Number Seven

She shifted the truck into park, nudged the door open and saddled out of her seat, her over-sized boots sloshing in the mud with a suction that almost pulled them from her feet. She slid her gloves on and climbed up into the truck bed—wet goulashes squeaking against the polished truck body.

Bending over she sprung the bungee cords free, they flew back with a cracking whack on the far side of the bed. With firm footing she gripped the edge of the tarp and yanked and tugged until it was free. With a toss; the shovel and rake clattered onto the ground. Carefully she leaned over the truck gate, popped the latches. It fell open, bouncing and shaking the truck almost making her lose balance. She stepped back to keep from tumbling forward, her hand clutching the edge.

“Bastard!” She hissed as she righted herself again.

Falling over him in these last moments wouldn't be very becoming of her. The rain was an unforeseen complication and slowed down this whole process and put her at risk for getting stuck in the mud-of all things. So far her massive tires and slow driving had prevented any such trouble.

Getting him into the truck was also hard work but at least in her garage she was able to use stairs and a makeshift ramp of plywood. He had sort of rolled and tumbled into the bed. Bulbous head near the cab and thick, fat legs near the end. She had to tuck his legs up and shove and heave against the gate just to get it to shut.

She climbed carefully over him, mud streaking his bare arms that were now blue with the cold of eternal sleep. Not quite yet smelling of decay, all that met her nose when she inhaled was the rot of forest and muddy soil.

Now at his head; she squatted over him and laughed to herself quietly as she considered how many times he probably imagined her crotch in his face just like this.

Not anymore.

She slid down against the window and braced herself. It was harder to manage with the slick of rain water still clinging like an outer skin to the truck cab. It soaked through her pant bottom and into the sleeve and back of her coat. She sighed, it was bad enough that it was cold—the rain was an unwelcome ick.

With her feet planted on his shoulders, one slightly higher than the other, she pushed. He budged just barely, a few inches. She heaved again, squirming and wriggling to work herself lower against the slope of the cab window as he gave another inch.

She paused to catch her breath, her heart was already racing. This was going to be long and difficult, no doubt about it. You’d think that rain would make it easier, letting him slide like a lubricant. Instead it seemed to drag on his bare skin and suction him into place. His shirt was bunched up around his chest and the wet fat of his back gripped onto the grooves of the truck bed—firmly holding him in place. His body just didn't want to go, did it?

“Move, damnit!” She grunted out. She shifted her position, both feet finding purchase against the blade of his right shoulder—only to slip off and jut out over his chest sending her clattering down on her hind end with a thud.

“Damnit!” She paused to listen and make sure no one was around to see her. Of course no one was—if someone had come close she would have heard them by now. She was getting paranoid because this was taking longer than usual. A deep breath for calm and once again positioned herself—this time with her feet on either side of his neck, butt lower on the cab to prevent another slip. She gained a few more inches—without sliding down to bruise her rear again.

Another position, lower down the cab this time—her legs extended out almost straight. Then, she had to arch her back to be able to put enough into the extension. Inch by inch she force his heavy, rotund body out of her truck bed. His lower left calf now dangled over the bed as his body shifted and folded against her efforts. Once his legs were fully out the rest of him would be easier.

Sweat now poured from her scalp and ran down her face and back. She was panting with the effort. Yet another mighty shove, using her arms this time instead of her back. Another shove, making her strain, but he wasn't moving. She straightened up and peered over his body to see why. His arm had fallen off his chest and was now caught up between him and the side of the truck bed.

She stood up, a little more room at her end of the bed, now, and squatted down to hoist his arm back onto his chest. It lolled off to the side, again, quickly she caught it and anchored it back in place using the lower hem of his ratted t-shirt to hold it there.

A noise off in the distance made her stand up and look around—no one. Just an animal.

Back to her task; she turned her back to him and his hole in the ground and bent forward like a runner at the starting line. Using an outward V motion to inch him further out of the bed, sort of sideways so he was curled up in almost a fetal position. That gained her a few more inches but the strain in her stomach told her that was a bad idea.

She made a mental note not to pick such a heavy mark next time. She could handle them if they were bigger than her by a little-as all of them were, it was just part of the deal. She was only 5’4. This guy, though, was just too damned big.

This sucks she thought as she took a few more deep breaths, and scooted closer to his head to anchor herself yet again against his shoulders. Heaving one last time, his legs were finally over the edge. One was hanging freely, the other had rolled itself up under him—if he was alive he’d hurt for that one.

He wasn't, though, he was quite dead. Long gone.

She climbed out, again almost getting stuck in the mud. She slugged her way to the passenger side, moved the small cloth wrapped bundle out of the way, and fished a rope from the floor.

Inside the bed with Number Seven, she tied the rope around his neck. His name had been Gregory but he might as well have been called Mr. Fucking Neck Less because his neck was fatter than the bulging round of his head. Was he like that when he was alive? She brushed the thought aside, tied the rope as best as possible and tossed the other end off the bed, it bounced as it uncoiled down into the hole.

She climbed out of the bed again, careful not to fall into the hole that she had spent over a week digging in this secluded corner of the woods, it’s contents of rocks, roots and soil piled ever so high. Quite the impressive feat for a woman boasting nothing but gallons of water and a shovel—and a dire case of insomnia.

Latching her hand around the bed she leaned forward to grab the rope that dangled freely and made her way to the far side of the hole.

