When he’d uncovered enough, Jack dropped to his hands and knees.
Boris made a strange little moaning noise and looked away.
Jack pawed at the dirt, scooped it with his hands, wished desperately that he’d thought to wear gloves. A terrible smell seeped from the earth.
A loud retch. A splashing sound. “Fuck,” Boris groaned.
“Alright?” Jack called, desperate to think of anything other than the earth beneath his hands, crusting under his nails. He’d carry it back to the hotel with him, this dirt that coated a corpse. A corpse he’d dug up with his bare hands.
Even when he’d washed the evidence away, would it truly leave him?
“I’m not drunk enough for this,” Boris moaned.
“I’m almost done,” said Jack, even though he had no idea what he was doing or how long it would take. “Here, I’m gonna borrow the flashlight, OK?”
“Yeah,” said Boris, wiping his eyes and wincing as Jack approached him. “Yeah, OK.”
“It’s gonna be OK,” Jack told him, because he didn’t know what else to say. Boris’s eyes were wet. He stank of vomit.
“I don’t think so,” said Boris, shaking his head. “I—this is really, really bad.”
“I’ll stop,” said Jack. There was no need to put Boris through this. He could come back tomorrow, in the light of day, and use his hands. It would be miserable, but better than forcing Boris to endure anymore. “It’s OK. Let’s just go back.”
Boris shook his head. “Do what you gotta do. Don’t worry about me. I’m just—” He bent in half and clutched his stomach, retching again.
“Shit,” said Jack, feeling like a proper asshole now. He went to pat Boris on the shoulder and thought better of it. “Look, I don’t?—”
“Fucking look at his face, asswipe!” Boris growled, rubbing his sleeve over his mouth. “I don’t throw up for nothing. Do it!”
Shame oozing from every inch of him, Jack returned to the grave.
An awful stench met him there, burned his eyes, made his nose run. It was unlike anything he’d ever encountered, and for a moment, he thought he might vomit right onto the body. Then the nausea passed, and he forced himself onto his hands and knees, fighting the urge to gag.
He had to see. Boris wanted him to see. Boris wouldn’t remember this tomorrow. It would be OK.
It would be OK.
His hands quivered treacherously as he scraped at the dirt. Something solid brushed against his palm. Jack startled, yelped.
“Find it?” Boris called. His voice was small, far away. But when Jack looked up, he was exactly where he’d left him, only a few feet back.
“I think so,” Jack croaked. Using his forearm and sleeve, he pushed away the earth, unveiling a pointed chin and lips tinged an unnatural grey. Again, he rallied against bile. It would be disrespectful to vomit on a corpse, he reminded himself sternly. He couldn’t, wouldn’t.
He swiped with his sleeve, revealing the tip of a pointed nose and nostrils stuffed full of dirt.
Fucking hell. They hadn’t even bothered to roll the corpse into a carpet. Just stuck it out here in the woods. Was this the mark of an amateur? Did the killer simply not care? What the fuck had happened here?
Holding his breath, heart pounding in his chest, Jack brushed away the last of the soil.
A woman’s face. Mascara clung to her eyelashes. Earth crusted in her dark hair and the tiny, gold hoops that pierced her ears.
On her right temple was a hole smaller than the tip of Jack’s finger. Something dark scuttled from it.
He yelped, jumped to his feet, and shot over to Boris before he even quite realized what had happened.
“What? What?” Boris demanded, snatching the flashlight from Jack. He shined it through the trees like he expected something huge and monstrous to come thundering through.
“Bugs. There were bugs,” Jack gasped.
