plastic tarpaulin, recalling all of the fun things he’d done to the whore only a few hours ago. His new favorite toy, a propane torch, lay next to the body. He’d gone through a whole fourteen ounce cylinder on the girl. It not only prompted screams so loud they made her throat bleed, but it smelled positively delicious.
Charles didn’t go there, of course. Cannibalism was for psychos. But he could admit to salivating a bit. Barbeques would be a lot more fun if the pigs and chickens were alive when you cooked them.
The same smell wafted up at him now, making him wish he’d stopped for lunch earlier. All he’d had was a few handfuls of popcorn from a jumbo bag he’d bought at a gas station last night.
Kork reached for the body, ready to lift it out, and got a pleasant shock when the bag jerked.
“Holy shit. The bitch is still alive.”
Charles had been pretty sure the whore was dead when he wrapped her up. He’d slit her throat pretty deep.
“You’re a fighter, I’ll give you that,” he said, hefting her out of the trunk and onto his shoulder. Moving quickly, he carried her ten yards into the cornfield and dropped her squirming body onto the cold, plowed earth.
He kicked at a clod of dirt, his work boot bouncing off without it budging an inch.
Frozen. Fucking frost.
Charles had a little hand shovel in his tool kit, but it wouldn’t be enough to bury a body. Especially with the ground so cold.
But leaving her exposed was just asking for trouble. He’d been planning on dumping the body in a river. Water washed away a lot of trace evidence. Creepy-crawlies nibbled at the feet and fingers. And with new DNA technology, where the cops could get a genetic fingerprint from a strand of hair or a drop of saliva, he had to be extra cautious.
Genetic fingerprint? Hell, she was probably covered with his actual fingerprints. This whore’s body was basically a billboard that read CHARLES KORK KILLED ME.
He took another quick look around, wondering what the hell he was going to do. Still no cars. Nothing but empty fields and those fucking crows.
Those fucking crows…
Jogging back to the car, Kork grabbed the bag of popcorn from the passenger seat. Plenty left. He walked out to the body and then reached down, unrolling the tarp.
The hooker looked like a slab of raw flank steak.
She twitched and moaned, obviously in shock.
Kork sprinkled the popcorn over her body.
“Dinnertime! Come and get it, you bastards!” he shouted.
He took a few steps back so he didn’t spook the birds.
The first one landed a few seconds later, attacking the popcorn.
And then something happened, prompting Kork to smile.
The crow’s beak began to stab down faster and faster.
Ravenously.
Because it had realized that there was something even tastier under the popcorn.
Soon, the whore’s body was covered in a thick blanket of crows, flapping and squawking and peck-peck- pecking away all the physical evidence.
Kork was still watching, still smiling, when a car came into view about a mile up the road.
Grabbing the tarp, he hurried back to his Honda and locked the blood-stained covering back in the trunk.
He looked at the crows, still feasting. While they were doing the intended job, they were also quite the spectacle, impossible to miss.
Kork felt even more exposed than he had earlier.
He squinted at the approaching vehicle, wondering if he should go for the gun he kept in the glove compartment. The car was a sedan, white. Possibly a cop.
If it was a cop, he’d have no choice. Have to take him out. But there was no damn place to run to. Killing a pig would lead to a nationwide manhunt. Maybe just taking him hostage would be smarter. But even then, Kork would have to leave his car behind. His car, in his name, covered in his fingerprints.
Why did killing a whore have to be so goddamn hard?
Kork went for the gun, checked the clip, and held it alongside his body, keeping his arm straight down.
The sedan was slowing.
Kork shot a nervous glance back at the crows, saw a glimpse of pink.
That damn whore was holding up her arm, trying to wave.
Fuck! Die already, you stupid bitch!
The car continued to slow.
It wasn’t a cop. No cop drives a Lexus.
Still, Kork couldn’t kill them. It would lead back to him. But what choice did he have if they saw the whore?
Even though it was a chilly autumn afternoon, Kork wiped some sweat off his brow.
Come on, keep going, keep going you nosy fucker. Nothing to see here.
But it rolled to a stop, fifty yards away.
For what seemed an eternity, no one got out.
Kork squinted to catch a glimpse inside, but the windows had a slight tint, making it impossible to see the driver.
He glanced back at the crows, squawking and fighting over their afternoon meal.
Looked back toward the car.
Still no movement there.
Had they seen the crows? They must have. The air was thick with them now, as if they could communicate by telepathy and were calling in their siblings, cousins, and buddies from out of state to join in the hooker feast.
Kork gave a short wave and a nod to tell them he was fine, everything fine, I don’t need any help, and then started for his driver-side door. He would need a ride, eventually, but maybe the time for that ride would be when two hundred crows weren’t devouring a half-dead whore ten yards away.
He opened the door and climbed in behind the wheel.
All’s well here, feel free to move right the fuck along.
Kork checked the rearview mirror.
Goddamn it.
Now the front passenger-and driver-side doors of the Lexus were swinging open, two men stepping out.
One was tall and thin, wearing bib overalls. His lanky hair hung over his gaunt, pale features like a black spiderweb. The other was shorter, muscular, tanned the color of old leather. Or maybe he just looked tan in comparison to his partner, who was paler than a newborn baby’s ass.
What do I do? Wait for them to approach? Meet them halfway?
He jerked his eyes back at the crows. The whore was waving both arms now, and above the cacophony of caws and squawks, Kork thought he heard a thin, keening wail.
Fuck, fuck fuck….people always died too soon. He was always losing control, accidentally killing them prematurely. Who the fuck was this whore? Superwoman?
Kork didn’t have to jack a round into the chamber of his .45—there was always one in the chamber. He thumbed off the safety and exited his car, keeping the gun behind him.
An outrageous thought entered his head: killing these two, dragging them to the crows, then another car coming by, and another, until there were fifty cars parked along the shoulder and a giant pile of corpses in the field.
“Got a tow truck coming,” he said, not bothering to be friendly. “Don’t need any help.”
“Did we offer any?” the shorter man said. He was grinning.
They stopped on the shoulder, fifteen feet apart. Kork glanced back—no cars coming at the moment.
“Got yourself a right fine murder there,” said the tan man.
Kork raised an eyebrow, his heart skipping a beat. “Excuse me?”
