Writing Prompt

They call me the Undertaker. And I am. An undertaker. That is truly my profession. But when the Company needs some body to disappear, they call me. I do after all, have a special talent. And the means to make said body find a new home.

The problem is that today, we have had an early snow. A big, early snow. Three feet in the middle of November. I can’t believe I’m trudging through the snow. I can’t believe they called me in the middle of this snowstorm. That’s right. The snow isn’t about to stop. No. Not now. Probably not for a couple days. But what’s an undertaker to do? The boss said, “Bodies don’t just bury themselves, you know.”

Bodies don’t just bury themselves, you know. Bodies don’t just bury themselves, you know. I shoulda just mocked him to his face. “Bodies don’t just bury themselves, you know.” Yeah right. I’m all talk. Besides, he can always find another undertaker. One who will gladly take my body out in this snow and bury it. After all, I am dispensable and I literally know where the bodies are buried. Hah! I am so funny.

Ah well, at least I don’t need to drag the body. Or anything like that. They just brought it up to the mortuary and I’m about to take care of it.

Only thing is, the boss said I gotta preserve the body. Can’t just cremate it. Those are the easy ones. I just throw ‘em in the oven and put the ashes under somebody else’s coffin. Yeah. Those are the easy ones. Even in the snow. Just excavate the site and in the ashes go. No muss. No fuss.

But this one’s tougher. Gotta put the whole body under somebody else’s. Just dig the grave deeper and toss ‘im in. Not too much muss or fuss. Just a little.

It’s funny. I used to do it differently. The first time, I just threw the body in with somebody in a crypt. But some of those folks actually want to see the dead body later. Do something with the bones. Ugh. That even creeps me out. And nothing creeps me out. At least not about dead bodies.

Then, I put one in a coffin with somebody else. I stopped that when I realized that people could be exhumed.

So with this one, I’ll use my tried and true method. Dig deep. Put the body in the hole. Put some of the dirt back. Then, do the burial like nothing abnormal happened. It even works when they want a graveside service. Thankfully, tomorrow’s funeral family really cares about him. Cares enough to have his funeral in three feet of snow. At least they don’t want a graveside ceremony. Just a service up at the church and I take it from there.

But I still gotta trudge through the snow today. I still gotta get the tractor out and find the plot and scrape the plot and dig the plot. Really deep. It’s not gonna be easy. But it’s the first big snowstorm. The ground hasn’t had time to get really frozen yet. So it oughta be okay.

Still. It is the middle of November. There’s three feet of snow. Actually, more now. And I’m trudging through said snow to get to the tractor. Because much to my dismay, dead bodies do not just bury themselves.

My dog died and it’s been a terrible day. He was just laying on the floor lifeless when I got home from work. I’m not sure what happened. He was all I really had. Now I’m all alone. I have to bury him although I wish I could stay with his corpse forever.

It’s the middle of November and I’m trudging through three feet of snow because, much to my dismay, bodies don’t just bury themselves. Sigh. The things I do for money.   Lucky for me, the snow is light and kicks away from me in delightful puffs with each step I take. Sunlight comes through the trees in golden columns. The ground glitters like millions of tiny diamonds. It pays to notice the beautiful things in this line of work. Yeah, I might be hauling the corpse of some two-hundred-pound jackass who couldn’t pay his debt but look how pretty this forest is!   My mind wanders as I walk, letting my thoughts drift to happier thoughts – the warm fire waiting for me at home; what I’m going to have for lunch; what chapter I’m on in the book I’m reading. Without realizing it, I’ve walked to my last dumping spot. The snow has now covered the subtle discoloured patch where I buried the last guy to owe my boss money. By spring, the ground will all look the same, saturated with the melted snow. God willing, the bugs will have picked apart buddy’s body until there’s nothing but bone and stringy tissue. He’ll become a part of the earth. Circle of life, and all that.   I can’t bury jackass here. I call him jackass because I can’t remember his name. I’m sure my boss told me so I could be sure to get the right guy, but it’s slipped my mind. I walk further into the woods, stopping once or twice in a sunny patch to let the warmth wash over my face.   Jackass’s lack of name is starting to bother me. Was it Rich? Richard? Something with an R, I’m sure. I’ve reached a spot I think will do. It’s far enough from the other site, and deep enough in the woods it’s not likely to be stumbled over. I drop the edge of the tarp I used to wrap up -- Robert! That’s his name – and take the shovel from the pack on my back. I push the blade through the layers of snow until I feel the ground vibrate against the metal. It goes in, but the dirt is nearly frozen. It’s going to be a tough one.   Shallow grave it is. Sorry, Robert. I start digging.

