The Last Drink of Jonathan Reeves

I.

Someone had suggested they dig up Jonathan Reeves. The three men who had been present at Mackey’s Tavern that night could not agree upon who. They all pointed at each other. Most folks, after the fact, seemed to agree that it was bartender and proprietor of Mackey’s, Wally Mack. He’d mentioned casually that Reeves hadn’t finished his last drink. The bullet had torn through the bank robber’s back and out of his chest clean. His glass had shattered in his hand, embedding shards in his fingers. The whiskey had slurried with his blood on the bartop. Not a drop had reached Reeves’ lips.

Wally contested the idea that he’d brought up the exhumation. He claimed that he’d only brought up the fact that Reeves had gone to the grave without a last drink. He’d brought this up because of Leroy Melden and his big, stupid mouth. Melden allegedly wouldn’t stop asking what Reeves’ last drink was. So, Wally had to divulge the fact that the criminal had expired without one. Mr. Jonathan Reeves, amateur bank robber and cocky shithead, had not been given the honor of one final drink. To deny that to anyone, the two men had agreed, was just as rotten as shooting a man in the back, outlaw or not. 

This last statement was subject to hard disagreement by Deputy Connor Callaghan, the third man at Mackey’s that night, as well as the officer who had delivered the offending piece of lead through  Reeves’ left lung.

“He was a murdering, thieving bastard who would have done the exact same to me if our places had been switched,” Callaghan asserted. The other men only nodded over their shared and solemn beliefs.

“Maybe,” Wally posited. He pointed at the deputy with the dirty rag he clenched in one fist. “Still, putting yourself on the same level as a rat makes you a rat.”

“You could have at least let him finish his damn drink,” Leroy added.

“And not have put a hole in my wall,” Wally finished.

Callaghan opened his mouth to protest. Wally gave him a sharpened glare. The bartender pointed to the round hole in the wall behind the bar. His daggered eyes did not waver from the man-framed, boy-faced young deputy. Callaghan shut his mouth. His lucky shot had been ambitious. Lead had gone through a man, a glass, a wall, and into Wally’s office on the other side. The slug had finally lodged itself in the brick behind Wally’s desk. The surly, older man had been sitting there with his head down, taking a nap. If his head had been up, there would have been two burials over the weekend.

“Aye, I suppose you might be right,” Callaghan conceded. His Irish brogue was slurred by the eighth bottle of beer gripped in his meaty palm. 

“You’re damn right,” Wally said, but he was grinning.

A clock squatting on the shelves behind the bar read two quarters to three. The elkhorn chandelier that dangled from the high ceiling was dark. Outside was damp and clouded. A stove in the corner had dulled down to warm embers, keeping the chill just at bay. No moonlight came in from the high windows. The only light was Wally’s kerosene lamp on the spruce bartop. Its flame flickered, splashing the tavern’s interior with moving shadow. Animal trophies leered down from the walls. Faded oils moved in their frames. The three men huddled close against the dark.

“Ain’t right to send him off without a glass,” Leroy said, staring into space. He clutched his own beer protectively. His laminated eyes were far away.

“Every man has earned that last little taste,” Wally agreed solemnly.

“Mm.” Callaghan grunted neutrally.

There was a silence between the three friends. They each cast discrete glances at the seat where Jonathan Reeves had met his end the previous Saturday. It shone compared to the rest of the bar. Wally had scrubbed at it for over an hour with concoctions of his own making, desperate to eliminate any permanent bloody stain. It was the cleanest spot in the entire joint. Nobody dared sit there yet.

“Say, Wally,” Leroy asked suddenly, breaking the heavy atmosphere, “You still got that bottle you been keepin’ for a special occasion?”

Wally thought for a moment, then nodded to himself. He pushed his girth away from the bar and turned to the liquor shelf behind him. With a groan, he stretched an arm up to the highest perch. Gently, he slid his hand between the bottles that stood vigil there. His fingers danced along the rows of spirits, feeling for something specific. He smirked when they found purchase on a familiar shape. Wally pulled forth a labelless brown bottle, heavy with dust. He lowered it to himself gently. The smile on his face grew wider as he faced the other men.

