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As for the riders, the marks on the ground made it clear that they’d ridden away west. The cemetery was in the other direction. Six heavily armed teams of guards went out to patrol the area around New Alamo, and plans were being drawn to beef up town security.
Gutsy had to explain that the riders had brought her mother back from the cemetery, and that led to a broader explanation that felt to her like a trial. The woman in charge of town security, Karen Peak, hammered her with questions, and rather than being “too smart,” Gutsy played it dumb, pretending not to know much. Spider and Alethea chimed in to say that it was all a mystery—not far from the truth—and to assure the authorities that Mama Luisa Gomez was now fully dead. Father Esteban and Dr. Morton were called in to confirm it.
It was all unpleasant and it took forever. In the end, though, Karen Peak allowed them to go, but only on the condition that they return before dark. A patrol rode with them about halfway and said they would be working the area, just in case. Gutsy thanked them but was happy to see them ride off.
When they were alone, Spider said, “This is what I hate about this town. I mean, you told them that the riders dug up your mom, but they didn’t send any trackers out to the cemetery to start a hunt? Is it just me, or are they all a little stupid?”
“It’s not you, honey,” murmured Alethea. “I think everyone over . . . like . . . twenty-two is weird.”
“Why twenty-two?” asked Spider.
“If they’re twenty-two, then they were seven when the End happened. That’s old enough to remember things.”
“I can remember things from when I was three.”
“You’re interrupting me, Spider. Shhhh, now,” she said, patting him on the knee. “The older a person was when the End happened, the more they were messed up by the End. Littler kids probably just cried their way through it and got over it.”
“Does that make sense?” Spider asked, directing the question to Gutsy. She just shook her head.
Alethea continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “So, people who were teenagers or, worse yet, adults, when the dead rose, are really messed up. They have a condition. I think it’s called postal stress disorder.”
“Post-traumatic stress disorder,” supplied Gutsy.
“That’s what I said. So it’s not their fault that they’re all messed up. I mean, how could they not be? Their whole world went poof!”
“I thought ‘poof’ means it blew up,” said Spider.
“Okay, then their world got eaten. Thanks, Mr. Literal. You’re missing my point. They are all in the same kind of permanent shock. All you have to do is look around to see it. We have the weirdest set of rules and laws in town. I read about laws in books, and ours are freaky. Some are crazy overprotective, and some—like letting us actually go to the cemetery where these rider guys kept digging up Mama Gomez—well, that only makes sense if you’re, y’know, damaged.”
Spider came back at her with how it wasn’t right to make fun of people who had mental or emotional problems, and they got into a long discussion that turned into a fight. Gutsy tuned them out and instead
tried to make sense of what little she knew. But it refused to be made sense of.
The riders. Digging up Mama and bringing her to the house. Why? If they wanted to kill Gutsy, they could have cut her throat while she slept. What was the point of going to all the effort of bringing her mother home to do it? That was sick and it seemed like a lot of effort for no good reason.
Except that everything had a reason. Gutsy firmly believed that.
So, if there was a reason and it was completely beyond her, then it meant she didn’t have enough information. Gutsy could accept that as a fact. It gave her a purpose, and purpose helped her shove her emotions to one side. She tried never to let emotions interfere with solving a problem.
Work the problem and the answers will come. That was something Mr. Urrea told her once. It seemed like an offhand comment, but it was one of the most important things she’d ever learned. It made so much sense to her.
She chewed on it. After a while she heard her friends laughing. Their fights, no matter how intense they seemed at the time, never drove a wedge between Spider and Alethea. It was like arm wrestling for them. A lot of effort and growling and determination to win, but once it was over—it was over.
As they approached the cemetery, Spider stood up and said, “What the . . . ?” Then he tugged hard on the reins. The wagon rumbled to a stop. Alethea and Gutsy were standing now too.
“Oh man,” breathed Alethea.
Gutsy cried out, leaped down, and broke into a dead run.
“Wait,” cried Spider, but then he was pelting behind her. Alethea, slower than the others, hurried after. They ran past dozens of graves, then slowed and stopped by the open mouth of Mama’s grave. That one they knew would be empty. There were dozens of shoe prints around it. Horse hoofprints too. Around her empty grave and around dozens of other empty holes.
Gutsy and her friends turned in a circle, staring slack-jawed and wide-eyed.
Many the recent graves in Hope Cemetery had been dug up.
All the coffins had been pried open, and all the dead from those graves were gone.
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