Pet Sematary(137)

The wind rose, shrieking briefly through the trees and making him look around uneasily. He laid the shovel, the pick he had yet had to use, the gloves, and the flashlight beside the bundle. Using the light was a temptation, but he resisted it. Leaving the body and the tools, Louis walked back the way he had come and arrived at the high wrought-iron fence about five minutes later. There, across the street, was his Civic, parked neatly at the curb. So near and yet so far.

Louis looked at it for a moment and then struck off in a different direction.

This time he moved away from the gate, walking along the wrought-iron fence until it turned away from Mason Street at a neat right angle. There was a drainage ditch here, and Louis looked into it. What he saw made him shudder.

There were masses of rotting flowers here, layer upon layer of them, washed down by seasons of rain and snow.

Christ.

No, not Christ. These leavings were made in propitiation of a much older God than the Christian one. People have called Him different things at different times, hut Rachel's sister gave Him a perfectly good name, I think: Oz the Gweat and Tewwible, God of dead things left in the ground, God of rotting flowers in drainage ditches, God of the Mystery.

Louis stared down into the ditch as if hypnotized. At last he dragged his gaze away with a little gasp-the gasp of one who has come to, or who has been called from a mesmerist's trance by the final number in a count of ten.

He went on. He hadn't walked far before he found what he was looking for, and he suspected that his mind had neatly stored this bit of information on the day of Gage's burial.

Here, looming in the windy dark, was the cemetery's crypt.

Coffins were stored there in the winter when it was too cold for even the payloaders to dig in the frozen earth. It was also used when there was a rush of business.

There were such rushes of "cold custom" from time to time, Louis knew; in any given population there were times when, for no reason anyone could understand, lots of people died.

"It all balances out," Uncle Carl told him. "If I have a two-week period in May when nobody dies, Lou, I can count on a two-week period in November when I'll have ten funerals. Only it's rarely November, and it's never around Christmas, although people always think that's when a lot of people die. That stuff about Christmas depression is just a load of bullshit. Just ask any funeral director.

Most people are real happy around Christmas, and they want to live. So they do live. It's usually February when we get a big bulge. The flu gets the old people and there's pneumonia, of course-but that's not all. There'll be people who've been battling cancer like mad bastards for a year, sixteen months. Then bad old February comes around and it seems as if they get tired and the cancer just rolls them up like a rug. On January 31 they're in remission, and they feel as if they're in the pink. Come February 24 they're planted. People have heart attacks in February, strokes in February, renal failure in February. It's a bad month. People get tired in February. We're used to it, in the business. But then, for no reason, the same thing will happen in June or in October. Never in August. August's a slow month. Unless a gas main explodes or a city bus goes off a bridge, you never fill up a cemetery crypt in August. But there have been Februarys when we've had caskets stacked up three deep, hoping like hell for a thaw so we can plant some of them before we have to rent a figging apartment."

Uncle Carl had laughed. And Louis, feeling a party to something not even his instructors in med school knew, had laughed too.

The crypt's double doors were set into a grassy rise of hill, a shape as natural and attractive as the swell of a woman's breast. This hill (which Louis suspected was landscaped rather than natural) crested only a foot or two below the decorative arrow tips of the wrought-iron fence, which remained even at the top rather than rising with the contour.

Louis glanced around, then scrambled up the slope. On the other side was an empty square of ground, perhaps two acres in all. No... not quite empty. There was a single outbuilding, like a disconnected shed. Probably belongs to 'the cemetery, Louis thought. That would be where they kept their grounds equipment.

The streetlights shone through the moving leaves of a belt of trees-old elms and maples-that screened this area from Mason Street. Louis saw no other movement.

He slid back down on his butt, afraid of falling and reinjuring his knee, and returned to his son's grave. He almost stumbled over the roll of the tarpaulin.

He saw he would have to make two trips, one with the body and another for the tools. He bent, grimacing at his back's protest, and got the stiff canvas roll in his arms. He could feel the shift of Gage's body within and steadfastly ignored that part of his mind which whispered constantly that he had gone mad.

He carried the body over to the hill which housed Pleasant-view's crypt with its two steel sliding doors (the doors made it look queerly like a two-car garage).

He saw what would have to be done if he were going to get his forty-pound bundle up that steep slope now that his rope was gone and prepared to do it. He backed up and then ran at the slope, leaning forward, letting his forward motion carry him as far as it would. He got almost to the top before his feet skidded out from under him on the short, slick grass, and he tossed the canvas roll as far as he could as he came down. It landed almost at the crest of the hill. He scrambled the rest of the way up, looked around again, saw no one, and laid the rolled-up tarp against the fence. Then he went back for the rest of his things.