“Never opened, and it only gets better with age,” he said, placing it on the bar top.

“Seems like a perfect going-away gift,” Leroy said.

“Every man should have a bottle on the long journey home,” said Wally.

Callaghan scoffed through his ruddy nose. “We’re agreed that all men deserve a last little tipple,” he said, “not rat bastard murderers.”

“Don’t go backtracking on us now,” Wally tsked. He shaved a drunken carrot at Callaghan.

“We’d do the same for you, you old Irish back-shootin’ rat,” Leroy chirped. He was grinning widely.

“That we would,” Wally added on with a nod.

Callaghan’s face filled with ugly red blood. He slammed his beer on the table. The force summoned suds, and they overflowed the bottle.

“I am no fucking rat,” Callaghan flared. He jabbed a thumb into his broad chest. “I have honor.”

“I could buy your honor with change from a two-dollar whore,” Leroy retorted.

Callaghan bristled and stood up. He swayed gently. Leroy couldn’t wipe the stupid grin off his face. Callaghan was twice the twiggy little man’s size. Leroy was standing in front of an oncoming bread truck and playing chicken. It was a game he was going to lose. Before he could, Wally had rounded the bar and placed a hand on Callaghan’s shoulder.

“Boys, I just had to clean up one puddle of blood in here, and I’d like it to be the last for a while,” Wally chided.

Callaghan pulled his shoulder away. “Lousy little fool,” he muttered.

“Connor, it’s all just fun and games; we know you were on official Deputy business when you came in here for Reeves,” Wally said gently. “Cop-killer like him, you’d have been dead on sight if he’d seen ya. Reeves was a crack shot, I hear, cause of the Army. You did what you had to do. But to deny the man his drink? Have some humanity, boy. Put your personal opinion of him aside.”

Callaghan seemed to swell up a quarter more. Then, he deflated like a pricked balloon. The big deputy fell back into his chair and nearly collapsed the legs. He hardly noticed.

“I suppose,” Callaghan conceded again with a sigh.

“There’s a laddy-boy,” Wally said. Life a father consoling a boy, he patted Callaghan on the shoulder. Then, he returned to the bar. “Alright then, it’s settled.”

Leroy sloshed his beer as he lifted it up for a toast. “Tonight, we have one last drink with Jonathan Reeves. Here, here!”

“Aye,” Wally agreed, lifting the unopened bottle to meet Leroy’s glass.

“Hold on a minute,” Callaghan started, the red returning to his face. “You both are serious about that?”

Leroy grinned. “Scared, Deputy?”

Callaghan puffed up once more at the sneer in Leroy’s words. 

“I’m an officer of the law, Leroy,” he said, “I can’t very well be out breaking it with you lot for shits, giggles, and a final cup of whiskey!”

“Bok, bok, BAGAWK,” Leroy screeched. He tucked his hands into his armpits and began to flap his new wings. The skinny little man popped out of his chair and strutted around the room, pecking at the tables. Whenever Callaghan tried to get a word in edgewise, Leroy would squawk as loud as he could, drowning the words. At last, Leroy dared to peck the deputy’s shoulder. Callaghan exploded and gave up all at once.

“Al–right,” Callaghan thundered. He swung a big hand at Leroy as though he were a fly. The swat missed by a wide stretch. Leroy collapsed into laughter on the sawdust floor. Callaghan sighed heavily. “I’ll go,” he said, defeated.

“Great,” Wally exclaimed, clapping his hands together. He pointed to where Leroy lay, still giggling, on the floor.

 “Leroy, pick yourself up. My car’s out back and the starter is dead. Ain’t had time to put a new one in, so it’ll have to be hand-cranked. Help an old man, would you?”

II.

The Model A started on the first throw of its handcrank. Its little engine roared to life and then settled into a fine-tuned idle. Exhaust steamed in the cold night air. It was a late model, and it had the electric headlamps instead of kerosene. Bright as they were, they did little to push back the heavy Autumn shadows.

The men piled into the old red four-door. Wally drove; Leroy shared the front bench with him. Callaghan split the back seat with three shovels from Wally’s shed. Wally guided the Model A around the yard of his tavern to the unpaved road. Forest Road, it was called. It led to town through a grove of trees generously named Cemetery Forest. The trees’ namesake lay within the grove, roadside and about halfway through.

