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MORE TWISTS AND TURNS. BY Kimberly’s estimation, Walt could disappear at any moment, and she and Flora would be just as dead as if he’d used his weapon. They looped around and around, the trees growing tighter and thicker around them.
Walt slowed.
Flora nearly bumped into him before realizing the death march had ended. Kimberly came up beside Flora. Straight ahead of them appeared to be a pile of boulders. Except, as Kimberly let her eyes adjust, she could make out various rusted-out objects nearly lost in the overgrown meadow grass, weedy shrubs.
Flora advanced first, going from a rusted-out shell of an old wagon, to a pile of discarded wooded crates, to what appeared to be an old pickax.
“Kimberly,” she called.
Kimberly walked over, followed the line of Flora’s finger to the pickax. The handle appeared old, aged to the weathered gray of wood long exposed to the elements. The metal head on the other hand...
“Didn’t your friends say the graves had been carved with a pickax?” Flora murmured.
“Yep.”
“Looks like this one could do it.”
Kimberly nodded, squatting down for further inspection. The metal head didn’t just look new, it bore signs of dried mud and something... darker. She pulled out her phone, shot a quick pic. Still not enough bars to share the photo, but at least it gave them a start of documentation.
“What is this place?” Flora asked Walt.
“Old mine. These hills are riddled with ’em.”
Kimberly followed Flora over to the rock pile, where—sure enough—she could now see an opening set back from the first few tumbled stones.
“Is it safe?” Kimberly asked Walt.
He shrugged. “Are the mountains safe?”
Fair enough.
Flora was already exploring the opening. Up close, it was surprisingly large. It appeared some of the rock face had collapsed over the years, creating a jumble of large boulders that partially obscured the opening. But even those rocks had fallen a good ten feet away, meaning an ATV or other vehicle could navigate the opening.
Perhaps pulling a small trailer loaded with a lifeless body, the driver stopping to add the pickax to the pile, then continuing down the mountain to a place where no human would think to look again. Unless, of course, you were an inexperienced hiker with terrible blisters and a need for a walking stick.
A faint moan came from the mine entrance. It built in intensity, before dying off again.
“The wind,” Flora murmured. “The way it cuts through the rocks.”
“Sure,” Kimberly muttered. “The wind.”
Kimberly turned to Walt. “Who knows about this mine?”
“Locals. Mountain folks. Ain’t secret.”
“Do people still go inside?”
“When I was a kid, we’d come here to drink. But then, twenty, thirty years ago, a group of teens headed in and only two came out. County blocked the entrance after that.”
“It’s not blocked now.”
“Nope.”
Kimberly studied the ground. She was no expert, but she thought she could just discern what appeared to be wide tire tracks, close together, such as what an ATV would leave behind.
“Why did you bring us here, Walt?” Kimberly realized for the first time he wasn’t holding the shotgun at his side anymore. He’d positioned it before him, loose but at the ready.
