Hemlock Grove by Brian McGreevy

made them belch up fluid from inside the lungs?” said Roman.
    “Terrific,” said Peter.
    “The only reason we started burying the dead in the first place was to keep predators from getting a taste for human flesh,” said Roman.
    “Is there like a summer camp for serial killers?” said Peter.
    Roman shut up. They dug.
    “How many funerals have you been to?” said Roman after he had been shut up for as long as he could.
    Peter grunted, hard to count. “Rumanceks are reliably kicking it as a result of positive lifestyle choices,” he said.
    “What are funerals like for you people?” said Roman.
    Peter was thoughtful. “Committed,” he said. “You’re not allowed to wash or eat. Mirrors are covered and all the dead guy’s stuff is burned.”
    “Why?”
    “Because a Rumancek should not be remembered in this world for his things.”
    “Shee-it,” said Roman.
    “Shee-it,” said Peter.
    They dug.
    “How did Nicolae die?” said Roman.
    “Colon cancer,” said Peter. He was reflective. “I was thirteen and had only just started to turn that year.” He shook his head affectionately. “Man, was Nic something. Watching him, you couldn’t swear on the Bible his feet were touching the ground.”
    Peter leaned his shovel against the headstone, took out his wallet, and produced from it a wrinkled photograph that he showed Roman. It was a picture of a slim white wolf racing through pine trees and you could not have sworn on the Bible its legs were touching the ground. Lynda had taken it when they knew he didn’t have much time left. In Peter’s own maturation he never failed to marvel in retrospect at the white wolf’s patience. How little he minded the hindrance of a dumb pup. The fastest thing on four legs and he was simply in no hurry. It was still well outside Peter’s grasp: the ageless wisdom that permits you to wait for others to catch up. What a drag.
    Roman handed him back the photo and they dug.
    But it had been different the last time, Nicolae’s last turn. That night the white wolf had vanished, leaving Peter with no chance of catching up or scent to follow. Peter hunted for him all night but with no hope of success: Nicolae had affairs to settle on which Peter had no business intruding. Peter howled his loneliness to the night’s listening ear and wound up just going home and scratching at the back door and curling at the foot of his mother’s bed. After the sunrise Peter went to Nicolae’s room to find the old man snoring like nothing was different. They didn’t discuss it; in this matter Peter would have to catch up in his own time. The old man died before the new moon.
    “They let me do it,” said Peter. “At Nic’s funeral.”
    “Do what?” said Roman.
    “Cut off his head. Things happen to our kind after we die if you don’t cut off the head.”
    They dug.
    “So … what kind of things?” said Roman.
    “Bad things,” said Peter.
    There was the dull voiceless drone of a helicopter behind the hills. They dug.
    In time, despite the coolness of the air, their faces began to shine with the sweat of their labor, and Roman wiped his brow and looked into the night where a ring of cloud was passing in the breeze. He put his foot on the pile of dirt and crossed his arms on the shovel, resting.
    “I’ve been to two funerals,” said Roman. “One was my dad, in ’99. It’s all pieces. I remember hearing the shot and going downstairs. The way Mom was sitting on the couch, the look on her face like she forgot why she’d walked into the room, you know. He was on the floor. It smelled like her favorite perfume, he’d soaked himself in it. I remember thinking how much trouble he’d be in for wasting it.”
    He drifted off, other fragments coming to him. His uncle coming by later that night. He was the one she called, and that was when Roman knew about them. He was too young to know what he knew, but nevertheless. His mother sitting with him every morning and reading out loud what the