By night we take the bodies out into the jungle, in the backs of trucks, whose headlights spin mist around the mosquitos caught in their beams. The lights ripple on slick leaves as we grunt and huff to dig the pits out further and toss the wrapped corpses in. The masks on our faces and the clawing humidity make the work that much harder, but it's better than picking up the sweating sickness that’s killed these people.
Dawn greets by the time we get back and return to our homes. We wash off the filth. The blood. But the death stink lingers, waxy and glistening as it was on the flesh of the dead. Nothing really gets that off. People won’t come near us, even our families keep distance as best they can in our tiny homes. But we do what must be done.
The days are spent in languid half-sleep as the heat creeps in and draws aching sweats from us.
By dusk we meet at the back of town where the day shift has piled the corpses. Hard work this.
They say while we are gone that the trees whisper the voices of the dead. That each night the moans reach the ears of sleepers and try to tempt out children from their beds and seduce our wives. They say this to mock us. But some say it with a fearful look in their eyes.
Some deeds must be done. Some deeds take their toll. When we are alone, driving back from burying the dead in pits, we do not speak. But every man is asking themselves the same question. How long can we keep the secret?
Not all the bodies are still in their bindings.
Paddy Dobson
27th September 2022