Mathematically, Bob had this equation well worked out in his head. But as he stands surveying the mess in his wood shed, something has gone amiss.
It is highly likely it’s the body wrapped in black Tarp and bound with thick rope lying against the far stack that’s causing it.
Getting rid of Jim-Nobody is easy, but this guy was a top hit – a gang boss, so it needed to be disposed of with no trace whatsoever.
The body, bent at the waist, seemed to be trying to sit up, one elbow jutting out at a disturbingly jaunty angle, as if it were still trying to join the conversation.
Bob’s phone rings in the back pocket of his jeans. He drops the axe, sighs wearily, removes the phone and flips it open. Bob is old school like that.
‘Yep?’ he says, a hint of question loitering in the shed with him.
‘You got rid of it yet?’ The voice on the other end asks.
Bob’s eyes flicked to the wrapped corpse, ‘Not yet. Just tryna think of the best way.’
The voice on the other end sighed then proceeded to eat noisily, the crunch of a bready sandwich. In between loud chewing noises, ‘Well, I’ll leave that to you to figure out – after all, it’s all your good for and… it’s what we pay you for, you fucking simpleton.’
With that the call ended. Bob, unbothered by the name calling, rubbed at his scruffy beard. He had been meaning to shave but who had time for that right now.
He turned and looked across the field to the small run down house he called home. He had felled most of the trees last year and was still in the process of cutting them up. He had more money than sense these days, but couldn’t bring himself to part with this property.
A lot of life had happened in this house.
And a lot of death.
Mist crawled between the woodshed and the house, moving in like some barrier between light and dark.
He had a small fireplace here in the shed to burn the offcuts and bank the coals sometimes, for cooking foil wrapped potatoes. He used to love cooking those for his daughter Sherry when she was a kid – but he hasn’t spoken to her in at least twenty years. He wasn’t the least bit hungry as he eyed the door of the fireplace and then the wrapped body, and his equation got all the more difficult.
He eyed the distance to the main house, which had a much bigger, open fireplace and his back creaked just thinking about it. At his age – which he thinks is somewhere post sixty, this happened a lot.
Again his gaze was pulled by those invisible problem solving magnets to the large chainsaw that sat propped up against the wall. The chain really needed some oil, and it needed a damn good sharpen. It would likely struggle against what was in the dark wraps of that tarp, probably buck and kick back into himself, that might not be too much of a problem but it wouldn’t get the job done.
The cool of the mist was now tapping at his back, like gnarled arthritic knuckles knocking at a door.
He was tired; tired of this life, tired of running, tired of being hunted and tired of hunting. His bones felt like they ground together whenever he moved and his right hand has had a tremor for months that only seems to go away when on the grip of his axe.
But aching bones were no match for a terminal disease.
His solution he then came to was not how he started the day but it was how he would end this day, and all of them after that.
The fuel canister wasn’t that heavy and what was left he spread around the woodshed as best he could. The place was one giant tinder pile anyway. The smell of fuel was thick in the air, scratching at the back of his throat.
He turned back to the house, the house where he had once been a simple man – just like the song that he and his wife loved to sing together – as much as it pained him, he had even played it at her funeral. A simple man until shit travelled in that downhill direction that shit always seems to take. The house, like him, was now completely obscured in a grey murk.
He flicked the last match in the box.
As the flames gathered around him and begun their dance up the walls and over the roof, he was sure when he took one last look at the wrapped up body of the most notorious gang leader seen around these parts in years, that he was giving Bob the thumbs up as if to say, “Haha, fuck you too pal!” but it could’ve just been the smoke getting to him.
Bob kind of agreed with him, but at least if anyone else in that gang traced their leader’s whereabouts to this small isolated farm out in the middle of Balmoral Valley, they would find nothing but ashes.
No trace of their boss.
No trace of Bob either.
For he too, will just be simple ash on the wind.
Dan Eady, a New Zealand writer, isn’t afraid to delve into the shadows. He crafts stories that explore the darker corners of human experience, whether that’s through the chilling premise of horror, the intricate puzzles of crime thrillers, or the speculative landscapes of science fiction. His work, often reflecting the quiet intensity of his rural environment, has found an audience in international publications such as Pulp Lit Mag, Wicked Shadow Press, The Dark Corner magazine, and New Zealand’s Circular Literary Magazine.
When he’s not composing narratives designed to unsettle or intrigue, he lives in a semi-rural New Zealand location, sharing an old house – one that might, or might not, have a few stories of its own – with his wife and an elderly Jack Russell Terrier, who probably knows where the bodies might be…..
Dan be found online at the following locations:
Substack: DAN’s Newsletter | Dan Eady | Substack
Bluesky: https://bsky.app/profile/daneady.bsky.social
Instagram: Daniel Eady (@daniel_eady) • Instagram photos and videos
The Dark Corner 
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