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"It's not really any of our business."

  "I guess not."

  "So what now?" Doug asked.

  "Let's go find Barry."

  "You heard Mr. Smeltzer. He said we weren't supposed to play over there anymore. Said he'd kick our ass."

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  "The heck with him. He ain't watching us right now.

  Probably went back to bed by now. Let's find Barry. I want to see this map you made."

  "But what if someone else spots us?"

  "Who's gonna see? Other than Barry, there's nobody out there this morning."

  "Except for the dead people."

  Timmy grinned. "Well, yeah, except for the dead people. They're always there. Wouldn't be a cemetery without them."

  "Yeah," Doug agreed. "It would just be a bunch of empty holes in the ground."

  Chapter Two

  After making sure Barry's parents weren' t watching them from the windows, the boys crossed Golgotha Church Road and wheeled around the church and into the cemetery. To their left, down over the sloping hill, were the old graves. Timmy noted again how two of them had sunk into the ground.

  In front of them, sprawling out behind the church, was the more modern portion of the graveyard. This part stretched nearly a quartermile to the west. It was split into three large sections by narrow, cracked blacktop roadways, each barely wide enough for a single car to drive on.

  The first road, off to their left, separated the older graveyard at the bottom of the hill from the more modern cemetery above. Halfway along this path was an old yellow clapboard utility shed with a rusty tin roof that was covered with fallen tree branches and leaves. Beyond the shed was another stretch of woods. The boys often played inside the old shed, gaining access, when they didn't have Barry's dad's keys, through a boarded up window at the rear, half hidden by a massive pile of dirt left over from new graves. Inside was a small backhoe, a riding mower, two push mowers, a grass catcher, winch, shovels, rakes, pickaxes, hoes, wooden planks and plywood to cover up open graves, canvas tarps, stone markers, plastic flowers and wreaths, vases for the graves, and little flags for Veteran's and Memorial Days. Because of the dirt floor, it always smelled musty inside. Barry, Doug, and Timmy often waited with their pumpaction BB and pellet guns until a rat or groundhog burrowed up through the floor. Then they'd nail it. Barry especially enjoyed this activity since it was one of the few times his father seemed genuinely pleased with him; they were taking care of the rodents that plagued the graveyard. This morning, the shed 's doors hung open, swaying slightly in the breeze, and the tractor was missingboth signs that Barry had been there earlier.

  The path to their right bordered the northern end of the cemetery. On one side were gray and brown tombstones carved from granite and marble. On the other side was a long, sloping pasture in which beef cattle grazed. An electric fence kept the cows from wandering into the graveyard. Last summer, Barry and Doug had dared Timmy to pee on the fence, offering up back issues of ManThing, Defenders, Captain America, and Kamando from their collections, as well as one of Doug 's Micronauts action figures (a blue Time Traveler) and some of Barry's extra Wacky Packages cards. It was a hard deal to turn down, especially because Timmy collected Defenders and it was an issue he didn't havethe one where Hulk, Dr. Strange, Valkyrie, Nighthawk and the rest of the team fought a villain called Nebulon, and Chondu the Mystic possessed the Hulk's pet fawn. So, steeling himself, he'd peed on the fence, got the shock of his life, and had endured two days of not being able to sit down comfortably along with the jeers of his two best friends. His testicles had turned black and blue, and after returning from the doctor's office, his parents had grounded him for two weeks. By that time, it didn 't matter. Admitting to his parents what he' d done had been, until that point, the most mortifyingly embarrassing Page 17

  moment of Timmy Graco 's life.

  And it had totally been worth it.

  At the bottom of the hill, beyond the lush, rolling pasture, was a small hollow with a thin stream running through it' s center, emptying into a deep pond, complete with diving board, boat dock, and a tire swing hanging from a drooping willow tree. Next to the pond stood Luke Jones ' s threestory farmhouse and a long barn, both white with green tiled roofs. Several other outbuildings sat clustered around the two larger structures. The view beyond the farm was clear for miles and miles the paper mill' s stacks belching white smoke into the sky, the twin towns of Colonial Valley and Spring Grove, and in the distance, on the horizon, the forested tops of Pigeon Hills and the radio transmitter tower for 98YCR nestled among them. On a quiet day, visitors to the cemetery could hear the distant whine of traffic on Route 116, which cut through Spring Grove and passed by Colonial Valley on its way to Hanover and Gettysburg. The far end of the cemetery was bordered by a cornfield, which bridged the pasture to the side with the older graveyard, shed, and vast forest beyond them. It was at the intersection of the cemetery, cornfield, and the electric fence that the boys had built the Dugout. It sat only a few feet away from the blacktopped cemetery path, invisible to passersby (except, apparently, Timmy's grandfather), and the electric fence skirted the fort's far edge. They weren' t sure whose property it was on, the churches or Mr. Jones

