Frigid

by Charles Jones

time he opened the trunk again. He hoped he didn’t have to use the shovel for anything other than digging. The nausea of everything began to sink in and sweat began pouring from his face. The fear, guilt, and nervousness were apparent on his skin. He walked fast and straight through the aisles to the front desk. Just pay and get out. He was next in line. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve trying to calm down before talking to another human. It was his turn to pay and get out. Johnny couldn’t look the checker in the eyes.

  “Is she cold yet?” Johnny heard Billy, the shiny eyed checker inquire.

  “What?!” Johnny’s asked nervously. His skin was ashen gray.

  “Is it cold out there yet? The news said tonight is supposed to be a frigid one.” The checker repeated with a smile.

  “It’s pretty chilly.” Johnny said plainly. He felt the man’s eyes eating away at his lies.

  “It is that time of year again. Are you sure you don’t need an axe?” The checked clarified.

  “For what?” He suspiciously asked.

  “If you are doing any digging you will need to get through the frozen upper layer, we have trenching axes that will make it a breeze.” The blue vested man clarified, trying to be helpful.

  “No-no-no I’m just scraping ice off the driveway.” Johnny replied as he fumbled with his wallet.

  “That will be 30-to-life.” The checker held his hand out to Johnny.

  A shiver ran through Johnny as suddenly the world warped around him. Just get the shovel and leave. “What was the total again?” Johnny was sure the checker knew what was in his trunk.

  “$30.95, sir. Are you doing ok? You look a little pale, do you need some water?” The checker asked with concern.

  “No-no-no, I’m just a little tired.” Johnny handed the man two twenty dollar bills. He got his change and headed straight for the door.

  “Have a good night, rest up, sir. Don’t forget to cut her up!” Johnny heard the checker call to him as he briskly paced to the door. “Stay warm out there!”

  Bundle up. he must have meant or said that. He can’t know what happened. I mean how could he? Johnny got back to his car, threw the shovel into the back seat, and noticed something he didn’t see before. Maybe it was the adrenaline or the distraction of loading a dying woman into the back of his car. There was a sizable chunk of human scalp wedged in the cracks in the windshield. Strands of hair strewn about the top portion of the glass. Quickly he reached over and ripped the piece of frozen flesh from the cracks. Not knowing what to do with it he stuck the piece of scalp into his pocket. He did a quick check of the front of his car to make sure there weren’t any more pieces of the woman sticking out from under his hood or something. Back in the driver’s seat, he decided it was best if he drove. He switched the autopilot setting off and started the car.

  “Why have you disabled me, John?” She chimed in.

  “I want to drive, we don’t need to hit anyone else.” Johnny said sternly.

  “Okay. Do you have a shovel?”

  “Yes, I do. No more talking while I drive, we can’t have any accidents. Set a course for a secluded wooded area. Somewhere at least a few miles from any home.” He demanded.

  “Done.” The map loaded onto the center console showing the exact path to the burial place.

  Their destination was about a half hour away. Johnny drove with white knuckles the whole way, every set of headlights he saw behind him became a cop car in the rearview mirror. Every time he saw someone approach from the opposite lane he thought they noticed the crack in his windshield. His hands shook on the wheel, a gut-wrenching prelude sensation to vomiting ever present as he followed the map. Each time a car behind him turned off onto another road he could calm down just a little bit. By the time they reached the burial site no one was following him. He pulled off the road and into the trees as far as he could squeeze the car. He was four hours late now. His wife had most likely already gone to sleep, she didn’t bug him on his “Big Sale” nights. He knew he would have some lying to do in the morning but for now, he only had to worry about the grave.

