After three days spent fleeing through the desert, the satchel gripped in his hands, Tony felt his brain was burned to a crisp and decided to stop. The thought of Michelson was firmly lodged in the back of his head, so he waited a long time before approaching the brook: he had spotted an odd black dot there, next to the bank. Michelson's thugs were everywhere. After a good half-hour, when he was sure the dot was not moving, he got closer.
It was a Stetson. Just a stupid hat on the ground.
Curiously, it looked like Michelson’s. Tony filled his flask, laughed out loud and kicked it. The hat rolled away. There was a head below it.
He flinched. The head was buried up to the hairline. There was no other trace around: whoever had buried the guy had done a good job.
Tony started to dig. He brought the eyes to the surface: they was open and staring at him.
It was Michelson. His body was cold but not yet decaying. How did he make all the way there?
Frantically, Tony went on unearthing the head. He couldn’t explain why he was doing it. He dug up nose and mouth.
«Hi» said the head, still buried up to its neck. «I was waiting for you».
Tony recoiled. «Dude, there must be a mistake».
But the head was free by now. The rest of the body pulled up itself quite easily. Michelson stretched his legs a bit and fetched his hat. His grin was soil-like, as if the desert itself was taking its revenge.
«OK, where were we?» he said.
I must admit I cheated a bit this time. I first wrote the story in Italian (in more or less five minutes), and then translated it (in half an hour or so).
Image from Wikimedia Commons. Many thanks to @mariannewest.