  'sand in truth, they' d never stopped to consider it. At twelve, they saw all of the area as theirs, and begrudged the adults their usage of it. Had Timmy been able to figure out a way to tax all the grownups for their usage of the surrounding countryside, he 'd have happily done it.

  They rode down the pathway, searching for Barry. The smell of fresh cut grass hung thick in the air. A bird chirped happily overhead. White and yellow butterflies hovered over a puddle leftover from the rainstorm two days before. Honeybees buzzed in a patch of clover.

  As he pedaled, Timmy watched the gravestones flash past; sarah myers 19001929; abby luckenBAUGH 19221923; BRITNEY RODGERS, AGE 5; BRETT SOWERS 19131983, WWII VETERAN, KENNETH L. RUDISill 19231976. He'd spent so much time amongst these markers that the names and dates were as familiar as the kids in his class. A lot of the people buried here were children, many of them infants, many more around his age. That had always disturbed him. Timmy normally felt immortal, like the Eternals, another of his favorite comic books. He didn 't like to think about the alternativethat somebody his age could die. But here was proof, carved in stone, that it happened all the time that kids his age died. His grandmother was buried in this section as well. Timmy didn' t remember her very well, just vague impressions. Her perfume, the way she 'd always tried to get him to eat more when they visited, how she' d squeezed him when they hugged. He often had to look at photographs just to remember her face. Next to her gravestone was a matching marker for his grandfather; Dane Graco' s name and date of birth were already engraved in the marble, just waiting on his death to complete the inscription. Timmy didn 't like to think about that either, and as a result, he avoided his grandmother' s grave whenever possible. Seeing his grandfather 's name along with that blank date, as if the stone were just waiting for Dane Graco, gave Timmy the creeps. Behind them, five archshaped stained glass windows on the rear of the church stared out, overseeing the cemetery. They' d also always given Timmy the creeps. Often on Sunday mornings, when the sermon was especially boring, he'd stare at the windows and make up spooky stories about the scenes depicted in them.

  Sometimes he even wrote them down in the margins of his church bulletin, much to his mother ' s chagrin. She told him it was disrespectful, bordering on blasphemous. Timmy didn 't understand that. The Bible was full of scary stories and characterswitches and Page 18

  black magic, zombies and demons, giants and sea monsters, murder, even cannibalism. Why were his little tales any worse? Why wouldn 't God like them? He told some of the stories to Barry and Doug, and they' d asked him for more. Their eagerness had inspired something inside Timmy. He thought that when he grew up, he might like to write comic books. Not draw them, of course.

  He was lucky if he could draw stick figures. Doug was the artist in their group. He '
d been working on the map for the last four months, and couldn' t wait to unveil it. Timmy couldn ' t wait, either. Doug was much more talented at drawing than Timmy, but Timmy could write, and comic books needed writers to tell the artists what to draw. Maybe he'd grow up to be like Steve Gerber or J. M. DeMatteis or even Stan "the Man" Lee.

  At twelve, Timmy's entire world pretty much revolved around comic books. His father had bought him his first two when he was sixan issue of The Incredible Hulk, in which the jadejawed giant fought a group of villains called the UFoes (before that, Timmy' s only exposure to the Hulk was the television program on Friday nights, and the Hulk hadn 't been able to talk in that) and an issue of Star Wars that featured a blastertoting, mansized, talking bunny rabbit named Jax who had helped Han Solo and Chewbacca ward off a bounty hunter.

  After finishing these comics, he was hooked. Like any other young boy's hobby, it soon became an obsession.