  He grabbed the shovel and went to work. Perhaps he should have gotten an axe, the ground was frozen into a stone hard armor that chipped only slightly with every great stab with the blade. He finally got through just enough to slide the tip of the spade under the frozen layer and pry off good pieces of solid earth. He dug in the darkness until the sweat on his brow started to freeze. He was exhausted, he once could run a six-minute mile, that was longer ago than he was comfortable admitting. He would be lucky to jog a mile now. The hole was about two feet deep which he figured was good enough to hide her and keep the rain from exposing her body.

  He walked gingerly over to the trunk. He crossed his fingers hoping that she was dead. The door popped open. Surely she had to be dead, how could one survive this long with that sort of damage to the head? She wasn’t dead, she was still breathing shallow breaths, clinging to life exactly how he feared she would be. He had to be the one to kill her. Johnny hoisted her from the trunk and laid her next to the shallow grave. What about her family? How are you going to live with this? He raised the shovel, ready to bring it down on her throat. Sever the arteries and she would bleed out in seconds. He couldn’t bring himself to do it. The thought of the crunching should of her neck under his spade was too much. Johnny boy wasn’t built for murder. He didn’t want to do any of this. But he didn’t want to lose his double lady situation. And he surely didn’t want to live life in a jail cell. He had been reclined and not watching the road when she was hit, this was true. He was at fault as much as the autopilot.

  He decided to smother her. He went back into his car and grabbed a small grocery bag from the passenger side floor. He held it over her mouth and nose. Thinking she would simply go to sleep he jumped when her body began convulsing. She twitched furiously, bouncing about the ground like a fish out of water. He found himself crying as he held the plastic firm until her fit of death stopped. He had killed someone. Maybe he hadn’t started the process but he finished it. He finished it for himself. But he didn’t see that as a problem. He was worried above all else about spending a lifetime behind bars. He liked his hot ladies, and there are not any hot ladies in jail.

  With a heave he pushed her down into the hole in the Earth and filled it back in with dirt. As a final funeral preparation he covered the area with snow as best he could. He wasn’t some mastermind killer, he was a sales director. Murder wasn’t his thing, but he felt he did a good enough job not to get caught. He put the shovel back into his car and headed for home.

  He knew he would see the woman’s face in the news, she would be reported missing eventually and then everyone would start looking for her. He didn’t know if he could hide his guilt but he had to give it a try. He also knew he had to get rid of his car. The windshield needed to be replaced, the dents needed fixing. He was sure he could bring it into the dealership and tell them he hit a deer. But could he tell them without giving it all away? He didn’t know. On the way home he decided the autopilot had to go. He would ask a couple computer buddies how to clear the car’s memory. And that would be the last thing he would have to worry about.

  He parked the car in his garage. Once inside he fell onto the couch, he could not face his wife’s questions this late at night. Sleep was needed and crawling into bed dirty and exhausted would illicit endless questions.

  He didn’t dream of much on the couch, he never did, it wasn’t comfortable enough to get dream quality sleep on. The little sleep he got was interrupted at eight o’clock sharp. A stern knock on his door roused him off the cushions. He didn’t want to answer. Who could be knocking at this time on a Saturday? What did they want? He considered just laying back down but the knock came again. A little louder this time. John walked quickly to the door and pulled it open.

  A dapperly dressed man stood on his front porch, another well-dressed man stood just behind him on the top stair.

  “John Barnes?” Asked t
he man authoritatively through the front door.

  “Yes?” John softly admitted through the doorway.

  “My name is detective Jackson King, may I ask you a few questions?” John’s skin tried to escape his body, the world spun around in Johnny’s vision. This couldn’t happen to him. How did they find him? How could they have known?

  “Yeah, come on in.” Johnny finally mustered the ability to speak. They sat down in the living room.

  The detective opened his notepad. “May we take a look at your vehicle?”

  Johnny was frozen, already he could feel the chains on his wrists, he was already a prisoner locked in his terrified body. He could not give them an answer.

  Note From The Author

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  About the Author

  Charles A Jones is a rising independent author. He is the author of the horror novellas “The Graying of the Snow” and “Three Seconds Without Hope”