Desire ❃ newt

cнapтer 10

I couldn't believe how quickly the light disappeared. From the Glade proper, the forest didn't look that big, maybe a couple of acres. Yet the trees were tall with sturdy trunks, packed tightly together, the canopy up above thick with leaves. The air around me had a greenish, muted hue, as if only several minutes of twilight remained in the day.

It was somehow beautiful and creepy, all at once.

Moving as fast as I could, I crashed through the heavy foliage, thin branches slapping at my face. I ducked to avoid a low-hanging limb, almost falling. Reaching out, I caught hold of a branch and swung himself forward to regain my balance. A thick bed of leaves and fallen twigs crunched underneath me.

All the while, my eyes stayed riveted on the beetle blade scuttling across the forest floor. Deeper it went, its red light glowing brighter as the surroundings darkened.

I had charged thirty or forty feet into the woods, dodging and ducking and losing ground with every second, when the beetle blade jumped onto a particularly large tree and scooted up its trunk. But by the time I reached the tree, any sign of the creature had vanished. It had disappeared deep within the foliage—almost as if it had never existed.

I had lost the sucker.

"Shuck it," I whispered, almost as a joke. Almost. As strange as it seemed, the word felt natural on my lips, like I was already morphing into a Glader.

A twig snapped somewhere to my right and I jerked my head in that direction. I stilled my breath, listened.

Another snap, this time louder, almost like someone had broken a stick over their knee.

"Who's there?" I yelled out, a tingle of fear shooting across my shoulders. Being the only girl, conscious, definitely didn't increase my safety. My voice bounced off the canopy of leaves above me, echoing through the air. I stayed frozen, rooted to the spot as all grew silent, except for the whistling song of a few birds in the distance. But no one answered my call. Nor did I hear any more sounds from that direction.

Without really thinking it through, I headed toward the noise I had heard. Not bothering to hide my progress, I pushed aside branches as I walked, letting them whip back to position when I passed. I squinted, willed my eyes to work in the growing darkness, wishing I had a flashlight. I thought about flashlights and my memory. Once again, I remembered a tangible thing from my past, but couldn't assign it to any specific time or place, couldn't associate it with any other person or event. Frustrating.

"Anybody there?" I asked again, feeling a little calmer since the noise hadn't repeated. It was probably just an animal, maybe another beetle blade.

Again, no reply.

I stepped around a large oak and pulled up short. An icy shiver ran down my back. I reached the graveyard.

The clearing was small, maybe thirty square feet, and covered with a thick layer of leafy weeds growing close to the ground. I could see several clumsily prepared wooden crosses poking through this growth, their horizontal pieces lashed to the upright ones with a splintery twine. The grave markers had been painted white, but by someone in an obvious hurry—gelled globs covered them and bare streaks of wood showed through. Names had been carved into the wood.

I stepped up, hesitantly, to the closest one and knelt down to get a look. The light was so dull now that I almost felt as if I were looking through black mist.

Even the birds had quieted, like they'd gone to bed for the night, and the sound of insects was barely noticeable, or at least much less than normal. For the first time, I realized how humid it was in the woods, the damp air already beading sweat on my forehead, the backs of my hands.

I leaned closer to the first cross. It looked fresh and bore the name Stephen—the n extra small and right at the edge because the carver hadn't estimated well how much room he'd need.

Stephen. What's your story? Chuck annoy you to death?

I stood and walked over to another cross, this one almost completely overgrown with weeds, the ground firm at its base. Whoever it was, he must've been one of the first to die, because his grave looked the oldest. The name was George.

I looked around and saw there were a dozen or so other graves. A couple of them appeared to be just as fresh as the first one I had examined. A silvery glint caught my attention. It was different from the scuttling beetle that had led me to the forest, but just as odd. I moved through the markers until I got to a grave covered with a sheet of grimy plastic or glass, its edges slimed with filth. I squinted, trying to make out what was on the other side, then gasped when it came into focus. It was a window into another grave—one that had the dusty remnants of a rotting body.

Completely creeped out, I leaned closer to get a better look anyway, curious. The tomb was smaller than usual—only the top half of the deceased person lay inside. I remembered Chuck's story about the boy who'd tried to rappel down the dark hole of the Box after it had descended, only to be cut in two by something slicing through the air. Words were etched on the glass; I could barely read them:

Let this half-shank be a warning to all: You can't escape through the Box Hole.

I felt the odd urge to snicker—it seemed too ridiculous to be true. But I was also disgusted with myself for being so shallow and glib. Shaking my head, I had stepped aside to read more names of the dead when another twig broke, this time straight in front of me, right behind the trees on the other side of the graveyard.

Then another snap. Then another. Coming closer.

And the darkness was thick.

"Who's out there?" I called, my voice shaky and hollow—it sounded as if I were speaking inside an insulated tunnel. "Seriously, this is stupid." I hated to admit to myself just how terrified I was.

Instead of answering, the person gave up all pretense of stealth and started running, crashing through the forest line around the clearing of the graveyard, circling toward the spot where I stood. I froze, panic overtaking me. Now only a few feet away, the visitor grew louder and louder until I caught a shadowed glimpse of a skinny boy limping along in a strange, lilting run.

"Who the he—"

The boy burst through the trees before I could finish. I saw only a flash of pale skin and enormous eyes—the haunted image of an apparition—and cried out, tried to run, but it was too late. The figure leaped into the air and was on top of me, slamming into my shoulders, gripping me with strong hands. I crashed to the ground; I felt a grave marker dig into my back before it snapped in two, burning a deep scratch along my flesh.

I pushed and swatted at my attacker, a relentless jumble of skin and bones cavorting on top of me as I tried to gain purchase. It seemed like a monster, a horror from a nightmare, but I knew it had to be a Glader, someone who'd completely lost his mind. I heard teeth snapping open and closed, a horrific clack, clack, clack. Then O felt the jarring dagger of pain as the boy's mouth found a home, bit deeply into my shoulder.

I screamed, the pain like a burst of adrenaline through my blood. I planted the palms of my hands against my attacker's chest and pushed, straightening my arms until my muscles strained against the struggling figure above me. Finally the kid fell back; a sharp crack filled the air as another grave marker met its demise.

I squirmed away on my hands and feet, sucking in breaths of air, and got my first good look at the crazed attacker.

It was the sick boy. It was Ben.