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He
could
remember
slipping
the
canvas
bundle
into
the
hole
he
had
dug
,
and
pushing
most
of
the
earth
back
into
the
hole
with
his
bare
hands
.
And
he
believed
he
could
remember
piling
the
rocks
up
,
building
from
a
broad
base
to
a
point
...
From
then
to
now
he
remembered
very
little
.
He
had
obviously
gotten
back
down
the
steps
again
or
he
would
n't
be
here
,
which
was
...
where
?
Looking
around
,
he
thought
he
recognized
one
of
the
groves
of
great
old
pines
not
far
beyond
the
deadfall
.
Could
he
have
made
it
all
the
way
back
through
Little
God
Swamp
without
knowing
it
?
He
supposed
it
was
possible
.
Just
.
This
is
far
enough
.
I
'll
just
sleep
here
.
But
it
was
that
thought
,
so
falsely
comforting
,
that
got
him
to
his
feet
and
moving
again
.
Because
if
he
stayed
here
,
that
thing
might
find
him
...
that
thing
might
be
in
the
woods
and
looking
for
him
right
this
moment
.
He
scrubbed
his
hand
up
to
his
face
,
palm
first
,
and
was
stupidly
surprised
to
see
blood
on
his
hand
...
at
some
point
he
'd
given
himself
a
nosebleed
.
"
Who
gives
a
fuck
?
"
he
muttered
hoarsely
and
grubbed
apathetically
around
him
until
he
had
found
the
pick
and
shovel
again
.
Ten
minutes
later
the
deadfall
loomed
ahead
.
Louis
climbed
it
,
stumbling
repeatedly
but
somehow
not
falling
until
he
was
almost
down
.
Then
he
glanced
at
his
feet
,
a
branch
promptly
snapped
(
do
n't
look
down
,
Jud
had
said
)
,
another
branch
tumbled
,
spilling
his
foot
outward
,
and
he
fell
with
a
thud
on
his
side
,
the
wind
knocked
out
of
him
.
I
'll
be
goddamned
if
this
is
n't
the
second
graveyard
I
've
fallen
into
tonight
...
and
I
'll
be
goddamned
if
two
is
n't
enough
.
He
began
to
feel
around
for
the
pick
and
shovel
again
,
and
laid
his
hands
on
them
at
last
.
For
a
moment
he
surveyed
his
surroundings
,
visible
by
starlight
.
Nearby
was
the
grave
of
SMUCKY
.
He
was
obedient
,
Louis
thought
wearily
.
And
TRIXIE
,
KILT
ON
THE
HIGHWAY
.
The
wind
still
blew
strongly
,
and
he
could
hear
the
faint
ting-ting-ting
of
a
piece
of
metal
--
perhaps
it
had
once
been
a
Del
Monte
can
,
cut
laboriously
by
a
grieving
pet
owner
with
his
father
's
tinsnips
and
then
flattened
out
with
a
hammer
and
nailed
to
a
stick
--
and
that
brought
the
fear
back
again
.
He
was
too
tired
now
to
feel
it
as
more
than
a
somehow
sickening
pulsebeat
.
He
had
done
it
.
That
steady
ting-ting-ting
sound
coming
out
of
the
darkness
brought
it
home
to
him
more
than
anything
else
.
He
walked
through
the
Pet
Sematary
,
past
the
grave
of
MARTA
OUR
PET
RABIT
who
had
DYED
MARCH
1
1965
,
and
near
the
barrow
of
GEN.