Leaning back—she pulled…and pulled. Another difficult task, she cursed the fat bastard again and squatted down for more leverage, digging her heels into the wet, soggy soil. Straining, turning red and then blue, she finally felt him give a little. She didn't let any slack into the line, now it would only get harder as she had to roll his massive body towards the tail so he’d roll off into the hole with one fell swoop.

Keeping the line tight, she shifted her hands up the line, gripped, and then pulled again. He came more easily this time. All 200 some odd pounds of his squatty mass. His hand fell free of his shirt hem again and slapped down onto the bed. The other had fallen behind his back as he was slowly pulled and rolled.

She shifted her hands again, and pulled once more. He rolled further forward. Again, again.

Finally—tug 8 or 9. The mass of his belly was hanging over the edge. She was out of breath, but now able to take a break, he wouldn't fall back now. She stood straight, stretching her back. If she pulled a few more times, though, he would likely take her with him as he tumbled hellward.

So she made her way into the bed one more time, bracing her feet against the round of his back…and with one mighty heave he was finally out. A few loud thuds, a crunch and a crush—a bone or two now broken under his massive weight. Her truck bounced every which way being freed of his massive weight.

She lay back, looking up at the night sky through the trees overhead. Her night wasn't over yet, though. She still had to bury him, and the animal, and finish it all off.

After gathering some strength she went to the cab door and carefully scooped the wrapped bundle up in her arms. She didn’t know the dog, it was a stray that she found dead on the side of the road. It didn't have tags or even a collar. Entirely feral. She considered herself to be doing the poor thing a favor—giving it a proper burial. More than what the average stray ever received in this wooded spindle of Georgia.

She lay the dog down next to the hole, fetched the shovel, and began heaving the dirt back into the hole. The massive pile now muddy—but it seemed as if only the top layer was soaked. It made heavy clumpy thudding sounds on the man’s plump, lifeless which echoed out of the hole.

Once through the muddy mound’s skin the dirt underneath was dry and easier to handle. This dirt was best when raked into place. The dirt showered over his body, pelting it like gravel on a tarp.

Soon the sounds of dirt meeting body were replaced by only the soft thud of dirt on dirt. Earth to earth. A significant moment to note—burial in progress.

Her hands hurt by this point, she stopped to flex her fingers and shake out the burning stiffness in her arms. Picked up the rake she began again.

Dirt to earth. Earth to dirt.

When the hole was filled just over half way she decided it was time for the more somber moment. She jumped down into the hole—3 feet or so-and began to tamp the earth down.

Jumping around, her wet boots depressing large footprints all over into the softened soil. She then picked up the shovel—patted it around to firm the surface even more, as best as possible. Over time the hole would sink as his body decayed and the dirt compressed over-top. For right now, though, the idea was to create a faux ‘bottom’ of the grave.

She added another layer of dirt—tamped it down some more with her boots and shovel.

Another layer—more tamping.

Finally.

She scooped the wrapped dog up and set him gently in place, perfectly centered. It was a little sad, she almost cried. Climbing out of the hole again she made her way back to the truck bed and retrieved a few dog toys bought just for the occasion—a knotted rag, a squeaky steak, and a ball.

Placing them carefully with the dog—his favorite toys in another  never-had life where he was cared for and loved. She patted the dog’s clothed head, climbed out once again and began to shovel the last of the dirt over body, dog and all.

No last words. No final send off. Nothing of that nature. That was not the way she did things. She had said it all and done it all and now that he was taken care of she was just cleaning up.

When the dirt was all piled back on top—a small hill of freshly churned soil was all that marked his eternal resting spot. She fished out an old dog collar that she had found tossed on the side of the road months before and nested it into the top of the earthen heap. It was no longer the grave of a callous man but now the eternal place of peace for a well loved pet.

Hopping into the cab and stripping off her now soggy, muddied gloves she looked at her watch.

It took her 7 hours. Seven hours for her Number Seven. An unplanned yet fitting irony.

It would be sunrise soon. Just enough time to get home, get her few needed hours of sleep, before officially starting her day.
***
The road out was rough; an old logging trail. It was pocked with pits and puddles that tossed her all over. She maneuvered carefully around the holes; left, right, wide right. Just as she was meeting the more solid, defined road the sun began to peak over the horizon; casting long shadows across the road in front of her.

One more hour and she’d be back home. A quick shower, two hours for sleep, move began promptly at 11. Her houseful of goods was already packed, the truck was parked in the driveway.

She spent the previous evening at Susan’s house in a farewell with all of her dearest friends—ending the night at around 10:00 to turn in after their final farewells. I was a bit sad, she did cry. Though not moving too far she knew she likely wouldn't see several of them again, at least not for a while.

Being an insomniac of such an extreme nature had afforded her many opportunities in life. She had a productive editing career and her home’s renovations had come along smoothly. All fit well into her other needs in life; a heavy duty truck, a job that enabled her to travel freely. Everything served its purpose and had its acceptable reason.

Now it was time to move on, relocate and start over again.

As she neared the drive for her country style home she stopped short, parking at the old pump style spigot that was away from the house and hosed the mud off her tires and boots. She then slipped on more comfortable tennis shoes and crammed the over-sized goulashes under her seat.

That’s what she was at present; a tennis shoe wearing home improvement enthusiast. She helped out others and was an all-around nice person, good citizen and everyone liked her.

Everyone except for Gregory.

Mr. Gregory Fucking Neck Less who was now 6 feet under, usurped by a woman, did not like Lynn. Not now, anyway.