The county had agreed to pave Forest Road in the Spring. As of now, though, it was hard-packed dirt. Wally turned right and gave the Ford a jolt of gas. The wheels slotted into the well-worn ruts. Another jolt of gas and the car took off, thumping and thudding toward the dark treeline at the bottom of the hill. A crispy wind was brewing. The scent of impending, cold rain hung for dear life upon it. Clots of fog drifted along like bloated corpses, clogging the air. They floated in and out of the headlamp’s amber gaze. 

The car rumbled into the forest. The foggy clumps became an all-encompassing, gray mist. Trees lining the road loomed as giant phantoms in the gloom. Their low-hanging, dead branches tapped impatiently along the roof of the car as it trundled under-trunk.

“Can you find your way to the cemetery, old man?” Leroy asked. 

Wally cast a side-eyed glance at Leroy. The sheen of drunkenness had evaporated from the man’s eyes. Now, they were bright and alert. They flitted nervously over the inky black evening beyond the window. Wally grinned crookedly.

“Why lad,” he asked, “You’re not frightened of a foggy night, are ye?”

Leroy scoffed. His mischievous grin returned. Wally thought it looked a little forced.

“I’m just worried about Callaghan, seeing fae in the fog and all,” Leroy jabbed.

“That’s enough out of you now,” Wally snipped. His eyes snuck up to his rear view. He could not see Callaghan in the backseat, only the shape of the big man— a shadow layered upon shadows. 

“He knows I’m just kidding him,” Leroy was saying, “just jokey little jabs-”

Callaghan’s arm shot like a javelin into the front seat. Leroy flinched, cutting off his teasing. He waited for the big man to grab him by the collar or throat. But Callaghan’s hand had not gone for him. Instead, it pointed into the fog beyond the windshield.

“Look,” Callaghan breathed.

The men in the front seat looked.

“I don’t see anything,” Leroy said.

Callaghan continued to point unwaveringly.

“The lights, up ahead,” he whispered tightly.

“What lights? Are you trying to get me back, because you’ll have to try—“

“I see them,” Wally said. He had sharp eyes for his age. He’d caught them as they materialized from the gray sheet of gloom. Two pale green flames danced through the mist. They shuddered and shook as whatever they were attached to thudded down the uneven road toward them.

“Just another idiot caught out in bad weather, like us,” Wally said. He palmed the horn to let the vehicle know that they would soon meet. It belched into the night, echoing and bouncing off the fog. The road they were on was narrow. Someone would have to stop and let the other pass, and Wally had the right of way by county law. He expected the lights shuddering toward him to pause at the sound of his horn so that he could pass on.

 Instead, the horn seemed to galvanize the lights. A shriek erupted from the fog, sucking the warmth from the men’s spines. The flames became fireballs, streaking wildly toward the Model A. The lights were twin kerosene lamps, consumed in their own flames. They were mounted on either side of the black carriage melting into existence before them. The shriek had come from the twin black draft horses dragging the carriage through the night. The driver, bundled in a cloak, his face hidden, was steering the beasts into a collision course with the old car.

“He’s coming right for us,” Leroy hollered, bracing his feet on the dashboard.

“Hang on fellas,” Wally yelled. He cranked the wheel hard to the right, slamming on the brakes and sliding along the edge of the ditch, splattering mud the entire way. The horses screeched wickedly, and the coach passed within centimeters of Wally’s precious car; if one of the men on the left side had stuck a finger out of the window, it would have been taken off and thrown to the rain-scented wind. Wally cranked the wheel back to the left as the coach passed  by at wild speed. The car spun a full 360 degrees before coming to a stop in the middle of the road. The engine and electric headlamps both died at once, reducing the Model A to a shadow in the fog. The stagecoach careened on into the night, becoming part of the mist once more.

All three men in the Model A relaxed at once. Words took longer to come.

“Don’t see a lot of those old stagecoaches anymore,” Wally breathed at last.

“What the hell is he doing out in this fog at 3:00 AM?” Leroy asked.

