"Jesus wept," groaned Ted.

"With all the stones strewn about, we got our work cut out for us," Mike agreed.

Hugh thumped Mike on the back, grinning. "Ain't you glad you got the job when you did?"

"Pineville's a small town, thank God for that," said Carl. "It could've been worse."

~

Around three they rested on a log at the far end of the cemetery, carefully checking before they sat to make sure there weren't any surprises lying nearby.

"Looking at it from this vantage point, I think I'm gonna cry," said Ted. "I don't wanna go back there."

From where they sat it became apparent just how little their day's work had achieved. One corner of the yard was mostly clear, tombstones neatly stacked against the low stone wall, nothing else in sight but a long hole every now and again or a bulge in the matted grass signifying a risen coffin the waters hadn't entirely freed.

The rest of the yard, sixteen square acres, was a charnel garden. Tombstones lay strewn about, some face down, some face up, some cracked, some broken, some sticking in the earth by a corner after being tossed end over end by the current. Only a few of the heavier, expensive granite stones remained mounted and upright. In almost all cases the remains they memorialized were no longer where they belonged.

It was an old cemetery, some coffins planted so long ago there was nothing leftto float, but Pineville had also been gifted with several generations of skilled casket makers who knew how to prolong disintegration and fit boards tight together; thus, many had risen when the waters called, only breaking open when those same waters currented them into trees, tombstones, rocks and each other. Scores of broken wood caskets littered the yard, along with their long-hidden contents that turned the stomach and watered the eyes... some still under lids, others strewn across the muck. Friends, family, and ancestors society had long ago accepted as lost had now returned, but they were not wanted.

"If only everything wasn't so damp," said Ted. "A little sun, a little heat----"

"Heat would only make it worse." Carl sniffed.

"But at least it would make everything less... less dead. I hate autumn. Cold mists, colder rains, and never enough sun. It's the sun I need more than anything. Besides, we won't be able to rebury any of these folk until the ground dries. We should pray for sun."

"Prayer is good, I won't argue none with that, but we should pray for strength more than sun," Mike said, "and hurry up and get on with our job before what strength we got left gives out." He stood, stretched, and trudged slowly back to his cart.

The others, equally slowly, followed.

"What we shouldpray for is a miracle," muttered Hugh, bringing up the rear. "Something involving me never having to see anything like this ever again."

~

By sundown the shed----formerly used for storing shovels, spades, hoes, rakes, bags of peat and wheelbarrows----stored three-dozen occupied coffins, and the remains of a dozen and a half Pineville citizens without; the latter were securely tied up in burlap sacks. Outside, four stacks of tombstones lay in front of the shed, which were to be sorted through and restored to their proper places later.

"Another two days should do it for the gathering," Carl said. "Then we can help Mike here with the sorting and put everybody back proper who can beput back."

The night was clear but moonless, the wind gentle but cool. They slept in Mike's cottage on the hill next to the shed, setting up two-hour shifts to guard the cemetery from animals that might worry the exposed remains. Mike lent out his rifle for the purpose, along with an oil lamp so no one would take any bad steps in the dark.

Carl picked the short straw and kept watch first. He walked the grounds carefully, handkerchief tied tight around his face, trying not to think. For two hours his only excitement was chasing a red fox away from what was left of Abigail Wilson. At two he gave Ted a kick in the leg and turned in.

Ted didn't go through the graveyard, just circled around it. He didn't want to stumble over any gaping holes in the dark, didn't even want to riskit, so he kept to the perimeter, scaring off rats and raccoons then stumbling over, not a hole, but a wooden coffin that gave way as his boot pressed down.

Forty-five minutes later, still wiping his heel on the grass, he shambled, muttering, back to the house and woke Hugh.

Hugh chose sitting rather than walking, and parked himself on Mike's porch swing for guard duty. It was in pretty poor shape, the weatherworn wooden seat hanging from rusted chains that looked ready to break, but it felt good to sit, and everything held. In fact, it felt so good that after a while, probably not more than a couple of minutes, he drifted off into uneasy sleep.

He dreamt fitfully of mildewed linen, dank holes, and the sighing of fretting winds through dark tree boughs. The sound conjured images of waving doors that shouldn't be open; clattering attic shutters in abandoned mansions; cold, wet-ashed chimney flues... and after a time it grew louder, more distinct and insistent, until with a start and a cry he awoke.

But the sound did not cease.

"What's that?" he hissed, then clapped a hand over his mouth. "What isthat?" he hissed again through white fingers. He looked back toward the front door and the black inside space beyond. Silence there, save for snores.

"Christ Almighty, that ain't them, he said, and fumbled for the dark lantern. "Gonna see," he said. "Gonna see what that goddamned sound is."

But he couldn't bring himself to strike a match.

The sound was like a tide, cries washing over voices, voices demanding answers. The sound was faint but resonated with the power of a multitude. Over the voices came the tread of feet on grass and leaves, the knocking of knuckles against wood, the ripping of fabric with fingernails.

"Lord a' mercy." The words could have been Hugh's but were not. They came from behindhim. He spun like a top, arms raised to fend off or strike.

Carl grabbed him. "Now, now, it's just us." Mike and Ted stood beside him in the dark, holding their breath.

Together they stood on the porch and listened.

"It's coming from the bone yard," Mike whispered.

"Some of the kids from town come back to cause trouble?" Ted whispered.

"Hell no," Carl said. "No one would cause trouble with that." His shadow nodded toward the cratered lawn.

Mike took a deep breath and said, "Come on now, let's not get panicked. It's my job to see this property's residents are kept safe. I'm turning on a lamp." He fumbled with a match. Yellow flame sprang up, touched an oiled rope. The lantern glowed.

Hugh gasped. Ted shut his eyes tight. Carl grabbed the rifle from Hugh's hand.

Mike raised the lantern.

The noise rose for a moment, then, protesting, faded quickly and completely away.

Nothing moved in the cemetery but rats and leaves.

Even so, no one caught a wink the rest of that long night.

~

"Well, I'd say something looks different."

Everyone looked at Mike, who was surveying the cemetery, hands on hips and nodding slowly. "It don't look as messy today."

"That's cause we worked our behinds off yesterday," said Hugh. "Now my first order of business is to get that damned pine tree to give up her goods. It just don't look right, that thing all the way up in a tree." Shouldering a coil of rope, he walked over to the spruce planted in the middle of the lot and looked up into its cover, where the glint of a brass handle betrayed the presence of a coffin lodged between two branches some eight feet off the ground.