The Five Countries You Meet in Hell

Mama, we’re meant for the flies.

His boots kicked up dirt as he shuffled through the ridge, musket slung over his shoulder. The large boulders that lined the narrow passage on both sides were cool even when the air was thick and hot. Cannons blasted in the distance and with each crack, his heart beat faster.

It was 1865.

Wait. No, it wasn’t.

America froze in his tracks because he remembered.

He remembered dying.

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