Brewer
1
Pop’s Locket By Bo Brewer
John scrunched his nose as death oozed through the foggy truck windows. A scent he’d never quite get used to. Frozen bodies piled off the sides of the winding road. Men, women, children; stacked all the way up the mountain. John’s fingers fumbled through his pockets and found his flask. He made exceptions for alcohol on days like this. The bottle made things blurry, more forgettable. He’d do anything to make the job less real than he knew it was. In the driver’s seat was John’s partner, Anthony. He was grim, stern, ethical. His dead eyes kept to the road and his mouth kept shut. He’d only ever said but five words to John. “My son would love this,” he mumbled as he stuffed a G.I. Joe into his kit. That was six years ago. John knew nearly nothing about him, but they knew each other better than anyone else ever could. Because no one had seen the things they’d seen. No one else had smelt the things they’d smelt. And when they’d go home, they’d both have to put on a big smile and hug their children as if it were all just a bad dream. “A professional pretender,” John would joke to Anthony. The two would laugh for a moment; only until the truth crept back into their chests. Flashes of rolling corpses into mass graves flickered through their minds in the dead of their sleepless nights. They’d never forget things like that. No matter how many pills they took, no matter how many bottles they drank, the sorrow stuck to them like glue. The only escape would be their own deaths, and they both knew it. They slowed to a stop in the tiny Colorado town of Sidewinder. A convoy of trucks stood at the foot of the town. The engines gushed out a collective purr and the frosty winds nipped at John’s wrists as he stepped down from the truck. A hundred or so hazmat men gathered in