Sleeping among the graves helped William center his discontent. Even in the dull fog of dozing he sensed his thumping heart beating against the hard earth telling him to be grateful to be alive. And he was grateful. Resting in peace among those we’re supposed to believe do likewise helped appease the demons that normally patrolled his head.

Taking vacation time and the long drive to Arlington National Cemetery to spend Memorial Day night on the ground seemed like a good idea. The overnight visit after the president left allowed him to walk unseen at night among the rows of tombstones without encountering anyone who might disturb his longing for days and lives gone by.

William mattered in the old days.  People depended on him. Now, nobody listened. Nobody cared. Well, almost nobody.

At 6 a.m. he rose, grabbing his pack and slowly walking the mile or so to where he parked his car. Some of the dead, especially those who knew him, would understand his vigil. Maybe more combat veterans than he imagined would welcome his presence. They died in faraway wars, offered up by an aloof America as part of what politicians called a national sacrifice, the ultimate loss to a usually unknown cause. William never fought for a cause. William fought for his soldiers under fire. William fought to stay alive.

Unlike his war in Afghanistan, getting out of the massive graveyard was easy. The cemetery grounds grew lush, beautiful and serene. The sacred landscape offered ample grassy cover to move unseen into and out of position. The spirits guided him. The ghosts watched over him as friends.

For whatever the reason the nurse hadn’t called the cops. William respected that. And he watched when Darryl left work after his shift and wore his mask the whole way home. Mission accomplished.

Now what, though?

Countless thoughts overnight filled his mind. The doctor had helped him believe he was getting better. But he still felt alone. He still felt scared. Maybe he should just open fire again for real. No more paintball lessons to be taught or learned. Maybe he should kill until he could kill no more. Like in Afghanistan when he did his distant nation’s bidding.

Politicians, corporate CEOs and many more self-absorbed citizens deserved to disappear so they would no longer use power to hurt vulnerable people, people without health care, immigrants and others who desperately needed to believe in America. Maybe he should shoot a couple of TV or movie celebrities for not wearing masks. Maybe he should focus his wrath on the Capitol. Take hostages, perhaps then kill everybody like a mob hit man carrying out orders from the boss.

No.

He should not kill. The architects of American Dream destruction are not enemy soldiers. We are democracy’s assassins, subversive in our shallowness. America is truly not yet at war with itself. William dreaded the thought. Killing makes civilization less civilized, less civil, unproductive and ignorant beyond repair. Making war makes us immoral.

Conscience means everything. In his personal experience, too many Army officers lacked basic principles. They ordered men and women to carry out insurmountable suicide missions. Later in life, these same officers, usually promoted to a higher rank, showed up at Memorial Day commemorations to commend their victims on being great warriors. Grieving family, friends and comrades almost always bought the shallow propaganda and could be counted on to support the next war, the next massacre and the next big lie.

Many, if not most, of the dead never should have been put in that untenable position in the first place.

Cross that rice paddy.

Take that hill.

Climb that mountain.

Die.

When William got home he made a sign out of a Genesee beer box with an old yellow yard stick glued to the back. In the center of the cardboard sign he drew a mask, the kind people should wear whenever they went outside. Above the mask he wrote five words.

STUPIDITY HAS NO HOME HERE.

Below the mask he wrote three words.

WEAR A MASK.

Then he stuck the sign in the grass in front of his apartment building.

William picked up his paintball gun, locked and loaded and went looking for prey.

Happy hunting, William.

Happy hunting.