I had trouble holding my lane on the highway this morning. The rain had come on during the night. It fell hard through dawn and by the time I drove to work, the lines on the road were awash. They faded entirely just this side of Liverpool. Then the road gave out beneath me. The car went next, fading slowly around me. My seat gently lifted me before disappearing and I was running through the rain. The path was no longer a road next to the most polluted lake in the state. It was a dirt trail, through thick woods, next to sacred water. My Iroquois brothers ran beside me. We were on the hunt. There was nothing noble about our desire. We found a small settlement of French fools and slaughtered them. Pure murder. I chopped the neck of a woman looking up to the heavens. She screamed a fountain of blood. The face of her God came to me. He spoke in my own voice. I closed my eyes. My hands passed over my face like wiper blades. Switching to and fro as I hurled down the parkway driving to work. I sped under the bridge, past the French Fort, toward the hot dog stand. Wondering how to keep myself on the road, out of the drowning waters. My brothers ran ghostlike beside the car. Their arms raised in fury, their fists stained in blood unwashed by the storm of rain.