[He wanted the dead things good and gone, and now he could remember all the words to his grandma's favorite prayer and Jake said them, one after the other in a breathless string and if his fingers fumbled a little on the gun, there was no one close enough to see him fail. He was scared, sissy as anything when you came down to dead on the road ahead, and he heard that order bellowed from across the road-stretch and he didn't need to be told three times.
The gas squealed and the truck lurched forward, the gun tilting toward the open window, and the butt wedged in between his knees, rammed against his knee-cap when he floored the pedal. Drive, okay, he was driving and the truck shot down the road, bouncing on battered shocks and juddering like his teeth in his own head.
Dead. They were all real, real dead and maybe it was some world he'd walked into and maybe it had something to do with Vegas and the dead who never left, but they weren't haints. They were up and walking - rotting - and real intent on murdering you dead.
Jake drove, seemingly without intention of stopping, well past every sign that told him about a town forty miles out.]