๐ง๐ต๐ฒ ๐๐ผ๐ฑ๐ ๐๐ผ๐น๐น๐ฒ๐ฐ๐๐ผ๐ฟ๐
๐ฃ๐บ ๐๐ฆ๐ท๐ช๐ฏ ๐๐ฐ๐ฑ๐ด๐ฐ๐ฏ
โBring out your dead,โ Dylan shouted from the passenger seat of my pickup truck.
Iโd always wanted to say that, but I was stuck driving instead. I looked in the rearview mirror, glimpsing the pile of bodies in the truck bed. Despite being several bodies deep, we had room for more.
Dylan glanced at me. He was a lanky guy but surprisingly strong, which helped in our line of work.
โLewis,โ he said.
โYeah.โ
Dylan peered out the open window. โI think weโve got one.โ
I craned my neck to see. A thirty-something woman was waving us down from her second-story window, so I brought the truck to a halt.
โI have a body,โ the woman said.
I got out and circled around the front of the truck, making my way to the womanโs yard. Dylan followed on my heels.
โWhereโs the body, maโam?โ I asked, staring up at her.
โIn the backyard. I buried him.โ
My brow furrowed. โIf thatโs the case, maybe itโs better to leave him be.โ
The woman shook her head. โI donโt want that piece of shit on my property. I only did it because I couldnโt stand the sight of him.โ
โWhatโs his relation?โ I inquired.
โHe was my husband,โ she answered.
Iโm sure she had a good reason for disliking him, but it wasnโt my place to ask. Regardless, moving the body would require more work on our part.
โWeโll have to charge you,โ Dylan said, beating me to it.
The government paid us to collect bodies, and we werenโt supposed to request payment from people, but it didnโt stop us from making demands every now and then.
The woman squinted at us. โCharge me? For what?โ
โA buried body,โ I pointed out. โEspecially one in the backyard.โ
She pondered for a moment. โHow much?โ
โTwo hundred dollars,โ Dylan replied.
โWhat! I donโt have that kind of money.โ
โThen what do you have?โ
She deliberated again. โHow about a jar of homemade pickles?โ
โI donโt care for pickles,โ Dylan murmured to me.
โI love them,โ I said. I met the womanโs gaze. โOkay. Is the body in plain sight?โ
โYeah,โ the woman replied. โI buried him where he died. Along the tree line,โ she elaborated.
โThe spot will be obvious enough.โ
I nodded and headed in the direction of the back yard, Dylan sidling up to me. It was a small neighborhood in a rural area, so trees were plentiful here.
I spotted a small rise in the distance. We were already wearing latex gloves and filtered masks, but that was the extent of it. The disease originated in deer and only infected people through the ingestion of tainted meat, but it didnโt hurt to take precautions.
Hunters who ate their kill had the highest risk of catching the disease. It was an isolated outbreak at first, until it started to spread to farm animals. Before long, a sizable portion of the population had been exposed, and there was no cure for the disease, which had a ninety-percent fatality rate.
I kneeled next to the mound of dirt, Dylan doing the same across from me. I brushed away a bunch of loose soil, soon noticing the body. It was an extremely shallow grave, and the soil barely covered the man.
โHe looks huge,โ Dylan said.
Dylan was right. The guy, dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt, was tall and had some serious girth. He easily weighed in excess of two hundred pounds. It would take all of our strength to move him.
I was positioned near the manโs feet, while Dylan was hunched over the guyโs head. He swiped some dirt from the manโs face and neck.
โThis is strange,โ Dylan said.
โWhat is?โ
โThis gash on his neck. It looks like a stab wound.โ
I leaned in to get a better look and noticed dried blood on the manโs neck.
โWhat if she killed him?โ Dylan asked.
I mulled it over. If the woman did murder her husband, using the disease to hide the real cause of death wasnโt the worst idea.
โA bullet to the head would be more obvious,โ I said. โThat wound could be self-inflicted for all we know.โ
โSo, the guy accidentally stabbed himself?โ
I shrugged. โWe donโt know if itโs a stab wound.โ
โYouโre a doctor now?โ
โNo more than you are.โ
Dylan huffed. Then something caught his attention. He stared over my shoulder, his eyes going wide. I spun around to look. The woman stood a few yards from me with a gun in hand, the pistol resting at her side. I was grateful she wasnโt aiming it at me. Not yet, at least.
I choked down my anxiety, somehow finding the courage to speak. โWas he even infected?โ
The woman hesitated. โNo.โ
โIโm sure you had a good reason for it.โ
โI did,โ she said.
I was reluctant to question her, but my gut told me she wanted to say more.
โDid he hurt you?โ I asked.
โNo,โ she replied. โNot me. My daughter.โ
There was no need for her to elaborate. To be honest, I didnโt want to know the details.
โWe have to tag all of the bodies we collect,โ Dylan finally said. โName. Date of birth. Last place of residence. And so forth.โ
โWhich will tie back to you,โ I commented. โAnd the coroner will realize that your husband didnโt die from disease.โ I paused. โBut I know a place where we can dispose of the body.โ
I glanced at Dylan, and he nodded in return. I turned my attention back to the woman. She let out a breath and secured the gun in the waistband of her jeans.
โYouโd really do that for me?โ she asked.
โSure,โ I said. โAs long as you make good on those pickles.โ I grinned.
The woman forced a smile. โYou can have all of the pickles you want.โ โฆ