“The Dullahan always rides past the midnight hour,” Callaghan said quietly.

Leroy twisted in his seat. “The what?”

“The driver of the dead. A headless coachman, shepherding lost souls to the afterlife with a team of headless horses,” Callaghan replied. His voice was a shell-shocked kind of calm, and his eyes were fixed straight ahead, wide and glinting in the dark. 

“Well, that man definitely had a head,” Leroy barked, “though it was probably swimming in booze.” His words were mostly steady, but a small, unsure tremor wormed through his statement.

“I didn’t see his face,” Callaghan said.

 He turned to Wally. Wally did not like the empty dread swimming in the gaze that Connor fixed on him.

“Did you Wally?” he asked.

Wally said nothing. His hands were still wrapped around the steering wheel, tight enough to whiten his knuckles.

“Well, the horses definitely had their heads,” Leroy said, “and I’m not scared of some drunk out on a joyride. But if you chickens wanna return to the henhouse, so be it. Wally?”

“I think that might be an idea,” Wally murmured quietly. His tight grip on the wheel was degrading into a shaky one.

“I agree,” Connor chimed in.

“We knew that already,” Leroy said. He turned to the window, hoping that the darkness would hide the relief on his face. He opened his door.

“Alright then, let me restart the car,” he said.

Leroy plucked the crank from the floor of the car. He swung his booted feet out the door and into the mud.

“Old man, how about a little light from the headlamps?” Leroy said, craning his neck to face Wally.

Wally complied and pulled a switch. The lights came on, their warm glow washing over a short wrought iron fence overgrown with gnarled tendrils of ivy. Beyond the fenceline, in the narrow beam of light, the men could see the crooked silhouettes of gravestones and crosses in the fog. Leroy turned to look at the others.

“Well, lookee-here,” he said,  his courage returning, “Looks like we made it after all, boys. What’s say we go have that farewell toast with Mr. Reeves, hmm?”

Callaghan said nothing. A grave look was plastered onto his face. Wally’s visage, however, was gradually regaining color. He had managed to let go of the steering wheel, though there was still a tremor running through his body. 

“We did make it here alright,” he said, “and I could use a cool little jaunt to steady my hands after that near miss.”

“That’s the spirit,” Leroy exclaimed. He moved to the side of the Model A and opened up the back door. Leroy hauled the Callaghan out by his shoulders, nearly pushing him to the ground as he eagerly gathered up the shovels. He shoved one into Connor’s hand as the Irishman regained his footing. The other two took himself. Wally heaved himself from the car and made his way to the trunk. Opening it, he quickly found the kerosene lamp he kept stowed there. He gave it a good shake, and it sloshed, telling him the reservoir was full. Producing a book of matches from the bib of his overalls, Wally opened the glass face of the lantern. Managing to light one of the matches despite the wind, he quickly ignited the wick and closed the lantern. The flame burned brilliantly and white for a moment, and then Wally adjusted the flame to a more even orange flicker. Throwing the light over the trunk space, he found the bottle of whiskey he’d brought. Gingerly taking it in one hand, he opened his coat and tucked it into a large pocket sewn on the inside. Then he joined his companions, and they approached a small open gate in the fence of the cemetery.

“Where’d they bury him, d’y’know?” Leroy asked once they were amongst the graves.

“Why are you whispering?” Wally countered, ignoring the question.

“Dunno, just seems appropriate,” Leroy whispered, shrugging his shoulders.

“Well, stop it, would you,” Wally hissed. He kicked himself as he realized he was indeed whispering, too. Wally could see Leroy’s glee as he made to call the older man on his hypocrisy. He silenced Leroy with a snap of his fingers before the little creep could say a word.

“They buried him just up ahead,” Callaghan interjected, “near the south wall of the yard.”

“How do you know?” Leroy asked suspiciously.

“I came to the funeral,” Connor said quietly. 

Wally nodded, but Leroy appeared quizzical.

“Why?” Leroy asked.

Callaghan stopped walking and turned to Leroy, who stopped as well. Wally kept on a few paces before turning to watch.

“I shot the man,” Callaghan said. His voice was quiet, impending doom.

