Body Bag
by
Eric Bonholtzer
His wife was in the bag, well, what was left of her. Vincent had been able to get rid of one of the hands when he’d stopped for gas, providing a very hungry and very scrawny dog with a decent meal, and he knew that if he could just make it to Forester City, he’d be in the clear. His brother, Trevor, an undertaker, would burn up the leftovers in the crematorium oven, and then he’d be home free. Being the close brother that he was, Trevor was more than willing to help, especially knowing what that wretched wife had done to little Timmy.
Just as Vincent’s blood was beginning to boil, the thought of what his wife had done making his skin blister, he heard the squeal of tires approaching from behind. His own car had broken down a few miles back, and a brief look under the hood confirmed the fact that the engine had finally died once and for all, the wife having always insisted any money saved for a transmission overhaul be spent on herself instead. With at least another thirty miles to go until he reached Forester City, Vincent stuck out his thumb, hoping to herald a ride, knowing that the sooner he disposed of his wife’s body, the better. It was only too late that he realized, his thumb sticking out like a homing beacon, the runnel of dust settling and the tires screeching to a halt, that he’d flagged down a county sheriff.