Page 7 - Crossing the Deadline

Crossing the Deadline

The blast wakes me from my dream. It takes several
seconds, but the realization hits that I’m sleeping at the train
station. The sky’s a seamless black, and there are no sounds

coming from the city streets. Swells of blood pound in my
neck, and the throbbing in my wrists is like the constant
beating on a bass drum. Short breaths, in and out, slow my
heart rate to normal.

As soon as my eyes close the nightmare returns.

I raise my gun and point the barrel downstream. My eyes
dart from bank to bank. My right forearm quivers and taps

my rifle stock, making it sound like telegraph code.
The creek flows clear as windowpanes, but I can’t feel the
smooth rocks at the bottom of the stream, only the coolness
across the tops of my feet. I walk downstream and end up past

the cemetery and out of town in a shallow pool near Governor
Morton’s home. The pool sinks to waist deep at one end here
before rippling out the west side of town.
More piles of men lay dead on the banks. Body fluids pour

from their mouths and nostrils. Organs spill from wounds,
and flies smother every cut like apple butter on bread. Blood
cascades over dirt and rocks and mingles with creek water,
turning it red as a cardinal’s wing.

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