Emmetsburg: Thirty-four

If he'd been running straight Louis might have been half way to Illinois by the time John got dressed. He was erratic though, falling and flailing again and again, and through up the most unholy cries, as though he was in mortal agony. John hesitated at the back screen door. He thought better of the pistol and placed it on the counter, pulling a dish towel over it.

Louis was up again, but making feeble progress towards the tree line at the back of the yard. He turned, upturned face ripped by excruciating pain, mouth agape. Louis washed his hands across his head and torso before going down hard once more. He let out a shriek that faded into a silence far beyond pain.

John was running as hard as he could through the dewy wet grass in his bare feet. Each footfall thundered painfully in his injured hand. He ignored it as best he could, believing that the man was truly dying. It seemed that these were Louis' final agonizing assertions. Anna was behind him on the step, still wrapped in the quilt.

John caught up to him almost at the tree line, where the grass was deep enough to wet the bottoms of John's trousers. Louis was on his hands and knees hardly making any progress at all as he swatted at something unseen torturing at his head and shoulders. Louis moaned loudly and rolled onto his back, drawing his legs up. His eyes were wide and distant, fixed somewhere among the starry heavens.

A body dies from head wounds like the one Louis had suffered. Not right away. Some pass on in their sleep. Others writhe and cry at the excruciating pressure as blood pools in the skull, crushing life from the brain. Louis had seen that before. The memory took him back to the bloodied fields of France 1917.