How shallow is a grave?
He'd never dug one before. The hole before him, which he gouged out of the sandy soil in the heat of the desert it looked deep, but now he'd pushed the man's body into it, suddenly it looked awfully shallow. Could animals or other things get down to the body? Or maybe that was the point? Just deep enough for cover, but not so deep that it took to long for the flesh to turn to corrupution.
This was really something TV should of taught him better. He haunched down and drank from his water flask. Dragging the bod hundred feet from the car had been exhausting enough so he wasn't about to drag it back.
Something sqwaked overhead. It looked real. Not a drone. Maybe a bird. Nothing man-made that would record what he was doing.
Then an idea hit: there were bound to be other bodies buried out here. Maybe he should find another grave and dig down a little? Maybe he can find a body of a 'whacked' guy and see how the professionals did it? A little river of sweat ran down his back, reminding him it was a stupid idea. He took the map (which had instructed him where to bury the body) from his satchel and tucked it into the dead body's pocket. They'd written ' bury with body, do not burn" on it. It was paper, so would decay quickly enough.
Overhead more of the birds were circling. That didn't look to good.
He stood up.
The plain desert shimmered with heat. It looked alien enough already, but through the lens of hot air, the rock formations and scrub looked even more curious and distant. This wasn't the place for him.
"Sorry buddy", he said to the body and shovelled the first pan of dirt over it. It took forty minutes and plenty of foot stampimg, but finally the grave was filled. He kicked some topsoil and rocks on to it, hoping to disguise its unnaturally rectangular outline. Maybe he should of dug something with a organic shape. Too late now.
A wind whipped up and then it was gone. The desert was an ever changing place. People didn't belong here (at least not above ground and breathing) unless of course they were gambling. For a moment he considered whether he should say some words over the unmarked grave, but it didn't seem right. And there was nothing he wanted to say. He walked back to the car, drinking from the flask. It was insulated, but the cool water inside has started to turn tepid already. On the passenger seat was a white book: the manual. It was why he was out in this place. He pickied it up and opened it to page one.
ITEAM (1): The body of your predecessor must be disposed of in a location, such that the family and friends of the deceased will not decect it or to have reason to dectect it. (See detachable map for disposal suggestions for your location).
There was a box next to the iteam line. He ticked it and threw the book back onto the seat. It landed title up: "protocols for seamless human interaction" it read in pompous type. Below it, sarcastically, was scribbled: " how to be a good clone". The handwriting belonged to the man in the ditch. The handwriting belonged to him now.
He turned the book over and drove off, back to civilisation, back to the people who 'knew' him. Ready to continue the life of the buried man.
