Gravediggers by Christopher Krovatin Read Free Book Online

forms on her upper lip.
    â€œSo, look, we may not like each other,” I begin in my calmest voice.
    â€œAgreed,” she mumbles.
    â€œAnd that’s cool, whatever, we can deal with that at another time,” I say, trying not to freak her out, “but we might want to get back to the lodge.”
    She’s silent and then mutters, “Right.”
    â€œSo . . . which direction do we head to get to the nearest trail back to Homeroom Earth?”
    She pauses, blinks hard, and then sort of looks at me, not at my eyes but maybe at, like, my chin. “I . . . don’t know.”
    â€œWell, what does it say on the map?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œAre we traveling toward the campsite or not?”
    â€œI don’t know ,” she snaps, and finally her eyes look into mine, and they’re all big and wet and scared. “If the map and compass are correct, we should’ve hit the path forty minutes ago. We’ve been doing everything right according to my calculations; it’s just that something’s . . . different.” She hands me the map and uses the free hand to pinch the bridge of her nose, and mumbles, “Think, Kendra, think, where are we, where are we?”
    Uh-oh. So, the one person in your group who can outthink gravity doesn’t know where we are, and now she’s being a head case, too. This isn’t the end of the world, people. Maybe the map is wrong, or her compass is on the fritz, or maybe we’re in a part of these mountains that hasn’t been charted yet.
    â€œOkay,” I say. “Well, maybe . . . one of us should break off, see if we can find some help and alert the authorities. Or at least get to a phone.”
    â€œThat would be ill-advised,” she says. “By the time one of us found a phone, the other two could be a long way away.” She pinches her nose so hard, it looks painful. “Do you know any tracking skills or anything like that? Like a hunter?”
    â€œWhy would I have tracking skills?”
    â€œBecause you’re very”—she waves her hands around— “ outdoorsy. ”
    â€œYou’re Queen Brain. Shouldn’t you know how to find our way home?”
    â€œWhy do you keep calling me that?” she asks, annoyed.
    PJ and I have called you that for years , I think but don’t say. “Because . . . it doesn’t matter. We need to do something,” I say, because I can’t think of anything .
    â€œLet’s go talk to PJ,” she says. “Maybe the three of us can come up with a plan.”
    â€œRight. Just take it easy with him, okay? I don’t want him to have a panic attack.”
    â€œUnderstood,” she says, taking the map back from me. “How do I look?”
    â€œUh, fine? I don’t know, smart?”
    â€œGood.” She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. “Let’s do this.”
    Kendra and I turn slowly back to the creek, where PJ sits hunched over with his feet in the water, his hands up in two L shapes to create a frame in front of him, mapping a shot (he does that a lot at home—it’s a little embarrassing). Finally, Kendra says, “We need to talk to you about something.”
    â€œThere’s a wall up there,” says PJ. “Look. Upper left-hand corner, between those trees.” We both crouch down next to PJ so we can see through his frame, and he’s right—stretching across a little clearing in the foothills is a gray stone wall.
    â€œIndeed,” says Kendra.
    Then, it hits me. “But a wall means people, right? We should check it out!”
    â€œMaybe we shouldn’t,” says PJ, dropping his hand frame and looking down at his feet in the water. “What if we’re trespassing on someone’s property? This has chainsaw massacre written all over it.”
    â€œThat person might have a phone,” says Kendra, standing up. She carefully hops over the