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.

It's why I'm a seasonal serial killer.

So is my friend--a serial killer, that is to say. Not seasonal. Definitely not seasonal. Because while I'm haunting homesteads and butchering blocks in the idyllic eighty-degree Springfield summer, Jack is an emotional, impulse-driven moron who kills when he feels like it, come wind or rain or seven fucking inches of snow. And because we'd made a promise all the way back then, when murder was an accident and not a treat, I’m out here with numb fingers and stinging cheeks to help him hide the body.

"What I don't understand," I say with a grunt, "is why you couldn't have picked someone less big-boned." And that's putting it nicely. My back is to Jack as he makes a path through the woods, tossing aside snow with a shovel to make my dragging of the corpse easier. I'm not sure it's doing much, to be honest, and the dead man is easily two hundred, two fifty pounds.

I can almost hear Jack shrug. "He was talking shit," he says.

"Oh? Like what, Jack? 'What are you doing in my house?' Or, 'I'm calling the cops, please don't hurt me or my family?'" I drop my voice as I speak, mimicking the dead guy's voice. Not that I know what he sounded like. Jack did the killing, then called me to come and help with the aftermath.

"The former," Jack says dryly. "He was alone. You know I don't hunt families."

I sigh. "What a fucking saint you are."

We trudge on, the snow crunching underfoot. Neither of us said another word. I don't even need to ask him where we're taking the corpse, for the answer is obvious:

With the rest of the bodies.