At last, after thirty minutes of waiting, the line on the phone clicks, and I hear a human voice.  "Hello.  Offices of Sheol Incorporated.  My name is Blake.  How may we assist you?"

"Yes, Blake, hello, I..."  A loud thud makes me jolt, and I nearly drop the cell phone from my hand.  I turn to look over my shoulder.  A crumpled, burnt car collapses to rest atop a wet pile of human effluence.  Three bored heifers snort and wander off to the far edge of the field to resume their grazing.

"Hello?" drips the voice into my ear.

I clear my throat and resume pacing along the wooden fence.  "My real estate agent patched me through to you.  I just purchased this land three months ago and... I'm having a problem here."

"Your address, please?"

"Sure."  I stare off at a windmill beyond the rising smoke.  My ears tickle with agonized screams.  "412 Morning Star Road,  Cold Shaft, Pennsylvania, 17506."

"One second as I check the database."  I hear the click-a-clack of typing through the mobile.

There's another thud, followed by the sobs of children.  I try humming Skynard.  It doesn't work.

"Ah, here we are.  Morning Star Plot.  Registered in 1688.  Are you a Miss Famke van Buskirk?"

"Uh... no.  I'm Shawn.  Shawn O'Hare?"

"Greetings, Miss Buskirk.  What seems to be the problem?"

"Alright, look."  I rub the bridge of my nose while pivoting to face the pasture.  "There seems to be an awful lot of undead bullshit falling all across the west field."

"Could you be more specific?"

"Well, it all started two months ago.  I found a bunch of baby fetuses along the fence line.  And I grew up in Detroit, so... whatever.  But then just last week I found the bodies of two women, a warhorse, and a severely burnt artillery gun."

"Uh huh.  And what prompted today's call?"

"Well... just this morning, a whole bunch of dead soldiers and a fuckin' passenger train appeared."

"Did you say a train?"

I nod, staring at the wreckage strewn with dead bodies.  "I'm looking right at it."

"Are there any markings on it?"

I tilt my head to the side.  "'89422Y'... and then a bunch of Hindi."

"Ah, that would be the Bangladesh Lotus Express.  It exploded into a ball of flame nine years ago along with all on board.  Looks like it arrived just on time."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Well, Miss Miss Buskirk, the pits are full."

"The pits?"

"The pits of Hell, Miss Buskirk."

I flinch as a propeller craft crashes, spraying the air with entrails.  "Uhm..."

"And in accordance with Statute 137-B, Sub Paragraph 6 of the 1688 Terrestrial Covenant Agreement, you authorized in your children's blood to have the end of the line relocated to your property."

"End of the line?"

"For the River Styxx, ma'am."

"Listen, Blake, I..."

A red flash, and I see a man with shredded limbs land bloodily between my cows.  As they storm off, he sits up and screams, "خدا، من را نجات دهد!"

"What was that, ma'am?"

"Uhm..."  I blink.  "...I think an amputated Syrian just landed on my lawn."

"Actually, that was Persian."

"What?"

"If you could put me on speaker for a moment."

"Sure."

I slap a button and hold the phone out towards the sinewy pile.  "می توانی چیزی بگویی؟" it squawks.

There is only howling in response.

I bring the phone back to my ear.  "Well?"

"Definitely from Iran."

"Look, when I was sold this land, I was told to cover it in fertilizer...definitely not with bleeding Persians, Syrians, or whatever!"

"I'm sorry, Miss Buskirk.  Company policy."

"We'll just see about that."  I fold my arms.  "I would like to speak to a supervisor, please."

A brief, disgruntled pause.  "Absolutely, just one second."  Typing.  "Transferring now."

"Thank you most kindly," I say beneath the screams.  A click, and then my ears are subjected to a worn-out recording of woeful baritone.  "Ughhh..."  I pace in angry circles.  "Jesus tap-dancing Christ, I fucking hate Coldplay."

That's when I hear another body drop, followed by a howling voice:  "Dammit!  That cheating whore!"

I stop in place, glancing over as the song goes on repeat.  "...Dad?"