Chapter 2
CHAPTER 2 — Breaking the Earth
The wrought-iron gates of Oakwood Cemetery were locked.
It was 7:34 a.m.
The cemetery did not officially open to the public until eight.
Laura didn't even tap her brakes.
She aimed the front bumper of her Honda Civic directly at the center where the two iron gates met.
“Brace yourself!” Laura yelled, throwing her arm across Abby’s chest.
The impact was deafening.
Metal shrieked against metal.
The hood of the Civic buckled inward, the headlights shattering into a thousand pieces of glittering glass.
The heavy iron gates groaned, the chain snapping under the force of the collision, and swung violently inward.
Laura kept her foot on the gas.
The car limped forward, the engine sputtering and smoking, tires chewing through the manicured gravel paths of the graveyard.
In the rearview mirror, Laura saw the flashing red and blue lights of two police cruisers turning onto the street.
The dispatcher had actually sent them.
Laura drove the ruined car halfway up the grassy hill of Section 4, stopping only when the engine completely stalled out and died.
She kicked her door open.
She pulled Abby out of the passenger seat.
They ran up the hill, their shoes slipping on the morning dew.
The grave was marked by a mound of fresh, dark earth and a temporary plastic marker bearing Mary’s name.
A dozen wilting floral arrangements lay scattered across the dirt, their ribbons soaked from the overnight rain.
The two police cruisers skidded to a halt on the gravel path below.
Three officers jumped out, their hands resting cautiously near their belts.
“Ma'am! Step away from the gravesite!” the lead officer shouted, jogging up the hill.
He was a tall, broad-shouldered man with graying hair. He looked tired. He looked like he expected to be dealing with a hysterical, grieving sister.
“You have to dig her up!” Laura screamed, dropping to her knees in the wet dirt and clawing at the soil with her bare hands.
“She’s alive! She’s breathing down there!”
The officer stopped, his face softening with pity.
“Ma'am, please. I know this is incredibly hard. But you can't be doing this. It's a felony to disturb a grave.”
“Listen to me!” Laura shrieked, pulling Abby’s phone from her pocket.
She thrust it into the officer’s hands.
“Listen to the voicemail! Look at the timestamp!”
The officer sighed, exchanging a weary glance with his partner.
He pressed play on the screen.
He held the phone to his ear.
Laura stopped digging. She watched his face.
She watched the exact moment the pity vanished from his eyes.
She watched the color drain completely out of his cheeks, leaving his skin the color of old ash.
He heard the static.
He heard the breath.
He heard the knocking.
The officer lowered the phone, his hand visibly shaking.
He turned around and screamed at his partner.
“Get the groundskeeper! Get the backhoe! Now! Tell dispatch to step on the bus, we need paramedics with oxygen up here thirty seconds ago!”
The second officer didn't ask questions. He sprinted back down the hill toward the maintenance shed.
Abby stood shivering in the morning air, clutching her arms around her chest.
“Are they going to get her, Aunt Laura?”
“Yes, baby,” Laura whispered, pulling Abby into a tight embrace, ignoring the mud on her scrubs.
“They’re going to get her.”
Within five minutes, the roar of a heavy diesel engine shook the quiet cemetery.
A massive yellow backhoe rumbled up the hill, its metal treads tearing up the pristine grass.
The groundskeeper driving it looked terrified. He had never been asked to un-bury a body before.
“Be careful!” the lead officer yelled over the engine noise. “Do not crush the vault! Skim the top!”
The backhoe’s giant metal bucket lowered.
It bit into the dark, wet earth.
It pulled back, lifting a massive load of soil and dumping it to the side.
Again.
And again.
The sound of the engine was deafening, a mechanical monster fighting a war against death itself.
Abby covered her ears, tears streaming down her face, her eyes locked on the growing hole in the ground.
Laura stood beside her, praying to a God she hadn't spoken to in years.
Please. Just give us five more minutes. Please.
With the fourth scoop, the metal teeth of the bucket scraped against something hard.
A sickening, scraping screech of metal on concrete.
The burial vault.
“Stop! Stop the machine!” the officer roared, waving his arms frantically.
The groundskeeper killed the engine.
The sudden silence in the graveyard was heavier than the noise had been.
The hole was six feet deep.
At the bottom lay the concrete lid of the unsealed vault.
The officer didn't wait for a ladder.
He jumped directly into the grave.
His partner followed.
They landed with a heavy thud on top of the concrete.
“We need straps!” the officer yelled up at the groundskeeper. “We have to pop the lid!”
Laura squeezed Abby’s hand so tightly her knuckles popped.
They were inches away.
May you like
Inches away from the truth.
Inches away from a miracle, or a nightmare they would never wake up from.
