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Rest in peace. Like hell. Death is not peace. It leads not to Marti, nor to any kind of heaven . . . not even to oblivion. Death is not that kind. Death is hell.

It is dreams . . . nightmares of suffocation and pain, of restless discomfort, of aches when one cannot move to ease them, of itches impossible to scratch. It is hallucination invading the void, playing blurrily before half-open eyes that are unable to focus or follow . . . imaginary hands on him, patting him, then lights, footsteps, sirens, voices. Oh, God! Call the watch commandeer . . . I didn't kill him, Officer! I'd never kill no cop, and anyway how could I do that to him? I just took the gun and stuff out of his pockets. Would I show you where the body was if I'd done it? . . .Garret ? . . . Easy, Takananda. Garreth! Oh, God, no! . . . He hasn't been dead long; he's still warm . . . Are there loose dogs in this area?

Death is hell, and hell is dreams, but mostly, hell is fear . . . panicstricken, frantic. Are all the dead aware? Do they remain that way? Is this to be eternity . . . lying in twilight and nightmares, throat aching with thirst, body crying for a change of position, mind churning endlessly? Does Marti lie like this in her grave, insane with loneliness, begging for peace, for an end? No, not for her . . . please, no.

He hates giving up life, but accepts that in the jungle, death is the price of carelessness, of error, and he has errored badly. Surrendering life to rejoin Marti would be welcome. He could even accept oblivion. This, though . . . this limbo? The thought of having to endure it for eternity terrifies him.

He screams . . . for himself, for Marti, for all the dead trapped sleepless and peaceless and tormented in their graves. He screams, and because it is without sound, unvoiced, it echoes and reechoes endlessly down the long, dark, lonely corridors of his mind.