“The dead will walk again,” said Jason. “You can count on that.” Patting the sawed-off strapped to his hip.
I turned and looked at the gravestone I’d been leaning against.
“Old Dora here’s been gone for a solid 150 years.” I leaned back again, took a slow drag from my Marlboro red, blew the smoke out my nose. “I’m not too concerned.”
“That’s your problem, Kenny,” Jason said, pacing rapidly, bouncing between the stones. “You have no respect for anything but yourself.”
I took another hit off my cig, tasted the cherry burning the filter, and dropped the butt onto Dora’s grave, grinding it into the grass with the toe of my left Justin Belmont. I bent over, snatched the butt, stuck it in the hip pocket of my Army-issue field jacket.
“I have respect,” I said, staring at Jason. He’s nuts, I thought. How’d that happen?
My right index finger was in the Marlboro box, fishing for what was apparently my last cig, when I heard Jason rack the shotgun. I turned to see him aiming at me.
“Duck,” he said.