A Dark Grave (The Elysium Chronicles 0.5)(2)

The dread starts to come back when we land and, besides the birds, there’s no other sounds on the island.

Why aren’t there any more sounds? There should be something in there making noise. Deer. Squirrels. Bugs for God’s sake.

Is the fog sucking up all the sound? Or are there just not any animals? The thought makes my stomach hurt, but I brush it off. There have got to be animals here.

Conn and I glance at each other. There’s only one way to find out. We grab our supplies, shouldering our packs before dragging the raft further away from the shore. It would completely suck if a wave washed it away before we got back. I still hope to have a ton of meat to haul home.

We take a few moments to hide the raft, combing the beach for debris. Just in case. Don’t expect anyone out here to steal it, but can’t be too careful.

Just as I drop my last armful onto the raft, Conn calls my name. There’s something in his voice that makes me nervous. I turn to see him frantically waving me over from halfway down the beach, panic in his movements.

Conn isn’t one to jump at shadows; something is definitely wrong. I rush over; his face is pale and he looks like he’s going to be sick.

I see something lying on ground by his feet.

The feeling in the pit of my stomach tells me I probably don’t want to know it is. But even as I tell myself I don’t want to know, I already see.

It’s a body.

I lean down, trying to see if I recognize the person. I’m hoping beyond all hope that it isn’t one of the hunters we lost a few months ago. Honestly, I hope it isn’t someone I know at all, but I realize the chance is slim. Who else would’ve died on this strange little island?

I hold my breath as I inspect his face. He’s young—older than Tristan, but younger than Conn and me. I feel a weight lift as I realize it’s quite evident that this person isn’t a villager. He’d been in the water awhile before he washed up here, but nothing about him is familiar.

The skin is pale, as if it’s never seen a ray of sunlight. The short blond hair is a strange yellow, nearly…too perfect of a blond. It makes me think that this boy—whoever he was--never saw the sun, but I don’t even know how that’s possible. Or how he’d end up here on the island.

The cause of death is easy to see. I’d recognize those wounds anywhere. Two gunshots to the chest. If the shots didn’t kill him, considering how much blood is still staining his shirt, he bled out. I’m just surprised he didn’t end up dinner to any of the sea life. With that much blood floating around, I’m sure a shark would have noticed.

Then again, I think, taking a closer look at the body. It does appear something nibbled on him. Maybe he doesn’t taste good.

I bark out a laugh, then suck it in when Conn gives me a look.

Yeah. Probably not a good idea to laugh at a dead body.

I glance around quickly, wondering if the person who killed him is around somewhere, but the only footsteps I see are ours.

“No footsteps,” Conn says, echoing my thoughts. “More than likely the body was dumped somewhere else and washed up here.”

I nod. “We should stay alert, just in case,” I say.

I stand, brushing the sand from my hands. I glance over to the woods and see a shadow pass through the fog. Shuddering, I think of all the superstitious bullshit regarding ghosts.

“They say if a body isn’t buried properly the soul walks around haunting the place it died because it can’t find peace,” Conn says.

A chill runs over my skin, making goose bumps pop up all over, but I say, “That’s crap. When people die, they just die. They don’t come back to haunt other people, especially some stupid island.”

I glance down at the body. “But we’d better find a spot to bury him. Doesn’t seem right to just leave him out here.”

And that’s the only reason. Because it’s the right thing to do, not because of some stupid ghost story.

Conn makes a face, but helps me drag the body closer to the trees. We have only our hands for shovels and the sandy beach is much easier to dig in, so we don’t go farther into the forest.

We quickly dig a shallow grave and cover him with sand. Conn disappears for a second, returning with a somewhat large and unusually shaped rock that we use as a grave marker.

We stand quietly for a minute, paying our respects to a boy we never met. I think how glad I am that I didn’t bring Tristan.

Ever since Dad died, I’ve been responsible for him, and the family, taking over where Dad left off. Tristan had been just a baby. I’d helped feed him, change his diapers, learn his alphabet, shoot his first rifle. I was even there with mom for his first day of school.

I would never admit it, but seeing him sit in that little bitty classroom, the same one with the same teacher I had, made me a little teary. Maybe it was because he was growing up or, more than likely, because my dad would never get to see it and I had to stand in his stead. Tristan had never really known our dad; he’s always looked up to me. And it was hard enough on me to see the body; I can’t imagine what it would have done to him. Especially if the killer is still on the island somewhere.

The thought makes me grip tighter to my rifle and take one more glance around. Even though it’s obvious Conn and I are the only humans alive on this island, I can’t shake the feeling we’re being watched.

Feeling a little creeped out, Conn and I silently grab our gear and make our way into the foggy forest.