Jerry’s foot came down hard on the rear brake and he stopped with the sound of his motor beating loud in his ear. The big pine tree was still shaking from the impact of 6,000 pounds of airborne car hitting it at sixty plus. Sheriff Taylor was lying partway out on the hood in a pool of shattered safety glass and spewing blood.

As Jerry spun out of the sand and hit second gear, he laid the bike low into the next curve and started picking up some speed. He glanced over his shoulder, and it seemed to him that the dead man was waving good-bye with his puffy black hand.

Nightmare

Sleeping, he had a vision. Cold, he shivered and turned. The walls pressed around him in his dark sickroom and he saw that strange visitors had arrived to torment him in his dreams. They did not touch him. Snoring, he slumbered awake.

Bad things had come to haunt him; fingers forced through rotting wood had come to seek him.

Look at us, they said, and bones bore out their testimony. Have we gone to a better place? Their hair had fallen away in patches; their skulls were damp and mildewed, gray with age.

You’ve got it good here, they said. Up here on the hill. You should try it a while down in the bottom where we stay. You think this is bad? Try sleeping on wet sheets.

But he was afraid and would not answer. Chilled, he quaked and turned in his raiments.

Polyester, they said, fingering the material. Look at this. Hey, Fred, come here and look at this. They don’t use silk anymore?

He did not understand. Confused, he shut his eyes and ears. What nightmare came with consciousness?

You’re new here, they said, aren’t you? We thought so. We feel their shovels. The vibrations carry. Even their footsteps. Was it nice? Did many shed tears for you?

Betrayed, he clasped his hands. Weeping, he felt no pulse. Eviscerated, he had no heart.

The faces settled around him, chieftains gathered about a council fire. Some shot through the head. Others burst open at Belleau Wood. Here one fell at Shiloh. See his missing arm.