I had come to almost enjoy my job, although it was hard to during the deep snow of November. Most of the bodies had been buried in the snow which I had thought would mean I get the day off my snow melts, so I must bury them in the earth. Stupid, really. Today was abnormal however, the blood was yet to freeze and it was actually quite beautiful. The red seeped into the the deep snow in a mesmerising pattern, like a fractal, as was making it easier to actually find the corpses.

The snow was starting to get annoying. It was seeping into my boots making my socks wet and was hard to wade through, like a dense swimming pool (I mean, that’s technically what it is). I’d say that I had buried about 10 of the 15ish bodies in this area. Not long left until I can go home and clean up.

It’s the middle of November and I'm trudging through three feet of snow because, much to my dismay, bodies don't just bury themselves. I knew that going into this, to be fair. It just didn't seem like quite as big of a deal at the time. It should have been the quick and easy, tie a ribbon on it and done, part of the operation. The snow storm in the beginning of November made sure that wouldn't be true.

Again, my fault, I suppose, for growing complacent in my role. I should always expect shit to go wrong; it's kind of the standard in this line of work. Nobody gets involved with the mafia because things are going right in their life. And less than nobody uses their role in said mafia to become an informant for the FBI because everything had gone the way it was supposed to.

That leaves me - miles away from the nearest trace of human civilization, in an area so remote I lost cell phone service 10 miles back, cleaning up my mess as I prepare to return to the mess that my life has become.

It’s the middle of November and I’m trudging through three feet of snow because, much to my dismay, bodies don’t just bury themselves.

With blood drenched hands I pull the small plastic sled behind me, piled with a crumpled former colleague. I stop, doubling over, panting in the chilly air. Sweat already soaking my forehead and socks. I look over my shoulder at the deadweight of arms, legs and bloody clothes on the sled. Two miles done, four to go. I let out a displeased groan. My legs burning as I started my dismal march.

It was an accident, at least that’s what I keep telling myself. It was just a slip of the wrist, he caught me off guard. Same with the knife buried in his stomach. Although I doubt anyone will miss him, he was a royal ass. It made me miss it though, that nasty habit of mine. That compulsion that made my fingers itch, made my nostrils flare and my heart race. His now dried blood on my hands felt rejuvenating, his breathless gasp as I buried my knife into his guts ringing in my ears, over and over. I shuttered, not from the cold, but from the familiar euphoric sensation that ran up my spine. Maybe it’s time to come out of retirement. Get some new hunting grounds, find some misplaced souls. Lost to my thinking, I step on a patch of ice under the snow, sending me crashing to the ground. Sprawled out in the snow drenched in sweat and legs burning, I remember why I stopped.

It’s the middle of November and I’m trudging through three feet of snow because, much to my dismay, bodies don’t just bury themselves. The sunlight reflects off the snowy floor blinding my eyes as I continue my path through this barren land. I give a piggy back ride to the corpse of my friend, whom just died from the Infection. He knew, and I knew, just never wanted to speak of it, that it would not be long before he would be taken from this world to the next. This journey we had set on took a toll which only worsened his condition. And made my current situation much harder than it already was. Honestly, I might just leave him here and bury him, the situation is too tough to be carrying a rotting corpse. A snow storm seems to be on the horizon even, so carrying a body will only inhibit my speed to find or build shelter. But, for the sake of his family back home, I can’t do so…but hypothetically… 🤷‍♂️

