he's set the cat-carrier down and is straightening up.
he suddenly sees something else, and now his fear is close to terror.
he walks toward the deadfall as if hypnotized. pascow's hand falls on his shoulder. louis turns, terrified.
he closes his eyes.
he's grinning, exhilarated.
he looks down.
he lurches to the edge of balance, then regains it.
louis holy!
he's stopped on top of the deadfall, still surveying all this with frank amazement.
he looks up and his eyes widen as he sees:
he's somewhere between being mystified and puzzled and being scared. now a weakly glowing fireball rolls slowly across the surface of the standing water toward him. and then just fades into the thick mist.
he drops the pick and sticks his hurt hands in his armpits. beside him we see a low pile of rocks and earth.
he's looking--looking toward his people at the picnic table.
the sound is loud enough so he's having trouble hearing.
horrible understanding dawns on his face. he whips around and sees:
he walks to a fresh grave on which the first flowers are already starting to wilt. he sits down and takes a flower. he plucks it, looking at the grave steadily. he says nothing for a long time.
louis he was my son! he wasn't even two and he was run down in the fucking road and he was almost in pieces, and if you don't think i'm going to try.
he heads for gage's grave.
he climbs out of the grave and opens his duffle bag. he starts to pull out the pick.
watching. waiting. hardly breathing.
he relaxes perceptibly. he gets the pick and drops back into the grave.
he closes the tarp over gage, making a roll. he then produces rope from the duffle bag. he cuts the rope and begins to tie one piece around one end of the canvas roll containing the corpse of his son.
crouching against his side of the wall and sweating.
crouched. now we see the cop looking over the top. if he looks down. but he doesn't. instead he turns around so we see his back. louis looks up, miserably scared, pouring sweat.
he turns his pockets out, spilling change everywhere. nothing. suddenly a little light goes on in his eyes. he goes to the driver's side of the car and looks in at:
he snatches the keys and returns to the back of the wagon. he uses the key to open the doorgate. he puts gage's body in gently, then the duffle bag. he closes the doorgate and returns to the front of the car. he opens the driver's door and freezes.
he holds the corpse of his little boy to him.
he closes his eyes. after a moment he opens them.
he's scared almost to death. his face turns up. up. up.
the sound of footfalls is slowly diminishing.
looks up again. his face is set and hard.
he slowly kneels down. he puts the canvas tarp to one side and slowly takes the pick and shovel from the duffle bag. by now he is clearly a man approaching total exhaustion.
he is pulling on the rubber gloves.
twang! one of the few remaining strands of sanity has now parted. he looks back at:
he climbs the steps and goes onto the porch.