a casket.
Badass, I think. It’s definitely going in the script.
I feel a hand on my shoulder and jump. Old Hilborn stands above me. He leans down.
“I know what you saw,” he says. “Up there in the graveyard.” White hairs sprout out of his head like corn silk and do nothing to cover his pink skull. This close, his eyes look faded, like that of a dead man. “Nobody else will believe you, but I know.”
I crane my neck to find my parents. No sign of them. His fingers dig into my shoulder. “Listen to me,” he says. His lips curl back, revealing a black-gummed smile. He cocks his head to the side, and stares at me with that terrible smile frozen on his face. “I know what you saw because I saw it too.”
I wriggle out of his grasp. “Excuse me,” I say, my voice breaking. “I need to—”
“It was in my backyard last night.” The smile pulls higher on his face, stretching the skin across his skull. His pupils shrink to dots. “The dead cop, he was in my backyard last night,” he says.
My throat feels hot. “That’s not what I saw,” I whisper.
“Maybe not,” he says. “Or maybe it just found a new home.” The smile falls. His eyes get wide. He pulls me close. “Sometimes it rests, but it never goes away.
“Leave me alone,” I plead.
“It never goes away,” Hilborn repeats. “ I saw that dead cop in my backyard last night. His eyes were black as hell. Jagged, long teeth. He was eating my kitty cats. Taking big bites out of their furry little necks.”
Dad appears behind Hilborn. “What’s going on here?”
“Can we go home now?” I ask. “I’m not feeling well.”
“Sure, bud.” Hilborn steps out of the way for Dad to take hold of the wheelchair.
“I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Nightshade,” Hilborn says.
“Thank you,” Dad mumbles. He pushes me toward the exit, putting as much space between us and the old man as possible. Hilborn never takes his eyes off me. That smile.
In the car, Dad asks, “What was that all about? What did he say to you?”
“Nothing,” I say. “That guy’s crazy. Doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”
“Jason,” Mom says. “That’s not nice.”
“I’m with Jason,” Dad says. “He gives me the creeps.”
A noticeable shiver runs through Dad. Mom puts her hand on his back when he leans forward to see through the snow pummeling the windshield.