It’s the middle of November and I’m trudging through three feet of snow because, much to my dismay, bodies don’t just bury themselves. Normally, I wouldn’t do this kind of thing, but James is an exception. I didn’t think it’d be so tedious, thoug. My muscles are burning, my hands are cramping, and if he hadn’t done what he did I’d have said it wasn’t worth it. I let the tarp-wrapped bundle fall from my shoulder, hear it crunch as it sinks into the snow. Uggghhhhh. Massaging my lower back, I straighten and look around. The forest around me is dense with pines reaching up for the dull, cloudless sky. This bitter Montana winter will be the death of me. The blinding sun reflects off the endless expanse of snow, bringing no warmth to my stiff, numb body. I turn back to my burdensome cargo. James has somehow managed to look more pathetic than he did alive. I plop down in the snow, pulling back the edge of the the thick blue material to reveal his face. “Jamie, Jamie, Jamie…,” I sigh, “What are we going to do with you?” His soulless eyes are nothing new but the lack of his repulsively sweet voice is refreshing. “You just couldn’t help yourself could you, disgusting prick.” I stretch out my legs and try to rub the knot out of my quad while I admire the bruised line around his neck. I knew James was the opposite of a good boyfriend the second my sister brought him home, and I told her that, but Lord knows she didn’t listen. “She told me she loved you. Said you guys moved in together. That you were happy. But you were a good actor, weren’t you?” I sigh. My breath clouds in front of me and I have to ask, “Why? Why couldn’t you just leave her or something like a normal guy?” The few birds crazy enough to be here this time of year and the rustling of the trees is the only reply. I’m getting back on my feet, sinking in the snow. My heart hurts. My throat is closing and my eyes well up and I hate him. I hate him for what he did to her. I hate him. I hate him for hurting her. My body is shaking from cold and anger. I have to get rid of him. I couldn’t let him live after what he did, what if he did it to someone else? I had to do it. I had to. I gather the tarp back into my gloved hands and heft James’ weight onto my shoulder. I’m practically dragging him through the deep snow, leaving a trail, but it’s going to snow again tonight anyway, so it won’t matter. As for anyone finding him, well, I doubt he’ll be missed. He doesn’t deserve it. He doesn’t deserve a funeral or anyone’s tears. My sister derved them, though. She deserved a life. If I can’t give her that, then this is the least I can do. He had them all fooled. The police never would’ve caught him, but I told them. I told them, I told them, and I tried to show them but they couldn’t see it. So I had to make an exception.

It’s the middle of November and I’m trudging through three feet of snow because, much to my dismay, bodies don’t just bury themselves.

No one ever cares about the clean up guy do they? Everyone’s always like, ‘oh no, someone’s dead!’ And no one’s ever like, ‘oh no, the clean up guy has so much work to do.’

My current client loves killing people on the worst ways. At least she pays instead of threatening me, but still! It’s always in the middle of a blizzard or a rainstorm or a fucking drought! Genuinely she told me to clean up her dirty work on the hottest day in 20 years in my country. And of course I’m expected to do it no matter what.

Usually I can just get away with burning the body but apparently she’s playing some sort of game with the victims father. A famous detective or something? And she wants me to help.

It’s not fair. I get paid minumum wage at the best of times and my life at the worst.

Finally I reach the random body lying in the forest and…

Oh god.

It’s cut up and multiple organs are removed. The eyes too have been removed.

This is sickening-there’s blood all over the snow! Now I have to move the body without making a trail of blood.

Of course she’d try her best to make my life awful. It’s like she hates me. Or finds it funny. Probably both.

I try to get the job done quick while avoiding bloodying my new clothes. Blood is hard to get out of fabric. Snow starts falling again and I flip off the universe. I’m definitely having a talk with my client.

Once I’m done I start to walk back through the thick forest.

Then I whirl around.

Wait was that my dad-

It’s the middle of November and I’m trudging through three feet of snow because bodies don’t just bury themselves. The disease hit the village hard, harder than ever before. I was carrying carts of my own loved ones, on top of those who I knew. Old Mark, who I bought bread from, and Lucy, too, who raised me from a baby. I tried not to think about what - or who - was in my trusty cart. I loved that cart like a cowboy loves a horse. It was always there for me, and reliable, too. I hoped the wood splinters didn’t inherit any of the disease, and that it would be strong to live through this with me.

Just outside the cemetery gates, I coughed. I spit phlegm and stopped in my tracks, looking back at the bodies. If the town caretaker succumbed to the illness, who would bury the rest of the dead?