1947. The plague never ended, and after the curfew bell only the beaked doctors of the Sanitary Corps may walk a burial ground. You used to be one of them. The Corps let you go, and you kept the mask.
Now you go out after dark with up to three friends, a shovel each and an old army ambulance, and you rob the graves of the rich. They were buried with their jewellery. It seems a shame to leave it there.
Five places to get caught
St. Brannoc's, a country churchyard where the crickets fall quiet around you.
Holloway Necropolis, where the port buried its money behind iron and bronze.
Gallows Hill, a hilltop of war graves under a searchlight nobody told the war was over.
Quarantine Island, a mile out over the causeway, where the tide comes back for the low ground.
The Undercroft, a catacomb under a burnt chapel, where the dead still keep their seats.
Stab, heave, and every stroke carries further than you'd like. Then the shovel finds the lid. THUD. Everyone stops digging. Pocket what you can, and don't drop anything.
The watchman hears footsteps, shovels and voices, and he can spot a lit lamp from across the yard. If he catches you, it's the cage until your crew comes to break you out.
Not every grave is quiet, and nothing on the stone says which. You find out by digging.
The rich never wanted to be dug up, either. Some graves are wired, some are caged, and some are waiting to make a great deal of noise.
The van leaves when the bell tolls first light, with you or without you, and the fence pays for whatever made it into the back. The last crew left you their book of notes. It tells you what the dead do. It doesn't tell you which graves are theirs.
Wishlist Grave Benders, and bring a shovel. The cemetery is listening.
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