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He hadn't planned on killing them.
Not at first.
In fact, many of Jarod's passengers left his taxi without ever knowing that they had been sitting only inches away from a cold-blooded serial killer. The kid that he was now coolly observing from the shadows had almost been the same as those oblivious passengers. Being no more than eighteen years old (and almost certainly a crosser going from the ratty backpack on their back along with the dirt and grime which covered them), they had been polite and interested in Jarod's question about Gigantic Park, answering back that they liked dinosaurs, even sharing that they had heard a rumor that the movie was coming to Petria on VHS within the month. They had even told him the name and location of the store they heard it would be sold at.
Jarod had earnestly thanked them for the information as he dropped them off at where they had requested, watching them go with a slight smile - rare for him, these days - on his lips as he thought about watching Gigantic Park, over and over and over until the tape broke, and then he would buy another one to watch over and over and over.
And then, after the kid turned the corner around a pile of boulders, as Jarod always did as a precaution against riders leaving items behind in his taxi, he glanced into the backseat.
And he had felt his heart run cold.
One of the magazines Lola had mailed him, back when she had just started living away from home and he had been feeling down about her absence, was missing. The magazine was gone, leaving a blank spot in the seatback organizer that had been its home ever since he lost Lola.
The kid had stolen something of Lola's, and that was a slight which Jarod could not forgive and forget.
It was kind of a pity, really. They were a sweet kid, but they just had to nab something with their grubby little hands, they just had to take something that wasn't theirs to take.
As repayment for their kindness during the taxi ride, he would make it as painless as he could.
He quietly, reverently, removed his revolver from his jacket pocket and aimed it with a well-trained hand.
The kid wasn't aware of his presence, standing next to one of the rickety shelters that all the crossers used as they dug through their backpack, their back to Jarod.
It was quick.
They were alive one moment, dead the next, crumpled on the ground like a marionette abandoned by its puppeteer, the contents of their backpack strewn around them. Smoke twirled around the muzzle of his gun for a brief moment from the heat of the bullet that had carved a hole through their back and out of their chest.
Birds squawked overhead as they fluttered away from the trees they had been nesting on, the crack of the gun echoing into the distance.
He approached the kid and crouched down with knees that were far too old, knees that cracked and popped as he reached down to rest a hand against the already cooling neck of the child, and made sure they were dead.
They were.
He didn't always take the time to, but for this one he would have to hide the body, it was far too close to the road for comfort.
Leaving the body, he headed back to the shoulder of the road where his taxi was quietly waiting for him. He grabbed the shovel from his trunk, shut it, and rounded the back of his taxi to walk back to the thief to hide their body. He glanced in the window of the backseat as he passed.
He paused.
He opened the door.
The stolen magazine was there, fallen from its holder but intact and just lying flat on the floor of the backseat.
The kid hadn't stolen it.
He'd killed them for no reason.
Hmm.
Jarod lit another cigarette, a strange feeling settling over his tumultuous heart, and then continued back to the kid's fort.
The ground was dry and tough, but he quickly dug his shovel into the ground, lifting dirt from the hole that was gradually forming and piling it beside the vaguely body shaped pit. The pit was smaller than the graves he usually dug, barely three or four feet deep and more more than five feet long.
The grave dug and ready, Jarod set his shovel aside and climbed out from the grave, dusting reddish dirt from his clothing as he did. Moving over to the crumpled body of the kid, Jarod started to pick them up but got distracted by the belongings that had been spilled from the kid's backpack when they had fallen.
As he observed the kid's belongings, looking for anything worth taking, he noticed a theme.
Dogs.
The zippers of the backpack were adorned with little dog and puppy keychains, the fabric of the bag dotted with patches featuring the animal, both realistic depictions and cartoony.
A clearly well-loved dog stuffed animal, with countless patches and spots of scruffy and stained fur, had fallen into the dirt beside the kids hand, its paw grazing their cold digits, the inanimate object trying to offer some form of comfort even in death.
There was a small pile of three books, well-read and worn, bearing the titles of 'Dog Breeds and Caring for Them', 'Dog Training 101', and 'Puppies and Pudding: Training Your Dog to Obey the Word No'.
The keychains and patches, the stuffed animal, the books, it all reminded him...
It all reminded him of Lola, Lola and her love of dinosaurs.
The only thing left to examine was a crumpled and water damaged piece of paper covered with writing. Jarod picked it up, and began to read. The wear and tear of the road (and a clearly non-waterproof backpack) had smeared the name written on the top of the letter too much to be legible - but the majority of the rest of the note was decipherable. It appeared to be a note from the kid's father.
'...know what you plan to do, and I won't stop you... Take the cash left under the shoe rack, and my credit card is in the counter in the kitchen. I love you and hope you make it to a safer place, a better place than Petria. I will take care of Max when you're gone, he will... bag in the closet, take anything you want. Be safe out there.
Love,
- Dad'
At the bottom of the note, under the signature, was a crudely drawn doodle of a dog, with a collar naming the dog 'Max' around its neck.
Turning the note over, Jarod set his eyes on a photograph that was taped to the back of the note. The edges were ripped and faded, but the image was still clear.
The kid was recognizable, although younger than they had been when Jarod came across them, holding a small brown puppy with a bow around its neck tightly to their chest with a beaming smile that clearly broadcasted their joy. A box was at their feet, wrapping paper in shreds around it. An older man, presumably their father, was standing beside them, an arm flung around their small shoulders and pulling them close as he grinned at the camera.
Just like his Lola had loved dinosaurs, this kid had loved dogs.
This kid had a loving family.
A loving father.
And Jarod had taken that away.
He needed to get this over with.
He gingerly, gently, reached out towards the kid and slid his arms under the bend of their knees and under their dirt-stained shoulders, easily picking up their form - no crosser ate enough to be anywhere close to the healthy weight range for their age, and considering the body he held for a moment. If it wasn't for the bullet hole in their chest and the absence of warmth in their skin, they could almost be mistaken for just a sleeping kid.
He tore his gaze away, turned back to the grave he had dug, and lowered them in.
He paused, turned, and grabbed the stuffed dog. He shook it off, and placed it on the kid's chest, hiding the bullet hole from view. He tucked the kids cold arms across the dog, securing it against their chest, and climbed from the pit.
He grabbed his shovel, moved to the pile of dirt that had formed beside the pit, and began to move the dirt back to where it had come from.
The kid and their dog slowly disappeared from view.
After a moment's pause, Jarod crouched to pluck a handful of wilted daisies from where they had sprung up from the dry ground, the flowers somehow having clung to life long enough to blossom. Gathering them into a pitiful flower bouquet, he gently laid them over the makeshift grave.
When he finished, he turned and walked away from the pile of dirt, rounding the boulders and striding back to his taxi. He placed his shovel back into the trunk, the stained trunk, and shut it. He got into the front seat, and started the car. He drove away, both hands gripping the wheel hard enough to turn his knuckles white, his mind troubled.
He knew he couldn't stop, not for anything.
Not for this kid, not for anything but revenge for his sweet Lola.
He couldn't stop.