"Janet," said Tod, his voice low and gentle like he was facing off against a dog holding a gun.
Janet didn't look up, continuing to wield the shovel with ferocious concentration. There was dirt on her face, in her hair, and white blotches on her hands marked the site of incipient blisters.
"Yeah?"
"We're friends, right?"
She did look up then, a puzzled frown wrinkling her forehead and cracking the makeshift mud mask smeared there.
"'Course."
Tod sighed in relief.
"Good," he said. "So you're not making me dig my own grave or anything?"
"What?" said Janet, seeming honestly confused. "No! That's not- Tod, has someone asked you to do that before?"
Tod dumped another spadeful of soil, then jammed the blade into the disturbed earth and leaned against the handle.
"Well, no," he said. "But usually when you ask me to help out with something, it's, you know... kitchen stuff. Not digging holes in the middle of the Eerie Woods."
"Oh," said Janet. "Shit, no, Tod- I'm sorry, I didn't think about how it looked."
She climbed out of the shallow pit and crossed to a small patch of bracken, pulling the snarl of branches away to reveal several large boxes wrapped tightly in plastic.
The sight of them did not have the desired effect. Tod's eyes widened and his voice rose in both volume and pitch.
"Am I helping you bury other people's bodies?" he asked. "Janet, did you just make me an accomplice to Eerie's youngest serial killer?"
"No!" said Janet. "Tod! How much real death does the Eerie Death Metal Fanclub involve that this is where your brain goes?!"
She reached for the multi-tool at her belt, took in his pale, panicked face, reconsidered, and used her fingernails to peel back the waterproof wrap on one of the boxes.
"It's just camping supplies!" she said. "Tinned food and wet wipes and gas canisters for portable stoves!"
She stepped away, her hands held open and empty in front of her.
"It's my stress relief," she explained. "I bury caches of food in secret places so I know I can hide from the Garbage Men if I ever need to."
Tod moved slowly towards the stack of crates, the shovel clenched tight in both hands.
"That's a weird coping mechanism," he said.
Janet nodded.
"Fair," she agreed. "But your brain leaps straight to serial murder, so, glass houses."
Ongoing Verse: Janet( Read more... )