Going slower, the vibrations change, become, like, deeper, hurts more. It’s ironic. My body is so useless to me, all I’ve got left to live with is inside my mind, but I can’t think straight with this FUCKING PAIN IN MY SHOULDER. Why can’t I stop caring about the pain? I’m dying, why should pain be a concern for me?
We’ve made several turns. There’s less noise now. We must be out of traffic, maybe in the country now, we’ve been gone so long, and we’re going so much slower now. Turn again. This is a dirt road. This is it.
*
It’s nice here. If it weren’t what it is, this would be a place I would like to come to. I’m probably the only one who knows about it. I could show it to people. It would be my spot, where I could take friends or girlfriends, or anybody, for camping or swimming, or picnicking. But it is what it is. And what it is is where I dump the bodies. It’s simple. Time to work.
I always back the car in. It’s kind of tight down this lane through the brush. Hard enough to walk around the car without getting my arms cut up by these thorns, wouldn’t want to carry the body around. No room to turn the car around after either.
Grab the bag and weights from the back seat and carry it around back. What’s that noise? That’s the trunk. Oh shit.
*
“Don’t move or I’ll blow your head off.”
I scream so hard my whole body feels like it will pop, but the duct tape mutes it, so that it is loudest in my own head. The light blinds me; I can’t see anything. It takes a moment to calm, I don’t know why; opening the trunk set off this wave of terror inside me, I started screaming, and then that voice.
Nothing more is said. My eyes are squinting straight up above, and slowly a very large handgun forms out of the white light. It’s a foot or so from my face. There is a man holding it, a large man in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt.
“You’re supposed to be dead.”
I can’t reply, but I think he gets the gist of what I would say. I’m not.
“Somebody fucked up,” he says, “Fuck. FUCK. I HATE doing this. Why does this shit always happen to me? …Heh. I suppose I must look very selfish complaining. You’re probably having a far worse day. And you’ve still got the killing to go through. This won’t be easy for either of us, I guess.”
He leans back from the car, and tucks the gun back into his pants. Looking around for a moment, he turns and drops so that his butt sits on the edge of the trunk, his back to me. His body partially blocks out the sun from my eyes.
“I’m not a killer,” he says, “I’m sorry to have to do this to you.” But his voice doesn’t sound sorry at all.
“I’m just supposed to take care of the bodies. They know I don’t do this kind of work,” he turns and looks back at me, like he’s angry at me. “Don’t think I can’t do it and I’m not gonna’ do it. Believe me, you’re a dead man. I just mean, I’m not SUPPOSED to do it.”
He turns back. Part of my mind is desperately searching for a way to escape, but I’m taped up in so many places. There’s no way out unless he lets me.
“I’ve been involved before with killing. I just don’t DO it, I mean, as a matter of course. It’s not part of the job description. ‘Course, life is tough all over, isn’t it? Look at you. You’re wrapped up like a Christmas present waiting to be opened. Only, ‘opened’ for you means deaded, know what I mean? Now that’s really a rough job…. Fuck.”
He gets up and begins walking around. Looking up out of the trunk, I can see thick trees around us, spruce and elm mostly, with wiry looking bushes poking around them. It’s humid out, and I have the feeling we’re next to water. Maybe it’s because I know what comes next.
“It makes it hard to go back to the city after you kill someone,” he continues, “That’s the thing I really hate. There’s always a first person you have to talk to. No matter how much you try to avoid people, eventually you gotta’ talk to someone. There’s always a first person you have to talk to after killing somebody. And all you can think is, you poor fucking schmuck, do you ealize I just killed somebody? Would you stand there so calmly and sell me my lotto ticket if you knew? But you actually feel like they do know something. They look at you, like you’ve got a mark on you. I don’t talk to people much anyways… It feels like it’s getting harder all the time. But these days are the worst. Go to a bar. Everybody’s having a good time, guys are picking up girls, they’ve got clever things to say, they do clever things that they can talk about in clever ways – it’s like they’ve got this secret they’re all in on, this club I can’t get into.
“I don’t talk to anybody. I sometimes wonder how human beings can ignore somebody right in front of them, but I sit there in this place where everybody’s talking to everybody, and nobody talks to me. They see me. I’m right fucking there. But nobody talks to me. And I feel like I can’t open my mouth to talk, ‘cause the words are just going to fall out and announce everything before I can stop them. I don’t know why I go to bars at all.”
I am suddenly aware of how wide open my eyes are. I ealize that this is what terror looks like. It’s funny because you don’t even know you’re doing it while you’re doing it. It’s one of those things.
“It doesn’t matter. People have to be killed. It’s no different from dumping the cargo, I just have to handle it properly first, right? My name is Pat, by the way. I’ll be your killer this afternoon. Heh. Wish you could look around a little, buddy; it’s nice here. This is my spot, I never get to share it with anyone but dead people.”
He looks at me suddenly, and then walks back over. Reaching in, he grabs me by the front of the shirt, then his other hand goes over behind my head and pulls. Oh God no! AAAH! Fuck. He puts me somehow leaned back against the open trunk lid. My legs are below me, splayed out a little to the right. It hurts like hell. But I see what he means, it is a nice spot. It’s wooded, dark and shaded, except the little spot where the car is. There’s a little shaded path right down to the water. No sign of anything human as far as I can see. Just us.
“There. Now it’s our spot. It must give you some satisfaction seeing where you’re gonna’, you know, be… I’m sorry, I don’t know why I said that. I have no fucking idea what’s satisfying to you right now or not. Hey, you want a cigarette?”
He turns and – oh God! AAAAAAARGH! The tape is ripped off my mouth in one motion. I can’t stop screaming.
“Well, I don’t blame you. You’ve got a lot to scream about, but there’s no one can hear you anyways, so scream if you need to. Just don’t freak out or anything.”
He pulls the pack of cigarettes from his pocket and sticks one in my mouth. It stops my crying. Like a baby and a pacifier. I blink away some tears and watch him lower the lighter to me. I breathe and the cigarette lights right away. It was so windy last night, I remember, but there’s no wind now, at least not here. Just humidity.
“I figure, what the hell. I never get to talk to anyone in this job, you know, never can enjoy what I’m doing with the cargo, so why not make the best of things, right? I mean, what the hell. If you have to die, and I have to kill you, we may as well make it as, you know, I mean, we might as well just chill and at least relax and just enjoy where we are. Right?”