You ever notice it’s the things you want to change that never do?” Virgil asked. “And all the shit you want to keep always ends up changing?”Paul hadn’t always seen ghosts.“I don’t know if too much ever really changes,” he said.

Paul knew from experience that the dead did not have futures, only pasts that repeated until madness.

The restless dead crowded the back of his mind. They strained to be heard, clawing through graves at the back of his skull. hear us, they pled. please, hear us.And some of them merely chorused giddily you, too, soon.

Paul scrambled across the war torn lot to the rear of the car and snatched the dead boy’s rifle from the moonlight. Wet blood kissed his palm along its grip. He wiped the gore on his pantleg and pressed his back to the tire well at the rear of the vehicle. Another bullet yawped against the reinforced frame.From the tree line, the chorus of dead rasped, you too, soon.