Elisha’s Bones Read Free Page B

leading to an ancient wall interred in the earth, instead there is a chaos that looks like the aftermath of an explosion. The trench is gone, covered in with sand, dirt, and a large chunk of the adjoining hillside. Particles of sediment and pulverized rock hang like a haze in the air. I’ve stopped running, frozen by what I see. It’s as if I’m experiencing all of this through a fog, and the only thing that seems to reach me is something sounding like an insistent buzzing. When the noise resolves into a man’s weak voice, my eyes track to movement in the trench.
    Urgency unlocks my legs, and I rush toward the man half buried in debris while at the same time reaching for the radio at my waist. I’m shouting something, but I can’t decipher the garbled sounds of my own voice. Then the radio is on the ground and I’m on my knees, pawing at the dirt. It’s Steve Connelly. The clinical part of me is trying to determine his condition as I work to free him; it’s that part of my brain that I need to use right now, instead of the portion that knows Steve has been married for seven years and has two kids waiting for him back in Minnesota—the part that knows there were other people out here when this thing happened.
    There is a flash of movement behind me and then there are several pairs of hands alongside mine, loosening the earth’s hold on Steve. When we are able to pull him up, he’s limp, but breathing. I let others move him away from the trench because it’s becoming difficult to keep my irrational side in check. The activity behind me falls away as my eyes flit over the site. There is no movement, no flashes of color. There’s a thin barrier between me and true panic, and I’m not sure how long it will stand up. The only thing I can tell myself is that I don’t even know Will was down there.
    Except that I know.
    There’s a shovel by the rebar that is the auxiliary dig’s focal point. In what seems like slow motion, I walk over and pick it up, my eyes never leaving the trench. The first shovelful of dirt is like sand, and it runs off, spills over the side. I plunge the tool in a second time, then a third. I lose myself in the task, a growing urgency adding speed with each thrust. At some point, others frantically join me in the digging. I feel Jim there, although my eyes don’t leave the worn surface of the shovel.
    I don’t know how long we dig, how much earth we move, or how many shovels take their turn. We’re four feet down and it seems as if we’ve been digging a long time. I’ve stopped sweating. And then I hear something—a sound that doesn’t originate amid the fevered exertion of at least a dozen men and women abandoning themselves to the work. It’s a sound that seems to come from far away, a muffled voice. I stop. I stop for the first time. I listen. And I hear Will’s voice, coming from below; he sounds so far away. With something close to a snarl I bring the shovel up and plunge it into the ground, and the abused implement breaks at the shaft.
    Tossing the useless thing aside, I go to my knees, pawing at the red earth. “I’m coming Will!” I shout. My hands are bleeding, fingernails ripped away, but I don’t feel any of it.
    I catch sight of Sarah, who is now digging next to me. The privileged Connecticut girl, covered in grime, blood on her fingers, and tears streaming down her cheeks. Her eyes find mine and, in that instant, I know that haunted look will remain with me forever.

C HAPTER 2
    EVAN STON UNIVERSITY, ELLEN, NORTH CAROLINA ,
PRESENT DAY
    M erry Christmas,” Duckey says as he slides a rectangular box wrapped in red foil across the table. His manicured fingers stay on the present for a few seconds, long enough to let me know that whatever is inside is something he would want for himself, even as the thousand-dollar watch peeking out from under his shirtsleeve assures me he probably already has several of whatever it is.
    “Thanks, Ducks.” I pick up the gift, a sticky