Free Gravediggers by Christopher Krovatin

Suddenly, the whole scene is on my screen—Ian and Kendra around a campfire—and the cold strain in my head and chest begins to wear off.
    â€œIt’s day forty-six of our hike,” I say. “Ian Buckley, our perpetual protagonist, is joined by Kendra Wright, our new contender. Ian, what’s going on?”
    Kendra raises a shoulder and turns away from the camera. “Can you not . . . do that right now?” I’m feeling significantly better, but the anger is coming off them in waves.
    â€œThings are looking pretty grim here, folks,” I say. “We’ve just come upon a hidden store of food left here by the ancient Indian tribe the Kuppa Noodels.”
    â€œPJ.” Pan over to Ian, his eyes looking tired and hard in the glowing square of my viewfinder. “Cut it out, man. Put the camera away.”
    â€œWhat’s the point of getting lost in the woods if we can’t document it?” I tell him.
    â€œWe’re not in the mood for this,” he says. “Another time.”
    â€œWow, ladies and gentlemen, Ian is feeling a little antsy.”
    â€œStop it, PJ,” says Ian through gritted teeth. “Last warning.”
    We go silent again. The whole forest feels angry at me. The trees bear down on us; the blanket of brown leaves underneath me makes me want to scream. The only thing that’s not pitted against me right now is the square screen on my camera.
    â€œTempers wear thin, viewers. What happens next, only time can tell—”
    One minute, Ian’s sitting cross-legged by the fire, the next he’s on top of me, hand clenched around my camera, eyes wild behind his creased brow, teeth bared. He tries to yank the handheld away from me, but I pull back. The plastic creaks.
    â€œLet go!” I scream. “You’re going to break it!”
    â€œPut down the camera!” he yells. “You’re such a little creep!”
    I put a foot on his shoulder and try to push him away from me. His big clammy hand slaps on my face and shoves me back.
    â€œShut up!” shouts Kendra.
    â€œ You shut up!” yells Ian back at her, and then he lets go of my face and my camera. I’m about to scream my head off at him and kick him in the shin when I notice Kendra’s on her feet, crouched, eyes flickering from one direction to the other.
    â€œI think I heard something,” she whispers. “Listen.” We go silent, and then I hear it—rustling leaves, one or two twigs cracking, and then a sound, sort of like a chirp, but not a bird’s sound. Something weird.
    Before I can utter my famous last words— It was probably nothing— an animal, some kind of big cat, slinks into view a few yards away. Its fur shoots out from its face in wild spikes, all of it covered in gray-brown stripes. It has a stumpy little torso and long legs. Its whole body moves like liquid. It spots us, freezes, and its big yellow eyes narrow. My hand immediately checks my camera to make sure Ian hasn’t destroyed it in our scuffle. This could be great footage.
    â€œThat’s a Canada lynx,” whispers Kendra. “They usually only come out at night. Unless . . .” She blinks hard. “Unless they’re hungry.”
    The animal lowers itself to the ground, front legs stretched out, and the low rumbling noise that comes out of its throat translates perfectly: Look. Meat.
    Thirty seconds later, I realize that I’m running. Actually, all three of us are. Trees fly past us, firing sharp shafts of thick yellow sunset light between them, blinding us all the while. Kendra and Ian pant loudly next to me but never slow down; Kendra’s backpack is open, and all of her stuff, her granola bars and field guide and map, come tumbling out onto the forest floor. There’s no sound of the lynx, but with how swift and fearsome that thing looked, you probably don’t even know it’s there until there’s a paw on your