That’s Life
The putrid stench in the air, coupled with the overbearing desert heat so well known in Nevada, bore down on Anton like a tangible force. He drew a quick breath between dry lips, avoiding the use of his nose, and looked to the mountains arranged on the horizon like a picture frame, wavering in the weak morning light. This early in the morning, and already a scorcher. He wiped the sweat from his brow and turned back to his work.
At his feet lay a circular hole, deep and bound to get deeper. Beside the hole were two sacks, from which the smell—something between rotting fruit and rotting feces—emanated. Anton was already mourning the amount of money he’d have to spend on his water bill this month. Only a shower of an hour in length, if not more, could get rid of a stench like this. It might have been simpler, more acceptable, had this been a one-time occurrence. It wasn’t. Anton mourned this, too. He mourned many things. But, he reminded himself, that’s life.
Gripping the shovel in calloused hands, he got back to work. Behind schedule, he’d have to move quickly, not only to guarantee his safety and security, but also that hour long shower he was looking forward to. With these motivations in mind, the hole soon reached five feet in depth. Had it been out in the open desert, it would have to had been deeper, for the sake of discovery—or lack thereof. In this case, however, the hole was partway covered by an outcropping of rock shelf, making it much less susceptible to helicopters and the new radar technology Anton so dreaded. Once satisfied with his work, he grabbed the nearer, lumpier sack and tossed it in, jabbing the shovel after it to press it into the dirt. He filled the hole up roughly halfway, compacting the fresh dirt into place, before opening the second sack.
Inside was a dog, cold and stiff with death. Some stray, mottled brown fur and crooked ears, neck bent like a swan’s. He’d washed the corpse before bringing it here, washing away almost lovingly at that poor water supply at three in the morning, all to make it seem as though this dog was an adored family pet. Maybe a bit scruffed up, sure, but treasured enough to adorn with a proper burial. He might have felt sorry for it, had it not been such a hassle to prepare, and for such a ridiculous Plan B. The reality was that this dog was likely never to be found, and, on the off chance it was, it would be long after decomposition had swept away any incriminating evidence. But one could never be too careful; Anton knew this, knew it well. The idea was that if anyone ever sniffed out something buried here, they’d dig up the dog, figure it was a false positive, and move on. The unlucky sack of dismembered human corpse would be, ideally, much less likely to be found. That was what Anton rationalized would happen, at any rate. He wasn’t an idealist, no; he’d experienced too much working out of sight of the law’s omnipresent eye. He did, however, have faith in himself.
Anton drew himself up to his full formidable height, smoothing a lock of unruly dark hair back in its place. He stood statue still for a quiet moment, letting the early morning breeze sift over his work, before heading to his car without a backwards glance. It wasn’t the best life, he’d be the first to admit that, but it could always be worse. He could have, after all, been the poor sap he’d just buried, stuck somewhere between hell and a dead dog. That’s life, he thought to himself as the burial grew distant against the horizon, and it wasn’t so bad.