The Camaro Murders by Ian Lewis

level playing field. How many times were you denied that when you were alive? I’m just talking about what’s fair and just. Love those who deserve to be loved; hate those who deserve to be hated. Your misfortune has afforded you prospects most never see.”
    â€œProspects for what?”
    Tickseed’s grin pulls tight around his eyes. “It’s simple, really. You have a chance to get even. Revenge is a powerful motivator. It’s one of the few desires we have left here. Might as well exploit it.”
    The Driver wants me to do this; Tickseed wants me to do that. I’m tired of being pulled in two directions, and them wanting to use me because I don’t know what’s going on. “It does a lot of good when I’m stuck here,” I say.
    â€œI have an idea or two on how we might get you over to the other side.” Tickseed is thoughtful. “Or maybe if you hang around the Driver long enough, he might even teach you how the Fold does it.”
    â€œBut what’s really in it for me?” I want to vent. “I hear you both talk, talk, talk. Why should I listen? You can’t offer me anything better than the next guy.”
    â€œNow that’s where you’re wrong,” Tickseed says. “I’m the only one who can set you free. Why cling to an empty promise? The Fold will never make you happy. You and I—we’ve got to forge ahead and make our own road.”
    My own road… He’s right, I hate to say. I’m the last guy who wants to get sucked in to someone else’s cause. I’ve always been my own man—never a follower. Not to mention the revenge talk kind of hits a chord.
    Tickseed continues. “Do you know what I would love to see? The look on the face of that shovel-wielding inbreed when he sees you’ve come back for him—when he sees you’re not content with death. Once he realizes what he’s brought upon himself, it will have been worth it.”
    I’d like to believe Tickseed. I really would. Maybe it’s as easy as it sounds.
    â€œWell, what do you say?” he asks. “Are you going to settle for what you’ve been given?”

Visitors
    February 19th, 1999
    Culver Crisp at the Manor Restaurant
    The man and his dog—intruders in last night’s dreams. I didn’t want them there, but they appeared in every sequence, keeping pace with me. The man had the nervous look of someone who didn’t know what he was supposed to be doing. What did he want?
    The patrons in the Manor Restaurant can’t answer that. The clink of silverware and coffee cups is the sound of their ignorance. They are oblivious to my presence.
    I might reach out and strike with no provocation, or toss my meal to the floor in disgust. It would be a stupid way to get noticed, but it would relieve my anonymity.
    The restaurant is just like it’s always been—a small counter in front with a perimeter of tables, serving three meals a day to truckers and the elderly. I guess I’m the oddball today, though no one seems to object.
    What if I put one of them to the floor and just screamed at them? I’d stand over their shocked and frightened form and let loose about what my life has amounted to. It would be easier than making friends who don’t want to hear about it—easier than twisting someone’s arm to get them to care.
    Maybe I don’t need someone to listen after all. I’m not conversational. My walk here was unnoticed, as will my walk back to my old house. Just a little sustenance and the use of the facilities, then I’ll be on my way, slipping through the cracks of someone’s faulty memory.
    The waitress refills my coffee cup and I thank her. What I don’t tell her is that the man with the dog spoke. This is another first—no one in my dreams has ever addressed me.
    All morning I’ve thought it over. I set the expectation that the dreams mean something,