“So?” 

“Nobody else was there to see him in the dirt.”

Before Leroy could say anything else, Connor pushed past him. He led the other two men in silence to the opposite end of the graveyard. The wall was older here, made of mossy stone instead of wrought iron. Nestled right up against it, away from the other burials, was a fresh grave. The pile of soil in the grass was marked only by a crude wooden cross. REEVES had been carved on the crossbar in a shaky hand. The letters had not even been burned, and in a few years, the cross would probably be illegible if it remained at all.

 Leroy approached the grave first and sank his spade into the soft dirt mound.

“So how do we wanna do this?” he asked, leaning on the shovel and looking at his companions. 

Callaghan, his mood lightening a little, also leaned on his shovel and cast a glance at Wally, who chuckled. The old man popped the cork on the bottle of liquor and took a deep swig before handing the bottle to Callaghan, who did the same.

“You dig, we drink,” Wally said matter-of-factly.

The amused light fell from Leroy’s eyes for a moment as he realized the old man wasn’t bluffing.

“What? You’re not gonna leave any for him,” Leroy said, pointing down at the grave.

“Depends on how fast you dig,” Wally chuckled.

“Ah, hell,” Leroy exclaimed. 

He reached for the bottle, and Callaghan handed it to him. After a deep pull, he handed the bottle to Wally and began to dig. Eventually, sufficiently lubricated by whiskey, Callghan joined him. The dirt was soft and the digging was easier than expected, but the work still broke a sweat on the men’s brows. Wally remained above, leaning on his shovel as he took swigs from the bottle. His back hurt just watching the two younger fellows dig.

They hit the top of the pine box sooner than they thought they might.

“Sounds like we hit him,” Callaghan said, straightening and wiping the sweat from his brow. In the chilly air, it felt as though it might freeze on his forehead.

“Already,” Leroy panted, “We must have hardly gone down three feet.”

“The grave man probably hit three and called it good enough for a criminal,” Wally piped up.

“Well, at least it made this easier,” Leroy said, tossing his shovel to the grass. He got down on his knees and began to wipe the dirt away from the coffin. Callaghan climbed out of the hole. Leroy’s fingers scrabbled over the rough, unsealed surface of the wood until they found purchase on the edge. He tried to pry it open, but the lid would not budge.

“It won’t open,” he hollered behind him. His words were labored as he continued to pull.

“Maybe it’s because you’re standing on the lid, genius,” Wally replied.

Leroy ignored the jab, wiping dirt away from the edge. His fingers brushed against something cold and hard beneath the soil. 

“Maybe so,” Leroy said, “but there’s also a padlock on the lid here.”

Leroy stood and climbed out of the grave. He picked up their lamp and shone it down on the box. The lock gleamed beneath flecks of soil.

“Hold the lamp for me, old man,” Leroy said. Wally took the lamp from him, and Leroy grabbed his shovel. Shouldering it, he walked to the edge of the grave closest to the lock. Lifting the shovel like a spear above his head, he brought the spade down on the lock, severing the shackle.

With the box unlocked, the three men stood above and stared down. Nobody moved to open it.

“Who wants the honor?” Wally asked quietly. 

He looked to Callaghan, who would not meet his gaze. Instead, both men looked to Leroy, who met their solemn glances with one of mischief– if slightly forced. He shrugged.

“I guess I’ll be the one,” he said. 

Leroy took the bottle of whiskey and tipped a shot’s worth down his gullet to steady himself. He knelt by the open grave and reached down gingerly, getting a good grip on the edge of the lid. He hesitated for only a moment. Then with a drunken flourish, he swept the coffin open.

Jonathan Reeves lay cold and quiet in the flickering lamplight. He was dressed in the clothes that he had died in: a once-nice dress shirt ruined by rusty blood and one ragged bullet hole, black trousers, suspenders, a matching jacket, and a brand-new pair of shoes that still shone. His hat was not on his head, but rather tucked just above it. His relaxed features and a black whisp of mustache made him look closer to 18 than the 22 that he was. His face had already begun to sink into itself. The skin of his forehead was cold and pale beneath the stringy black hair that fell over it.

