A Category Five Cemetery

by Kjetil Jansen

part 1

Monday was blooming when I parked my Harley outside the only flower shop in Burlytown, Texas. Mind you, most shops in Burlytown can make the “only” claim unless they sell liquor. The sound of 650 miles on the road was still buzzing in my ears. I like that buzz.

The secluded yellow wood building stood just within the city limit. It was wizened, but in a rustic and welcoming way. The only other vehicle was an open pickup truck painted white, the better to display its specks of rust. Stacks of empty pots decorated its bed, together with a couple of metal and plywood sheets.

I cradled my helmet in one arm as the owner lurched out the door, dressed in wide blue jeans and a brown apron. With both a goatee and a chin curtain, he looked like a guy ready to talk some Harley, but he just gave Esmeralda and me the once-over. Yes, I give my motorcycles names. He was playing it cool. Or being a bit slow. Even with a tan, his face had a dough-like quality.

“Morning, stranger. What can I do for you today?” he asked with a tight-lipped smile and a voice like gravel dipped in molasses, as one would expect. “Come a long way?” he added.

“Up from Arlington.”

The inside of the shop had been painted using the same mustard as the front. His work bench was light brown and pecked with knife marks just from killing stems, I presumed. Bouquets, wreaths, and what have you, all with a muted and delicate quality, eager to wilt and wither.

“If I may inquire,” the florist said, “you are visiting the graveyard?”

“My half-sister,” I lied. “Ten years gone. Not as of today. Lilies perhaps?”

“A good choice.”

Without asking, he counted out ten and tied them together with a silk bow. With hands folded like a funeral director he watched me while I got my wallet out. He grinned, and my thoughts shifted to an image of a mad mortician. He had declared his mouth a dentist-free zone. You get my drift. I paid the man in cash.

“The old girl who I met the last time I came out here—"

He scoffed but in a friendly way. “Jenna? She is a home-grower now. Orchids. Breeding and selling.”

“Good for her.” I knew very well that Jenna had quit. I wouldn’t have stopped by otherwise. She knew who I was, and we couldn’t have that. Since it was difficult to get to the graveyard by avoiding this joint, it was wiser to check the place out than to ignore it. And former owners tend to linger around, especially in this part of the sticks.

He handed me my change. One eye shut, as if he didn’t trust his aim. He straightened up. I knew what was coming.

“I am obliged by county law to inform you that you are about to enter a Category Four cemetery, and every violation of cemetery rule is a chargeable offence.”

“Consider me informed,” I said, and left him standing.

I rolled Esmeralda the short, steep uphill way to the entrance, not more than a gap in a two-hundred yard grey picket fence, category sign prominently on display. I parked her, got my gear out of the hardcase and entered the graveyard. Burlytown was a product of the railroad race and, due to a backbone of fertile soil and ending up on the winning side, it had remained relatively prosperous at most times.

When hardship finally hit, up stepped local entrepreneur John Burleyford. In 1973 he built a factory. A tire valve cap factory. Now, at 86, he owns five. Two down in Mexico. The new ones are certainly more cost-effective. Even so, the first one stays as it has always been. Now and then he threatens to close it down to keep his 240 workers on their toes, but they know it is all pretend. Good old Johnny. In 1985 he changed his last name back to the original Burly. The family initially made their fortune manufacturing railroad spikes. Small things, big profit.

All this to explain the size of the graveyard. It is huge. Slopes make it seem endless. Maybe it is. I found my target only four sections in and set up camp. I reached for my canvas bag, took out the four parts of a tentpole, hammered them into the ground and connected them with yellow tape. So far, so uninterrupted.

Almost. A large, disk-shaped robot lurked in the brownish grass. It was not there to cut the grass; it carried an enormous green water tank on top and was on a quite different mission. It seemed to be running on empty, though. Could it refill somewhere without support? Was help coming? Hard to tell. It crawled away.

I put on gloves, a white cotton poncho, and a gas mask. Not your regular hazmat look, but close enough. A fake ID collared to my neck completed the picture. I oozed acronym authority. CSI. DNA. Exhumation in progress. Better keep your distance. Automatic shovel in hand, I paused and looked at the headstone. Marble black. The Burlys kept things clean and simple. No Gaza-size pyramids. A single gold inscription: her birth name. Abigail Burly. Inscribed near the top. The first to go in her generation.

I started digging. Nice and easy. A soft whirr. I leaned on the shovel. Red ground lights blinked as I was doused with pepper spray. The grave was defending itself. Few people experience happiness inside a gas mask, and I relived the pain from my first attempt four years ago on this very spot when I wasn’t wearing one. The stones on each side of Abigail chimed in. I continued to dig. Your category cemetery at work.

