It seemed so simple, and somehow, Baker wished he'd relished it when he was younger. Sitting, resting, and, oh God, sleep. It was so far away now. He hoped he could still feel the pleasure of resting when he was dead.
It was now so far away, all his memories, but he still thought about them all the time. Like when he'd be seated on his Grandpa's bouncing lap when ever they got the chance to go over.
His father had been sitting on the chair opposite of them, and his mother and aunt were dining on wine in the kitchen, talking about stuff his small brain wouldn't have been able to comprehend back then. The dark deck paint was obscenely peeling off, leaving hints of wood underneath.
Despite his still developing mind, he understood that his Uncle had passed away. Lung cancer. It was surprising, really. Honestly, it was kind of ironic. His Uncle never smoked, not even a single drag on a pipe. But the dumb hump still got cancer.
He remembered his Father and Grandfather talking about his death. Baker, of course, had listened to the conversation, not really understanding, yet it somehow all shifted into place.
So, who'll bury him?
No, no, the question should be who'll take up his business as an undertaker, and his wife wants his body cremated, not buried. She says its what he would've wanted.
They both would chuckle, pretend that they didn't both know that the business would never be taken up, and act like the death flew over their heads.
The whole death didn't affect Baker much at that time. He was only ten years old, and he didn't visit his uncle that often anyway, so it didn't matter.
He would often stay up nights after his aunt had set up her husband's ashes, wondering who would've embalmed the man if he hadn't gotten cremated. After a while, though, the thought didn't nag him any more.
Once his Uncle had told him the process of the undertaking. The man would tidy up the corpse, make sure no blood or wounds lay visible. Then, the body underwent several other processes before the burial. After that, Art had made a vow to himself that he'd never, not even if it was the only job available, be an undertaker.
Now though, as they all walked on the road, Baker wondered if he should change his mind. Did his thoughts even matter anymore?
He wasn't sure they did, he was probably going to burn out here anyway. He would get his third warning, maybe lay down, or sit down like McVries planned to, or maybe he would just stand there.
His body would be riddled with bullets holes, and his corpse would be hauled away. He merely wondered which undertaker he'd go to. They'd clean his body up, make sure nothing was visible except for the fact that he appeared to be in a peaceful rest. Maybe they'd even arrange a nice funeral. Yeah, that'd be nice.
Now, as the sun was disappearing beneath the hordes of people, and the darkness rose up to the sky, he decided he would've taken up the job as an undertaker. Hell, it had to be better then the job of walking towards his inevitable death.
