Mississippi DEAD by Shawn Weaver

looked no more than thirteen.
    “Should ‘ave killed ‘em,” Johnathan said.
    Abel didn’t reply.
    “He’s your problem now.”
    “What am I supposed to do with ‘em?” Abel asked.
    Shrugging, Johnathan said, “Put him in the barn. He’s your prisoner.”
    “Damn,” Abel responded, kicking the ground.
    The last thing the troop needed was a prisoner to lead around. More so, Abel knew that he was stuck outside. Spending a night indoors, warm and dry, was something that he had not done since he enlisted.
    Handing his rifle to Johnathan, Abel bent down and hefted the boy over his shoulder. Weighing less than ninety pounds, the boy was a miniscule weight, but the dank smell of wet fur hit Abel in the face. Grumbling to himself that he should have broken the boy's neck when he had the chance, he headed toward the barn.
     
     
    Available US:
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    Available UK:
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    Welcome to Plainfield
     
     
    CHAPTER ONE
     
     
    Songbirds called out happily to a morning sky filled with clouds made of cotton. The cool breeze cutting through Spritland cemetery reminded Evelyn Hartley that winter had left. Though the warmth of the sun caressed her face telling her spring was here and summer was on its way.
    Rocks crunched underneath her black penny loafers as she stepped around thick clumps of bright green grass, which grew around twiggy bushes sticking out between the black bars making up the four foot tall fence surrounding the cemetery.
    Interspaced along the graveled road tuffs of weeds sprouted towards the sun, flourishing since the last freeze. With every step she ran a hand from one cool bar to the next of the black wrought iron fence separating the sleeping dead inside from the occasional car that sped by without a thought.
    In no hurry to get home from her baby sitting job watching the Spencer twins. Evelyn brushed her long auburn colored hair back over her shoulder. Looking through the fence at the multitude of gravestones standing in the cemetery, she gazed through the fence at the multitude of gravestones standing in the cemetery, reading the names carved in the simple blocks of rock. Many of the names worn away, leaving the dead lost to time while other grave markers were sturdy edifices proclaiming who lied here and had a life and a loving family.
    At the head of the graveyard, a small white church stood before the square entrance of the cemetery. Its low roof and squat structure sat on lonely property. Stain glass windows were set darkly in the walls of the church. Waiting for Sunday’s service to come and bring life to its doors. Evelyn knew no service would be coming this Sunday or any other. The pastor had moved on, as had the congregation, for new prosperity and happier surroundings.
    She continued to walk along the road. While a, 1949 Ford Sedan pulled out onto the gravel road from a small barren lot acting as the parking lot along the rear end of the Spritland cemetery.
    Slowly the Sedan followed, its dull paint showing years of wear, along with spots of rust eating at its edges.  Evelyn heard the crunch of gravel and the slight squeal of rusted brakes as the Sedan slowed to a stop. She stopped and turned to see who drove up. Unable to could not see through the windshield for the suns glare against the glass was a bright blinding spot making her squint slightly.
    Slowly the dusty driver side window rolled down. Stepping toward the car, Evelyn looked in and recognized the familiar dirty and worn plaid hunter’s cap with its woolen ear flaps turned inward. Beneath the cap, long ears with pudgy lobes were set on a round head with short cropped graying hair sticking out like bristles on a brush. A sharp nose, rounded at the end stood out against