It began in innocence. Internet challenges. Take your picture beside a stone with a name as close to yours as possible. Gather all the flowers, place them around a single grave and wait for the mourners’ reaction. Plank the stone.

It grew sinister. Change stones. Plank the coffin. Get inside the coffin. Vandalism. Gangs robbing visitors. A national outcry. “Our last sanctuary.” Security companies adding fuel to the fire. We have the technology. Pepper spray used to be the big surprise of Category Two, back in the days. Because I had the composure, even with eyes hurting like hell, to disturb two more graves, I got away scot-free four years ago.

A lot has happened since. Category Two is defunct, and most grounds are up to Four. Making life even more difficult for a good old grave robber like me! One positive development: regulations have made it illegal to spring surprises.

A clank. I changed to a regular shovel and began to work on the coffin. It was as white as the lilies. I started to sweat and removed the mask. Mace time was over.

“Sir, you are committing a cemetery offence. Please stop what you are doing and identify yourself.”

Just like that. Sneaking up behind me. It was a robot guard, an asimo, named after some dead writer. The brand was long gone, but the name had stuck. Grey and slick, a little chubby. Joints for improved agility had been added. A black visor and a gentle and butlerish voice made the creepy package complete.

“Listen, bud. I am here on official business.” Quickly, I reversed the poncho. I had done some minor design changes inside with glue. Bar codes. Hundreds of them. From everything from Twinkies to underwear. Also, some real IDs. Not mine, of course.

“Identification not valid. Checking identification.”

Robot logic. This could go on for hours. Still, I’d better hurry. I wiped the lid clean. Phillips screws. Not a problem. The asimo continued its chant. The dirt around me began to feel very real and close. Abigail. Nineteen years ago. Me, the local rebel boy, going against the grain. Too high on myself to work in the factory. Caught the eye of a girl rebelling against privilege. I swept her away to adventure. Well, to Bandera, actually.

I became a farmhand working hard for my princess. I bought her a silver ring. No commitment. Just a little something. “I will wear it to my grave.” Her face had glowed like gold. Vivacious. Adorable. “You will show them!” she used to say.

In hindsight, remarks like that one are a bad sign; they reveal a skewed view of responsibility in a modern relationship and an ominous reminder of close family ties. She was certainly not talking about my parents! I did not show them. I enjoyed working outdoors, but my right shoulder did not.

And princesses turn into queens. Vivacious no more, they become vindictive. Words were thrown. Home to visit, she met an industrialist, twenty years her senior. We are talking top-ten tycoon. We split.

Unsurprisingly, another ring. A blue sapphire circled by twenty-four pink diamonds. One for each Abigail year. I saw pictures. She was glowing again. Then she died. Pancreatic cancer. Dead at twenty-eight. Ten years ago.

The thing is — the very foundation behind my continuing interest in this god-omnipresent place — in every shot so composed, she still wore my silver ring, one finger down from the gems. Why? Only one possible reason: because she had made the same beyond-death promise to spousey. She must have. That ring is worth at least 150,000. The stones must be divided, I guess, but we are still talking 30 big ones. I needed the money four years ago. I really need it now.

I opened the lid. I don’t want to go into details. She was neither preserved nor skeleton clean. Mummified, but not in a dry way. Let’s leave it at that. I could not look away. My eyes drifted toward her hands. They were empty. No rings at all. My mind went blank before adjusting. They must have slipped off.

I had been mentally prepared to break a bone or two, but it got worse, much worse. I had to do some lifting and bending. Nothing. Nothing. Something. Something shiny. Trembling, I pocketed the ring. My future. I found my own ring, too. That one, Abigail, is yours to keep. A reminder of happier times — before your caterpillar turned into a dung beetle.

I closed the coffin up and hoisted myself out of the grave. I felt I was coming out of a cave. The sun was getting hot. The asimo ponchoed on. I left the grave open and got my stuff together.

“Checking identification. Identification not valid.”

I stretched my back. “The forensic team will be around shortly. Such a beautiful Delaware night sky, don’t you think?” Mimic their chirpiness. Keep them confused.

“Checking identification.”

It stopped talking. When robots talk, no worry. When they don’t, do. New input. Searching for a new mantra.

“Sir, you have gained weight.”

“Thank you for noticing.”

“Sir, I repeat: you have gained weight.”

“It must be dirt,” I said, took off the poncho and shook it clean. I folded it and went for the bag.

“Sir, I detect carbon-based objects on your body. Preliminary estimation suggests felony value. I am making a robot citizen’s arrest. Please comply.”

Proceed to part 2...