Jones couldn't sleep again. Of-goddamn-course, he couldn't sleep again. His thoughts were wild, moving from one thing to the other like a moth in a room of flickering lights; a firefight in Hawaii, stale hospital air as you wake up from a long sleep, little boxes for grown men. So many kids from his neighborhood counted on him to bring them home safe, he knew it. For a while, he thought it was right that he couldn't sleep. That way no one would die on his watch ever again; but he dreaded his late night work now, the only work that could cut through his insomnia. They would know he was awake, and they would call.
"Fuck it then." He stumbled out of bed and into his jumpsuit. His phone waited in the living room; he turned on the lights, sat by the phone and turned on the TV. Halfway through an infomercial for male enhancement, the phone rang. Underneath his coffee table, in a box, his croc mask sat with a pen and paper; he put them all on the table and picked up the phone.
"We're glad to see you're still awake. Considering how much good work you do on the nightshift though, we're not surprised. We have a potentially messy cleanup job for you tonight. The address is SW 104th Street. This customer's very important to us, and we trust you to go above and beyond what's necessary. Let's see that enthusiasm we know you for!"
He hung up and dialed a fellow veteran; someone who could get him weapons. He felt like a shotgun tonight.
Jones walked briskly from the bus stop to the house. A DeLorean was parked outside, and he could hear screams and shots coming from inside. He took out his shotgun and threw its bag in a gutter drain. He yawned as he took the mask out.
"Captain."
The voice was familiar; too familiar. He turned around to the source, shotgun aimed by the hip.
The ghost stopped in his tracks, looking between Jones and the gun. "Come on, now, Captain. Neither of us want another body on your conscious."
Jones lowered the gun, feeling totally floored. "You died in Hawaii."
"In a lot of ways, I did. But you. You died when you woke up. Killed by the weight of our bodies. Guilt will get you everytime, Captain."
"Yes, it will." Jones' heart felt too heavy. "Why are you here?"
"To help free you of the guilt. You've suffered for too long, Captain." The ghost nodded his head to a manhole some hundred feet away from them, urging Jones to follow as he walked.
Moments later, they were in the sewer, bad waters rushing along next to them. The ghost tossed his crowbar into the stream.
Jones felt a divine relief. "'Free of the guilt.' Yea. And then I can sleep with having to kill. And after I wake up, it'll be a better world. Or maybe… maybe…."
The ghost held out his hand to the shotgun. "Captain. Don't you want to give that up?"
"Of course." Jones spun it, pointing the business end at himself.
The ghost grabbed the handle, put his finger on the trigger. "I'm sorry I didn't come sooner, Cap."
"I'm sorry for everything that's happened, kid."