“Well, lookee here, boys,” Leroy shouted with glee, “If it ain’t ol’ bank robbin’ Johnathan Reeves! How ya doin’ fella?”

Leroy jumped into the grave, his feet straddling the body in the coffin. He took one of Johnathan Reeves’ limp hands and shook it vigorously.

“I’ve heard a lot about you, fella,” Leroy said, “and before you ask, no, it’s not all good things!”

This elicited a donkey bray of laughter from Leroy, and Wally chuckled a bit. Even Callaghan cracked a smile, try as he might to hide it. 

“Alright, alright,” the Irishman said lightly, “Let’s give the ol’ rat his bottle and be done with this already.”

Leroy let go of the corpse’s hand and turned to his friends. “Okay, okay,” he said. 

He reached up and held out his hand to Wally expectantly. Wally, finishing a very deep pull, just looked at him.

“The bottle, Wally,” Leroy said.

Wally looked at the bottle in his hand, weighing it in his grasp. He tipped it upside down to show that it was empty, and shrugged.

“Whoopsie,” he said, swaying on his feet a little bit.

“Nice job, old man,” Callaghan said, shaking his head. He was also more than a little bit unsteady.

“I thought this might happen,” Wally said, carefully placing the empty bottle on the ground, “which is why I brought another bottle just in case.”

“Well, where is it?” Leroy asked.

Wally pitched a thumb behind him. 

“Back at the car,” he said.

Leroy shook his head and pulled himself out of the grave.

“Callaghan, think you could go get that?” he asked, gesturing back the way they’d come.

“Why me?” Callaghan asked.

“Well, Wally’s old and frail,” Leroy said, faking earnestness, “and me? I did do most of the digging, y’know. Besides, you know the way best. The other two of us are liable to trip and break our necks in the dark.”

Callaghan turned to Wally for help, but the old man just shrugged. Callaghan rolled his eyes with a groan and turned to take the lamp from Wally. The old man pulled it back from Connor’s grasp.

“Let’s keep it here,” Wally said, “You can use the light to navigate back, hm?”

Callaghan gave the old man a look that would have withered the ivy from the gates of the cemetery. He turned toward the direction of the car and headed into the dark. 

“Should be on the driver’s seat,” Wally called after him.

Callaghan took the path carefully, feeling out each step to avoid tripping over the rocks and roots, and headstones hidden in the overgrown grass and fog. Every few seconds, he would cast his gaze over his shoulder at the orange circle of light that flickered behind the mist.

Callaghan reached the car without injury. He pulled open the driver’s door and felt around in the dark until his hands found purchase on the cool glass of the bottle. Taking it in his arm, he slammed the door shut with a metallic clunk. As he did so, a sudden gust of wind hit him. It whipped the edges of his coat and plinked his face with the first raindrops of the evening. 

“Damn them,” Callaghan grumbled. He drew his coat tightly around him and turned back toward the cemetery. Now he had only to trudge back toward the lanternlight in the distance, a flickering warm beacon in the pitch-colored night.

“I found it,” Callaghan called as he drew nearer. The wind scattershot his words, and nobody replied.

As Callaghan stepped back into the circle of light, he found that his friends were no longer standing by the graveside. The lantern lay nestled in the grass near the hole, with the shovels lined up neatly next to it.

“Leroy, Wally,” Callaghan called. The wind and the ever-thickening sound of the escalating rain were the only replies. 

“If this is some kind of prank, it’s too far, boys,” Callaghan said. Cautiously, he approached the open grave, scanning the darkness beyond the lamplight for any kind of movement. The wind rustled everything, making the shadows dance and morph. When he was close enough to the hole in the ground, Callaghan peered over the edge, expecting to see Leroy there crouching, a stupid little grin on his face as he waited to scare him. 

What he saw instead made his blood run cold– because there was nothing in the grave. No Leroy, no Wally… No Jonathan Reeves. Only an empty pine box. Backstepping so rapidly that he nearly fell, it took everything Callaghan had to stop himself from running wildly into the night. Fear squeezed his ribcage and choked his heart. He whipped his head in every direction, picking apart the billowing shadows, trying to discern what was real and what was an illusion.

