Hunter enters as the (ex_gravedigg366) wrote in repose, @ 2015-11-16 13:14:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | *log, hunter reed, muerte graves |
[Cemetery Before Dawn: Closed]
Who: Hunter and Emily
What: Hunter, a shovel, and company?
Where: The Cemetery, of course.
When: Before sunup, say 4 AM.
Warnings/Rating: Safe.
In new cemeteries, they got you a backhoe. They dropped it off with a flatbed and then you drove it on down the hill once the cemetery was closed for visitors. The shovel on those things could dig out one of these graves in a few hours, haul up chunks of dirt and cut through roots like nobody's business, and the hydraulics trucked you around so you could get the right angle and make yourself a neat rectangle. Lots of room in the feet, lots of room at the head. You only really had to get the shovel toward the end, when anything standing up top would tip right over inside. Totally understandable. Hunter thought that made plenty of sense. Get the big machine and just haul the worst of it out before you jumped down and tidied up.
Hunter had dreams about backhoes, gorgeous dreams, and in them he sat in a leather seat balanced on a spring, and worked the levers and knobs. There was probably some weird sex aspect to it for most people, but not for Hunter, because Hunter couldn't use a backhoe to dig graves.
The problem was that people had been dying in Repose forever. There were bodies all over the damn place, upways and sideways and layered on top of each other, some of them with old stones and some of them with rotted bits of wood that got caught in his shovel. When there were other graves lying around like that, you couldn't use a backhoe. You'd send little bits of people from the previous century flying all over the place once you got down through the topsoil.
So it was the shovel, and the dreams, and the digging in the middle of the night when none of the visitors would be disturbed by the idea of what was actually under the grass. Hunter was three feet down and a few hours into it by now, steam coming off his skin and rising up out of the hole. Three dogs were nearby, the oldest watching him, the youngest chasing nothing in the undergrowth, and the biggest one, a brown mutt with German Shepherd ears, watched the night. He had a tiny radio playing country tunes sitting up top where the head would go, and half a ladder came out of the side the feet would go, ready to extend.
The dog barked at an approach, and Hunter lifted his head.