Desert Fox

Murder seemed to be a hobby for him, or maybe a spiritual calling

Mar 07, 2026

There could be a hundred people buried around the old Astro Motel. I only know for certain where three of them are, but one is enough.

I came here without any expectation the old place would still be standing, but even the spire is intact. It was futuristic when it was built, then retro-futuristic in the nineties when I lived here, but now it’s just old and sad, like me.

Even when the motel was open, the spire was pointless: most business was night-time business. Tired drivers saw the welcoming neon around five miles out, and they’d already decided to pull over by the time they saw the building.

And that was good for business, because the Astro was a white-washed concrete slab in the desert, with no pool, no shade, and no facilities. But Manny had the rates painted on the wall in big, red numbers, and they were low enough that you knew two things straight away: you could afford it, and you weren’t paying for comfort; you were paying to lie down and dream of sleep before you set off again in the morning.

Not everyone set off again in the morning.

I grab the shovel from the trunk and head to my old room. It’s boarded up now, like all of them, but that doesn’t matter. I don’t need to go inside.

Looking straight across the parking lot from my door, there’s a rocky outcrop maybe five hundred yards away. It’s so big I could see it even on the darkest nights, by looking for where the stars weren’t.

There’s a trucker waiting for me by those rocks, about ten feet beyond the northernmost point and three feet down.

Beetles crunch under my boots as I walk across the lot, and tiny olive-green lizards scurry away from the beam of my flashlight. They’ve got used to having this place to themselves.

My shovel cuts through the dry dirt like a Bowie knife through belly fat. The desert was always easy to dig, and it’s easier still in the chill of darkness. My problem was never making the hole, it was getting the body to it.

I’m five-two, and even back in the day I was only ninety-eight pounds soaking wet; not that I got wet often at the Astro. A little thing like me couldn’t roll a fat-ass trucker off her bed, let alone drag him across the lot to the rocks.

Manny had an old F-150 with a winch, and he’d had a pulley mounted on the back of the cab. People used to ask him what the pulley was for, and he’d say, “Weather balloons, yup,” like it explained everything. But Manny was a big guy, and nasty: the sort you didn’t challenge unless you were ten drinks dumb. So no one challenged his explanation. They’d say, “Weather balloons? Okay,” and they wouldn’t ask again, nor ever search the clear, blue sky for a weather balloon.

Manny knew a guy outside Winona who’d break down vehicles, without asking any questions, so that’s where the abandoned cars and trucks went. But he buried his own bodies, and for that, his old pickup was a boon.

If he ran a cable up through the pulley, and back down, he could winch a three-hundred pound trucker from my bed to the F-150’s like he was toting tumbleweed. He charged me twenty bucks for his time, two more for gas, and a dollar to rent his shovel. That was for the first body. The second and third were free: I think he’d started to like me.

He used to hate me. My room faced the big rig lot — cars parked on Manny’s side of the building, where the family rooms were — and I’d sit outside my open door on a white, plastic chair, with my light left on so the truckers pulling in could see me. I’d dress for the heat of the day, letting the cool night air peak their interest.

Manny would scowl at me every time I paid my rent, like my business lowered the tone of the place, until that first bloody night. We bonded then, I think. He stopped scowling, at least, though I still never saw him smile.

I didn’t kill as often as Manny. Murder seemed to be a hobby for him, or maybe a spiritual calling. My kills were just opportunities, each seized faster than a sidewinder strike: three times I got paid from a billfold fatter than the trucker who’d fucked me, and three times I decided to take what I was worth.

There’s a dull clunk as my shovel scrapes against metal. It’s confirmation I found the right spot. I remember watching the trucker walk across to my room from his fire-engine red Mack truck, and thinking I could have made three good jackets out of his jeans. I never did, though; I kinda ruined the material when I spilled his guts on it. Those big pants were held up by a wide leather belt, with one of those old-school fancy buckles. This one — the one my shovel just hit — had a bronco on it, and the words, “Cowboys stay in the saddle longer.”

I remember thinking he’d probably break the back of any horse he rode. The words were a lie, too: he lasted ‘bout as long as any of them ever did, and I was mighty glad for that.

Digging in the desert at night is easy, but I’ll take a break anyway. I can see red and blue flashing on the highway; might as well let them dig the rest. I wasn’t certain they’d even come. They might have thought it was a prank call. But I count three cars, so they took me serious.

I won’t spend long in prison. I got the cancer, bad. I never had no health insurance, so the damn disease ate up my savings faster than it’s eating up me. Three hots, a cot, and fed’ral funded healthcare is as good a way to go out as any, and better than Manny or me ever offered anyone.