“Wally, Leroy,” Callaghan called loudly. This time, when the gusting wind took his words away, it brought something back in return: a low moan slunk by Callaghan on the air, mournful and full as a coyote, but lower. It rose and faded, sneaking in one of his ears and out the other before dying and being blown away. Before Callaghan could call out again, another moan came. This one formed a word that clung to the breeze like a foul odor.

“Murderer…” The wind whispered. Callaghan put a hand on the gun strapped to his hip beneath his long wool coat.

“Reeves,” Callaghan screamed, searching the dark with flitting eyes. The voice came again on the wind, permeating the air from all directions as though it were part of the fog itself.

“Backbiter…”

“I killed you fair and square, ye rat bastard,” Callaghan shouted. His voice bounced back at him from all directions, echoing and dissonant. He turned every which way, searching the congealed, black night. The clotted clouds above burst with a low rumble of thunder. The drizzle became a torrent that drowned out even the wind that crashed between the graves.

“Show your face, you coward,” Callaghan challenged, “I’ll kill you again just as easily as the first time!”

The shape of a man rose from behind a tombstone a few yards from Callaghan. It was a silent shadow, stumbling forward and toward him with outstretched arms. It was Jonathan Reeves, back to get even for being shot in the back. Callaghan recoiled and lost his footing. His large frame went down hard in the wet grass. The figure was still coming; in a moment, he would stumble into the light. Callaghan would look upon the dead outlaw’s rotting, reanimated features. He had a sudden vision of his last sight being a wormy, green grin as cold hands choked the life from his body— and it got him moving.

Despite the whiskey and the mud and the jolt of pain that had shot up his right leg when he’d landed, Callaghan was like lightning. He drew, aimed, and fired his revolver faster than he’d ever had in his life.

“Ah!” the shape cried as the bullet made contact with flesh. It crumpled to the ground in a whimpering heap just outside the lantern light.

“You shot me, ya fat bastard,” the shape said. Its voice was no longer ethereal and ghostly; now it was only filled with pain and anger. The change in tone broke the trance that Callaghan had been engulfed in. His hands began to shake. He dropped his gun and didn’t bother to pick it up. Picking himself up off the ground, Callaghan winced as another jolt of angry pain shot up his leg and collided with his kneecap. Grabbing the lantern, he limped over to the body. As he approached, Leroy formed from the silhouette, clutching a bleeding wound on his shoulder. He was dressed differently than when Callaghan had left. The Irishman realized that Leroy was wearing Jonathan Reeves’ clothes. Wally too materialized from the dark, coming out from behind the trunk of a particularly gnarled tree. He made his way to the other two quickly, a look of concern on his face.

“Oh, hell,” Wally said.

“What the hell is this?” Callaghan demanded. “Some kind of practical joke?”

Leroy ignored him. He took his hand away from his shoulder, revealing an ugly red gash where the bullet had grazed the skin. The rain was diluting the blood that gurgled from the wound, sending pink rivulets down Leroy’s arm.

“Dammit, Leroy, I told you this was a bad idea,” Wally said, kneeling to take a look at the wound. He brushed his fingers along the ragged flesh, and Leroy inhaled sharply against the flare of pain.

“This is what you lot think is funny,” Callaghan shouted, his anger boiling over now. “I could have killed you, you stupid sonofabitch!”

“It’s just a nasty scratch,” Wally said, standing up. He held a hand out to help Leroy out of the mud. Leroy took it and was hauled to his feet with another pitiful moan.

“C’mon, let’s get the hell out of here,” Wally said, turning to the car.

“Wait, my clothes are up at the grave still,” Leroy said through gritted teeth.

“Forget about them,” Callaghan barked, “I want to go home!”

“The fool is right,” Wally said, nodding to Leroy, “Not to mention we still have to return the body to its coffin, remember? Did you grab the bottle?”

Callaghan had kept an iron grip on the neck of the whiskey bottle. He was mildly surprised his grasp hadn’t shattered it. In one smooth movement, he flung it into the dark rain beyond the lantern. It landed with a dull thud but no shatter in the grass somewhere.

