Uriah needed his last rites because he was going to die. He got into the shade of a peach tree where flies and hornets were rising and diving over the sappy entrails of a hundred peach corpses, and the heat was breathing out from their rotting wounds and up from the dust and the trampled yellow shocks of grass that tickled the hair on his arms as he crawled. He got his back upright against the bark, but it was a low tree with twisting branches, so he had to keep his head down, and that was fine by him, because he was hiding. Uriah wasn’t hiding to survive, not anymore. He was going to die as sure as those damn peaches were going to fall. He was hiding only so he could die alone.
FBI wouldn’t give him last rites nor last words. They’d even stop him getting his hearing in heaven with the Lord if they could. No, if they found him under that peach tree, they’d fill his sopping shirt with a fine set of hot holes and fresh blood as quick as their fingers could find their triggers.