Fuck! Fuck, fuck fuck fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.

I was standing over the corpse of the stranger that I just killed. He was not a zombie. This man’s blood is on my 3-iron. Steam was rising from the hole I’d made in his head, and blood was oozing out of it. He was not a zombie, just some drunk homeless guy puking in an alley.

Fuck, fuck, fuckfuck.

I was trying to think of what I should do next, but all that was going through my head was “fuck” over and over and over again. I screamed as loud as I could, just to shut me up.

“Fuck, now I’m drawing attention to this,” I said to myself, but at least I was thinking again. I crouched down and put  my 3-iron on the ground, looking both ways down the alley to make sure no one had seen me. Good, no one there. Standing up, my legs buckled and I nearly fell over. I could barely stand, I could barely breathe. I felt like I was going into anaphylaxis, everything was closing up on me. “Think, Dingle! Ok, you can get through this, just hide the evidence,” I told myself. Think.

I can’t just leave him here like this, but I’m certainly not taking him anywhere. Think. I saw a storm drain cover and tried to lift it, thinking I could just stuff him down there. But the grate was too heavy. Think. I walked over to him and grabbed him by the shoulders, pulling him back towards the wall. I half expected him to have turned into a zombie now, just waiting to bite me. I wished he was a zombie now, so I could just kill him again and feel like I did the right thing.

There was a trashcan nearby, and I found another one across the alley. I pulled him right up the wall, so he was seated, leaning with his back against it. I dragged the trashcans over and placed one on either side of him. I took what I guessed to be his blanket and draped it over his legs. From the street, he’d look like he was just sleeping there from the night, getting shelter from the wind. I looked at his vacant, bloody face one more time. The blood had stopped flowing from his head, and it was congealing on his neck and shirt. Pretty soon it would start to freeze.

 “You did this,” I said to myself, knowing that I’d never forget his face. I grabbed my golf club and walked out of the alley, trying desperately not to look like a killer. I tried to look normal, but I couldn’t coax my facial muscles into doing normal things. I settled for not crying. I dragged my club on the grass in front of someone’s house, hoping to wipe off his blood. I have to get home. If I can get home without anyone noticing, everything will be ok…

******************

The click of my bolt lock opening was the greatest sound I think I ever heard. I pulled off my sweater and threw it in the trash. The golf club went into the toilet, and I doused it with bleach, then scrubbed it with the toilet brush. I flushed away my crime.

I tried to relax, but I couldn’t. Sooner or later, someone would find him, dead. I need to cover my tracks. But how the hell am I going to disappear an entire body? Then it came to me. I’d wait. I’d do nothing. It seems like killers always get caught when they try to cover things up, so if I don’t try to cover things up, I won’t get caught. Somehow I found this illogic comforting.

So here’s the plan:

In a few days, I’ll call in a zombie sighting. By then, he’ll have frozen and thawed a few times, maybe even get gnawed on by some rats. He’ll look like one of them. I’ll call it in myself, from a payphone (I’m sure they still have one somewhere). I won’t give my name or any contact info – no one ever does, they just want the problem gone. It’s all too perfect. I call in the sighting, the operator takes down the details, and forward it to ME. I take the report and file it. I’ll call in the cleanup crew myself. Problem solved.

This is how Einstein must have felt when he figured out relativity. I’m a freaking genius. I get away with murder by using my government job to cover my tracks.

I was smiling now, and felt at ease. I flossed, brushed my teeth and went to bed. I slept like a baby for the first time in weeks.

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