The Camaro Murders by Ian Lewis

much as I try to ignore it. Part of me says I’m in denial. What does it mean if I’m dead? I’m not ready to answer that question. The whole point of getting out of Graehling Station was to keep things simple, but this isn’t simple.
    Forget it. I’m not dealing with it. It’s not my problem unless I make it my problem. Death can kiss my ass. I look at Halfacre and say, “Death can kiss both our asses.”
    There’s giggling in the trees nearby when I say this. It sounds like a kid.
    â€œWho’s there?” I say, fed up. Halfacre and I stop, waiting for someone to come out.
    The low-hanging branches rustle as a small boy appears. His faded shirt doesn’t fit over his round belly, and stringy hair hangs over where his eyes should be. Whatever’s there is set so deep in his head he looks like he’s got two shiners. “You’re funny, mister,” he says.
    I don’t like kids that much, and I’m not sure what to say. From the looks of him, I’d say he’s been wandering out here awhile…probably homeless. “Your parents know you’re out here?”
    â€œDon’t got no parents,” he says.
    â€œYou got a home?” I ask.
    The boy shrugs and looks down at the dirt. “Nah. Don’t need one.” He looks up. “You’re new around here, ain’t ya?”
    â€œYeah, I guess you could say that.” I don’t want to spend any more time dawdling. “Listen, do you know where this trail goes?”
    â€œWhy?” He perks up. “Are you gonna go looking for your ghost? I’ll help ya.”
    â€œJeez, is everyone here crazy?”
    â€œNaw,” he says, “just dead.”
    Denial is getting harder to hold on to. There’s a funny calm about it, though, even though I want to fight it. It’s like I’ve been dead for years and I’m used to it.
    â€œIt’s O.K. mister, you don’t have to worry. We’ll find your ghost. I’ve helped lots of people find ’em.”
    If I’m dead, then I’m not on the preserve in Lockworth. It sinks in that I’ve got less of an idea where I’m going than I thought. This kid might be my ticket out of here, wherever “here” is. “Yeah, sure, O.K. Let’s go find my ghost,” I say, half-serious.
    â€œAren’t you going to ask me what my name is?” he says.
    â€œUh…sure. What’s your name?”
    â€œConrad. What’s yours? Is that your dog?”
    Is Halfacre my dog? I guess he is now. I nod. “I’m August. This is Halfacre.”
    â€œHe sure is big,” Conrad says as he strokes Halfacre’s side.
    â€œYeah, so how do we get out of here?” I look ahead, eager to get moving.
    Conrad points up the trail in the direction we’re already headed. “That way—past the fog.”
    â€œWhat’s past the fog?” I ask.
    â€œThe rest of the Territory. C’mon. Follow me.” He marches a few steps ahead.
    â€œLet’s go, pal,” I say to Halfacre as we follow.
    We find it easy going along the path. Halfacre trots a little ahead of me.
    Conrad, now silent, walks next to Halfacre. Sometimes he stomps on a leaf blowing across the path; other times he stops to look at something in the weeds. He hasn’t looked back at me since we started. “How did you die?” he asks.
    â€œI got hit with a shovel.” It sounds lame when I say it. “What about you?”
    â€œI don’t remember.” Conrad doesn’t look back.
    We enter a thick patch of fog after he says this, and Halfacre falls behind next to me. It’s not long and I wonder if we’ve lost Conrad; I can barely see more than three feet ahead.
    Just when I’m sure we’ll have to stop, the fog starts to give way and we’re met with a stern voice.
    â€œHold it right there.”
    Halfacre tenses, his ears perked.
    There’s the