  Each week, he rode his bike down to the newsstand and bought his weekly fix of comics. His selections varied, but his favorites were Transformers, The Incredible Hulk, Sgt. Rock, Marvel TwoInOne, The Amazing SpiderMan, Moon Knight, The Defenders and Captain America.

  He supplemented his newsstand purchases with mailorder comics from a company called Bud Plant. He preferred underground books like The First Kingdom and Elfquest, and wished he could figure out a way to get their Xrated, adultsonly material like Omaha the Cat Dancer and Cherry Poptart without his mother' s knowledge. In addition to the new monthly issues, he bought every back issue he could find. Sometimes he saw advertisements in the backs of comics for comic book stores, but the closest one was Geppi 's Comic World in Baltimore, and he' d only been there twice (but the visits were enough to impress upon him that the proprietor, Steve Geppi, was a god among men). The next closest was in New York City, four hours away. Instead, Timmy scrounged back issues at yard sales and the Colonial Valley flea market. On Sundays, he'd ride his bike there and buy old back issues for fifty cents each. The woman who ran the flea market had roughly 5,000 comic books at home ranging from the 1950s to the mid1970s. According to popular rumor, they 'd belonged to her son, who was killed in Vietnam. Timmy didn' t know much about Vietnam, other than that both his father and Barry 's had fought there. Timmy' s dad had been in the Airborne and Clark Smeltzer served on a riverboat. Timmy was sorry her son had died, but he liked to think that whoever the guy was, he 'd appreciate his comic collection now being enjoyed by kids like he once was. Every Sunday, she'd bring in a new box. She was beloved by all the neighborhood children, and loathed by their parents, whom the kids begged for more money. Last Christmas, his grandfather had bought him a copy of the Overstreet Comic Book Price Guide.

  When Timmy saw what some of his comics were worth, it fueled his obsession even more.

  Needless to say, Timmy had amassed quite a comic book collection. His father often groused about getting rid of them, that they took up too much space, and that a boy his age should be more interested in sports than reading "funny books," which is what Randy Graco insisted on calling them. But Timmy had no interest in playing professional Page 19

  sports. Anybody could throw a football or baseball, but making up a story about how the Devil had taken over Earth, like J. M. DeMatteis had done in The Defenders #100that took real talent.

  Riding beside him, Doug panted, out of breath. His bike's spokes flashed in the sunlight.

  "You need to lay off those Twinkles," Timmy teased.

  "Screw you."

  "Your Calvin Klein's are sticking to your thighs, man. Gross."

  "Least I got designer jeans. You're wearing those same old Levis from last year."

  "Only reason you got Calvins is because your mom bought them at the thrift store. It's not like she shops at Chess King."

  "Bite me."

  Laughing, they punched at each other, almost crashing their bikes in the process. They found Barry near the end of the cemetery, right on the border between the graveyard and the budding cornfield. Over the next three months, the stalks would go from anklehigh to towering over their heads. Barry was raking two car tire tracks out of the grass, smoothing out the damage. He waved as they approached, and flipped his long blond hair out of his face. Even at twelve, his lean muscles flexed beneath his black Twisted Sister Tshirt, the result of many days of hard labor. Although they 'd never admit it, both Timmy and Doug often felt selfconscious when standing next to their blueeyed friend. The girls at school paid attention to Barry, and ignored them, for the most part. As they got closer, Timmy could hear the tinny strains of Def Leppard's "Die Hard the Hunter" coming from the earphones around Barry's head.

  "Hey guys." Barry stopped his Walkman and removed the earphones, letting them dangle around his neck.

  Timmy and Doug skidded to a stop.

  "What happened here?" Timmy stared at the rutted ground.

  "My dad says some teenagers must have drove through here last night. Went off the road and through this section of grass where there aren't any tombstones, and then kept on going right on through the corn."

  "Mr. Jones is gonna be mad when he sees that," Doug said, eyeing the bent and broken stalks. "They messed his field up."

  "Nan. Corn grows back so fast, he won't even notice it. By this time next week, the stalks will be twice the height they are now.

  Timmy and Doug agreed that he was right.

  "How'd you guys know I was here?" Barry asked.

  Timmy nodded back toward the church. "Your dad told us." Barry's face darkened. "Oh. Did he say anything else?"

  "Yeah."

