The Leveller - Julia Durango Page 0,59

of my skin. But I’m determined not to show fear anymore. I want the old Nixy back, and I want her now.

“Are you sure you know which one?” I ask him for the twelfth time. “Lotta tombs here, you know. Wouldn’t want to wake the dead.”

All the way over here, first in Larry’s loving grip, then on the motorcycle, Wyn and I have tried to keep the tone light. That “go alone” part of the message was a good indication that this next part may not be a dance at the Tropicana. But neither one of us wants to dwell on it, at least not until we have to.

“The Nuñez Galvez tomb is the only one I’ve actually completed that has a working door.” He waves a hand at all the mausoleums and statues we’re passing. “The rest of these are just shells.”

“So what’s inside the Noonie Galvin tomb?” I say, enjoying the look Wyn gives me as I completely mangle the name. “Trained attack monkeys? No, no, you’ve done those before. I’ve got it, you keep Larry’s playmates in there. Pet tarantulas named Curly and Moe?”

Wyn laughs. “You’re close. Ghosts, and their names are José and Lola.”

Now I’m laughing, too. “And do they like to play banana fetch or do they have more ghoulish pastimes?”

“Well, Lola likes to recite poetry and José plays chess.”

“Classy,” I say. “Are they—were they— real people once like Hemingway and Josephine?”

Wyn nods. “Yep, Lola Rodríguez de Tío and José Martí. Cuban heroes. Both of them are buried in the real Colon Cemetery. Mama Beti used to visit their graves when she was a girl, so I thought it would be fun to re-create them for her.”

“Well, just make sure you warn her first. Mama Beti’s been through enough. The last thing she needs is that kind of a surprise, no matter how civilized José and Lola are.”

“Will do,” Wyn says, then points his flashlight at the structure ahead.

“Why did we do this at night?” I wonder aloud. “Can’t you hit the lights in here? Make it, like, noon or something?”

Wyn shakes his head. “I only built that functionality into the island. Here we are.”

While all the other tombs look gothic and old-fashioned, almost like miniature churches, the Nuñez Galvez one looks sleek and triangular, like an open tent—only it’s huge and made of stone.

“We should make s’mores,” I say, as we approach. “I bet Lola and José would love them.”

“We’ll have to come back one day and picnic with them,” Wyn agrees.

“Once I get out of here,” I tell him, “I am never, ever coming back.”

As we get closer, I see that the gaping triangular opening leads to a staircase descending into the earth. There’s a door at the bottom, and Wyn trains the flashlight on it. “Ready?” he asks.

I nod and look around. “Nobody around with shovels, are there?” I say, remembering his nightmare of being buried alive.

Wyn shudders and we’re both silent for a moment.

“All right, let’s do this,” I say as we begin our descent down the steps.

We walk slowly, both of us hoping beyond hope to find one thing behind that door: a big, sparkly virtual mall.

Wyn undoes the latch and I push open the door.

Darkness.

Black.

I brace myself, fight the urge to run.

Wyn aims the flashlight inside.

But it’s only darkness.

There’s no Black here.

No nothingness.

I can handle it.

I will handle it.

“Lola? José?” Wyn calls, as we step into the shadows. “It’s not usually so dark in here,” he explains, waving his flashlight around.

SLAM.

The door behind us shuts, and Wyn drops the flashlight.

We are bathed in pitch darkness, except for the weak beam of light at our feet.

“Inventory!” I yell automatically, but it’s too late.

The zombies get us first.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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WE WAKE UP BACK INSIDE THE TENT-LIKE TOMB AT THE TOP OF THE stairs. Wyn and I stare at each other for a moment.

“I don’t know whether to be excited or terrified,” he says.

“Same here. Someone’s tampered with your tomb, which means it could be some kind of portal like the message said, only . . .”

“Only it’s guarded by the undead.”

I start twirling a strand of hair around my finger, untwirling it, then twirling it again. I briefly consider that this is not the most mature habit, but it helps me think and we need a plan.

Wyn still looks a bit dazed from the zombie attack. I don’t blame him. No one likes having their intestines ripped out. At least they killed us fast.

“Okay,” I say, taking charge. I’ve