"Let me die…" Vivian said, her voice very hoarse, as if a truck had run over her. Brian turned to look but said nothing and went upstairs. He took Love in his arms and went outside to the car. As soon as he got into the car a sharp smell hit his nose. "Fuck!" he swore the stench of Sami's corpse filled the car, making it unbearable to stay inside. Brian grabbed Love and got out of the car. Because the air was cold he couldn't stay outside, so he went back into the house and the phone started ringing. It was his boss. "Fuck!" Brian swore again and picked up.
"Yes, boss," he answered, but the boss's yelling echoed through the line. He was late for work. It was 8:30 already and the foreman had still not arrived for half an hour. "Boss, I was at the emergency room, I was going to call you but my phone ran out of battery. I just got home and turned it on," Brian said, stressing that he couldn't notify them earlier because the phone was dead. He expected his boss to say "Alright, rest then," but that didn't happen. "Fine, get ready and come quickly!" the boss snapped, then hung up.
"Fuckin' asshole!" Brian swore, threw the phone on the couch, dropped Love in his lap and ran upstairs to get his work clothes on. He started thinking—what to do? Bury the body, bring Vivian medicine, or go to work?
The iconic place of Los Angeles—the Hollywood sign perched on the hill that millions, maybe billions, always wanted to be near—was visible to Brian as he drove, but he didn't stop to look. He only glanced at it briefly while passing below, and didn't care. Quiet music played in the car; Love had already fallen asleep. Brian kept checking the rearview mirror, and each time Vivian's stare unsettled and saddened him. The things they were about to do, the things they'd have to do, ran through his head and terrified him. Vivian's hands and mouth were bound, just like the day Brian had killed Michelle—she sat in the back like that. Her eyes were terrified, but she made no movement to escape; her limbs were tied, but she didn't struggle. She only watched out the window. Brian wore his white cap, rested his right elbow on the armrest and held a cigarette in his left hand over the steering wheel. He flicked ash into a half-full water bottle. Daylight spurred him to move quickly—if Vivian exposed herself, people might call the police or come after Brian. But he managed to avoid that danger; he left the city and passed the iconic Hollywood sign. He thought no one would be there at this hour, but he was wrong—some people were jogging, some looked like tourists. He drove further onto the dirt tracks and into the seclusion of Griffith Park. The corpse smell irritated him; he needed to finish the job quickly. He ignored his boss's repeated calls and deliberately didn't read incoming messages so his "seen" wouldn't show.
He arrived at an empty piece of land and stepped out of the car. He wore a black hooded jacket and a white cap, cream-colored trousers underneath. The morning chill made him shove his hands into his pockets. He looked around carefully; there was no one in sight—just trees, plants, and a perfect view. "Now's the time," he thought, and took a shovel from the trunk. But the shovel had been partially buried under the body earlier—he had to move the corpse to get the shovel out. The stench was horrible. The smell of a human corpse: like rotten food, damp soil, and rusty metal combined—but much worse, far more nauseating. As he approached a sweet, sickly scent hit his nose—a sugary but spoiled smell. The sweetness turned into a burning pain in his throat within seconds.
The smell of rotting flesh mixed with moisture hung like a heavy fog in the air. With each breath it felt like the decaying cells filled his lungs and the taste lingered in his mouth. It was primal, but far worse than any animal stench: it was the breakdown of human flesh.
The smell invaded not only his nose but his mind. His instincts screamed: "There is death here." And once you smelled it, you could never forget it.