  "How bad?"

  "Well, he was pretty angry…"

  "He was up late," Barry apologized. "I went to bed after that special Friday night Family Ties was off, but I couldn' t sleep. I was in bed listening to Doctor Demento on the radio. I heard Dad get up around midnight and leave the house. He didn 't come back till early this morning. Said he' d chased some kids out of the cemetery. Same kids that did this, I guess."

  Timmy shrugged. "Was he drinking?"

  "I don't know. He stayed awake long enough to tell me what he wanted me to do today. Then he went to bed."

  Barry refused to meet his stare, and Timmy knew then that he was lying.

  "He was pretty pissed off," Timmy repeated. "More than usual." Page 20

  "I don't want him anymore pissed than he already is," Barry said. "My birthday's coming up, and he said I could get a Yamaha Eighty dirt bike if I listened." Timmy frowned. Since when did the Smeltzers have the money for a dirt bike?

  "Was he angry at you guys for waking him up, or just angry in general?"

  "Both," Doug said. "He called me a fag, because I don't play baseball and stuff. Said that's why my dad left."

  "I'm sorry, man. You know that's not true."

  "I know," Doug said softly, "but it still hurts sometimes. Just cause I don't play sports, that's no reason to say mean things like that."

  Barry squeezed his friend's shoulder. "I feel bad. He was probably just really tired."

  "He was acting weird." Timmy refused to let Barry make excuses for his father's behavior.

  "Said we weren't allowed to play here anymore, and you weren't allowed here, either, after sundown."

  "That's true," Barry confirmed. "Some new rule about trespassing. Guess these teenagers were the last straw. Nobody is allowed in here after dark. He called the church board this morning, right before he went back to bed. Sounds like they were in agreement.

  He got permission to get some signs made up and everything." Doug dismounted. "What about during the day?"

  "Well," Barry said, finished with the raking, "he told me we weren't allowed to play around here anymore, especially not after dark. The way it sounded, he didn' t want me here at all, except to work. No bike riding. No skateboarding."

  "That sucks," Timmy spat. "What's the big deal?" Barry shrugged.

  Timmy felt his summer slipping away, and it angered him.

  "Where are we supposed to hang out instead?"


  "The dump?" Doug suggested. "Or over in Bowman's Woods? I bet Mr. Bowman wouldn't care. Or Mr. Jones's pond?"

  "No way." Timmy slid off his bike and flicked a bug off the front mag wheel. "Only thing we can do at the pond is fish. We can' t swim in it with all those snapping turtles and water snakes." He shuddered at the mere thought of snakes, then continued. "And too many other people go through Bowman 's Woodshunters, hikers, older kids. Besides, it 's too far to go every day. The Dugout is right here. We're just going to abandon it?"

  "We could build a new one. A better fort." Doug segued into the introduction from The Six Million Dollar Man.

  "We can rebuild it. We can make it better than it was before. Better. Stronger. Fas "

  "Shut up," Barry said, rolling his eyes. "Retard." Doug pouted. "Then how about a tree house?"

  Timmy scoffed. "A tree house? Get real, man. Those are for pussies. It' s too easy for other kids to raid. You guys want Ronny, Jason, and Steve stealing our stuff when we 're not around?"

  Ronny Nace, Jason Glatfelter, and Steve Laughman, each a year older and a grade higher than the boys, were the town bulliesand their sworn enemies. They lived beyond the Jones farm, along Route 116, but often road their bikes up the hill and into Timmy, Doug, and Barry ' s territory. Presently, an uneasy truce existed between the two trios, but all of them knew that before the summer was over, because of slights real or imagined, a new war would break out. The last time, it had been because Ronny and Jason had thrown rocks at Doug and called him fat boy when he rode by their homes on his way to the Colonial Valley Flea Market.

  The time before that, it had started because Barry shot Steve in the butt with his BB gun. Page 21

  Although none of the boys would have admitted it out loud, they looked forward to the yearly wars. The familiarity was comforting.

  Barry wiped his sweaty brow with the back of his hand. "Look. If we're inside the Dugout, then my dad can't see us, anyway. He'll never even know that we' re over here. I don

  't see the point in moving. And besides, when we sneak out at night, it ain't like nobody knows. We can play over here then."