“There’s your fucking whiskey,” Callaghan snarled, “go find it if you want it. I’m going to rebury that fucking rat so I can go home and never speak to the two of you again. Where the hell did you put him?”

Leroy, now on his feet with the help of Wally, cast a look of pained questioning on Callaghan.

“What do you mean? He’s in the grave,” Leroy said, waving limply toward the hole.

“No, he’s not, that’s the first place I checked to see if you were hiding,” Callaghan snapped.

“Knock it off, Callaghan,” Leroy grumbled.

“Me? You knock it off, you bastard. Where’s the damn body?”

Cocking his head, Leroy was distracted from his wound by the realization that Callaghan was being serious. He walked back toward the grave. Wally followed. Both men reached the grave and peered down into it for a long time in silence.

“He– he was right there,” Leroy stammered at last. He took his eyes away from the grave but found it difficult to put them anywhere else.

“Enough with this,” Callaghan said, crossing his arms.

“The boy’s not lying,” Wally said, “he was right there when we left him.”

“My clothes are gone, too,” Leroy said.

Callaghan turned to say something to Wally, but the words caught in his throat when he saw that the old man had gone nearly as pale as Leroy. All three men stood in the rain, letting the realization drip down their spines.

“Let’s get back to the car,” Callaghan said quietly. 

The three men drew close to one another and quickly made their way from the graveyard. They left the shovels where they lay next to the open hole. The thunder above became more frequent, and the clouds began to pulse dimly with lightning that seemed just aching to touch down somewhere close. The wind had become a vicious lupine howl, and its claws tore at the men as they hurried to the old Model A. When they finally reached it, they all piled in, grateful to cut the wind’s assault on them short. Leroy took the back, sprawling on it and moaning.

“Somebody has got to get out and crank start the thing,” Wally said.

“Can’t be me, Callaghan got my right shoulder,” Leroy said pitifully.

Callaghan shot the little man in the backseat a withering look. Reluctantly, he picked up the lantern and the crank from the passenger seat floor and got back out into the wind. He made his way to the front of the car and stuck the crank into its hole. The first crank had the engine sputtering, but it died before an idle could take hold. He tried again with the same results.

“C’mon, you piece of garbage,” Callaghan muttered to himself. He cranked the engine again, putting all of his weight into it this time. The engine turned over with a pop, and the pistons began firing uniformly. Callaghan hurried back to the passenger side and let himself back into the car, flinging the crank onto the ground and extinguishing the lamp.

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” he said to Wally as he slammed the door.

“Couldn’t agree more,” Wally said. He switched the headlamps on and looked up. Then, he screamed. It was a foreign sound, something high-pitched and guttural and strange to hear coming from the old man. The other men took no notice of the strange, foreign sound, though. They were screaming as well.

Awash in the amber light of the headlamps, Jonathan Reeves’ corpse was propped up limply against the wrought iron fence like a drunk. He was dressed in Leroy’s white shirt and brown breeches. The suspenders were pulled unevenly over Reeves’ shoulders as though the outfit had been put on in a hurry. The bottle of whiskey that Callaghan had thrown into the dark dangled loosely from one hand. Callaghan’s revolver was in the other. Reeves’ pale blue eyes were open and staring directly at the car. As the men watched, the corpse winked, raised the gun, and fired.

The bullet shattered the windshield and the trance that held the screaming men frozen. Wally remembered how his car worked. He slammed the Model A into reverse. Cranking the wheel until the car was pointed in the direction of home, Wally slammed into drive, put the pedal to the floor, and kept it there. 

At the first sharp curve in the road, Callaghan’s entire weight slid across the bench and into Wally. The old man jerked the wheel and slammed the breaks, narrowly avoiding the ditch.

“Leroy, get him off of me,” the old man cried.

“What the hell is the matter with him,” Leroy grunted. He grabbed Callaghan. Y his shoulders and heaved the large man off of Wally. Now, it was easy to see what was wrong.

“Jesus,” Leroy muttered. He licked the sweat from his lip.

“I told you, the Army made Reeves a real crack shot,” Wally said quietly.

Wally reached across the seat and gently closed Callaghan’s blank eyes. He avoided touching the gaping hole between them.