A Soviet's Struggle

Семь

Mariya huffed at the heaviness of Fynn's weight over her shoulder. His arms swaying behind her; eyes stiffly open. Flies buzzed around her - eager to start laying maggots on the dead man. Close behind, Micheal trotted with two shovels on both of his shoulders. They were about half a mile away from the farm - in the forest surrounding it. They mainly walked in silence; only hearing the breathing emitting from Mariya's mask. The trees, still mildly bear, started to show signs of leaf growth once again as Spring time emerged in the April air. The smell, besides the rotting corpse, smelt nice.

Micheal, walking next to Mariya, looked at her: "So," He said in curiosity, "Why do we need to bury him exactly? He should rot for all I care." The Young Russian looked at the boy - whose hatred for his father grew exponentially since his death last night. "I don't want to get caught for murder, Micheal. I barely got away with it with Emma." Micheal grunted and looked into the vast woods in front of him. His feet were getting tired and his shoulders hurt from the heaviness of the shovels.

"Wouldn't they notice his absence?" The teen German Shepherd scoffed, glancing at the wet ground.

Mariya looked down at the boy, her eyes meeting his cheekbone - due to the boy not looking back at her right away. "Whose they exactly?"

The boy laughed and they both stopped. He took the shovels off of his shoulders and Mariya did the same with Fynn's corpse. "The central government!" He exclaimed, pushing his shovel into the wet dirt. "We don't live all that far from the capitol. A few miles - nothing much. Did you not see the city in the distance as you stepped onto our porch a few months back?"

Mariya shook her head negatively, signing calmly: "No, It was dark. That snowstorm didn't help either."

Mariya, grabbing the other shovel, began to dig into the wet Earth as well. Both shovels made a crunchy dirt noise - to that of mud. Micheal began to heave quickly, not used to shovelling dirt on the farm. He looked up at Mariya and smiled: "I have to thank you." He said, making the Russian look up yet again.

"For what?" Mariya's expression wrote.

Micheal paused for a moment and wiped his brow.

"For killing him." He said blankly, looking into the covered up Hybrid's eyes. Mariya blinked, but didn't utter a word. "I mean," The boy added, "I don't want to sound like a Psychopath or anything, but, fuck! I hated him. If you never arrived, I would've done it myself."

The Russian blinked again, her eyes gazing into the young teen's.

Feeling awkward, Micheal cleared his throat and went back to digging, muttering about how he wanted Mariya to promise to not tell Emma of his swearing. She understood - him being 14 and all, he was beginning his rebellious stage. She remembered going through it too; running away with Caroline under the vast sunset that always stretched over Nömberg; making out or fucking under the trees just outside of town borders, away from parental views. Mariya smiled under her mask as she dug - those were the good times. The times before Schröder's lackies and all of the chaos, before her untimely demise. When everything was perfect.

She sighed and looked back up at the boy, who was flustered red: "Don't worry. I understand." she signed, making the boy's redness disappear almost instantly. Smiling, the teenager went back to digging - not muttering a word. Mariya did the same. They both dug for hours, making a ditch big enough for Fynn's body to fit into. Files buzzed around the two of them - coming from Fynn's body - to which Mariya swatted at. "Maggot layers!" The Russian girl managed to squeak out, Micheal laughing.

"Are we done yet?" The boy smirked, swatting some flies as well.

Mariya stopped swatting and looked at the ditch. It was nowhere near 6 feet - but just enough to where if it rained, his body would not resurface. Laying the shovel in the moist dirt, she walked to the rotting corpse and grabbed it by the arm. Its stench grew so dank that it had begun to smell like rotting fish by the sea - mixed with socks that haven't been washed in years - all thrown into a junkyard.