SidePack - Oneshots

Pitch (I THINK THAT'S WHAT IT'S CALLED YEAH)

Mitch's P.O.V:

Just another lazy Sunday, that is, if murdering is considered lazy. I was going over to my favorite body stashing place, the forest about a three hour drive from my home. I started singing along to the radio, my fingers tapping on the steering wheel, "It's good to be alive, right about now!" I sang Andy Grammer's lyrics with passion. I made a really sharp turn, hearing the pleasant sound of the body bag in the backseat hitting the bottom of my murder truck.

After about an hour, when I got into the mountains, with no radio or cell service here, I got bored rather quickly. "How ya doin' back there buddy?" I asked over my shoulder to the huge black sports bag on the floor, "Oh wait," I paused, laughing, rolling down my window, inhaling the pure mountain air and feeling the cool chill on my face.

It was already late, the sun setting on the horizon. It looked to be a pretty nice picture, a perfect alibi even, not that I would ever get in that deep in the a$$ of our wonderful justice system (sarcasm). I pulled over at a touristy spot, making sure to lock the car doors before I sat down on the picnic bench. It was overlooking a sunset glossed lake, and I could've stared at it for hours, but I had a job to do. I finished my dinner, taking a quick selfie, and went back to my car.

I pulled from the main highway onto a small dirt and gravel road. I followed it as it curved and twisted through dark boughed trees for around five minutes before stopping at the deer crossing sign. It was eerily quiet as I unloaded the back of my vehicle, slinging the body bag over my shoulder, groaning at my victim's heavy weight. Turning on my little red flashlight, I trudged loudly through the fallen leaves as I made my way on the narrow trail I'd committed to memory, barely able to see the ground in front of me.

I made my way to the old shed I had built with my "old" best friend when we were teenagers. It's ivy encrusted wood was slightly damp from the afternoon rain. When I made it to the entrance, the door was cracked open slightly, even though I was sure I had locked it the last time I was here, not even a month ago. I carefully lowered to my knees, setting the bag silently on the ground, removing a switchblade from my back pocket. I crept into the shed slowly, flashlight in hand, to see the living room sized house just how I left it. A desk pushed into the left corner still held my books and old photographs, the little cot on the right side with it's pillow covered in dust, even the small table was the same, napkins and silverware set out for my next meal. Something felt wrong, I could feel it. I turned to the armoire, cracking open the door, satisfying my hunch. My shovel was missing.

Now for a murderer, I consider myself to be pretty organized. Murder on this date, where it took place, alibi for it, where I stashed the weapon's and the body, and anything related was set down, not a speck of dust forgotten. So where was my goddamn shovel?

I started to grow even more concerned when I left my little shed, spotting faint tracks leading out towards the clearing where I usually buried my victims. I dragged my newest one into the shed and stuffed it into the closet, before shutting the door firmly behind me this time. I crept quietly through the dense underbrush, my knife still poised out in front of me, ready to strike.

The clearing was lit (like my mixtapes yo download on itunes) by the pale glow of the moon rising overhead, the stars scattered like an entourage around it. The only sounds were the soft cooing of owls and the familiar perfunctory sound of digging.

A figure had their back turned towards me, striking a metal object down into the soft grass repeatedly. A figure lay next to them, motionless. For someone also trying to bury a body, they weren't going about it very professionally, must be a noob. I could tell it was a man who was digging the grave from his toned form and broad shoulders.