John O'Brien - Conspiracy

Pausing to study the area before proceeding, Greg notes a significant amount of litter strewn around the crosses. Looking closer, he realizes that it isn’t litter at all, but rather pieces of darkly stained clothing. With the rank odor and the clothing, he knows that something very wrong has happened here. The smell of rotten meat, crows feasting, and articles of clothing scattered about. And that’s aside from some woman tied to a cross. From several meters away, he sees that what he took to be crosses constructed of dark wood is actually lighter colored wood that’s been deeply stained, the stain darkening closer to the ground.

“Oh. My. God…Diane?” the soldier beside him calls loudly.

The figure slowly looks up at the sound of the voice. With the lifting of the head, Greg makes out the features of a battered young woman. She squints as if trying to peer through a fog.

“Ky…” the woman begins and tries to swallow to gain some moisture for words. “Kyle,” she says through lips that have split from their swelling. “Is that really you?” She gives a dry cough from the effort of speech and her head droops again as if the energy required to hold it up is too much.

“Sir…sir, that’s my sister,” he says, starting forward.

Greg swings his arm to the side, catching the soldier across the chest to halt him.

“We don’t know what’s going on here. It could a trap,” Greg says, eyeing the surrounding environment.

“Sir, she needs help,” the soldier implores.

“I’m aware of that, but she’ll live a moment longer,” Greg counters.

The soldier subsides, but his body language carries his anxiety. Greg once again scans the landscape. They are all in the open, which isn’t the most enviable position. They are far away from any help and would be outnumbered in almost any situation. The horror of the scene in front of him shocks Greg to his very core. He stands for more than a few moments, waiting for something to happen. Nothing does.

“Okay, cut her down and give her some water,” Greg says “But then we’re moving her back to the vehicle, whether she can walk or not, and getting out of here.”

Greg wants nothing more than to leave this horrific scene. The smell is a physical presence that seems to blur anything observed through it. He calls up another teammate to help. As the two soldiers cut the woman’s ties, Greg holds his hand over his mouth and nose.

Not wanting to, but driven by a perverse desire, he looks over the immediate area closer. Shredded clothing, all covered by differing depths of dirt, lie scattered throughout. A large number of bones are entwined with the clothing, some with dried sinew attached and others looking fresh. Mutilated bodies lie everywhere he looks, and the odor almost becomes too much to bear.

The ground between the crosses has been unable to soak in all of the blood spilled and is darkly stained. Greg feels like he is stepping into a sandy tar pit. With each step, he feels the mush under his boots and globules of blood-saturated sand sticks to his soles. Gagging at the sight, he fights down an urge to flee — just get away from this place of sick horror. The drone from hundreds of flies fills the putrid air. From the site, a trail of blood, clothing, and remnants of bodies stretch to the east.

This is obviously the work of night runners , Greg thinks, looking over the dismembered forms that used to be living people, and some very sick people .

The soldiers struggle with the stench and the sight of mutilated bodies. One bends over to throw up, adding to the mess. But they persevere and work at the bonds holding the woman. As her bonds are cut, the woman sags into the arms of her brother. He knows he doesn’t need to hear the woman’s story. The bodies tell their own story of what is going on and the deliberate nature of which these people were tied for the night runners to feed on. It doesn’t sit at all well with him.

He can imagine the terror the victims must have felt being tied in the open with the sun sinking below the mountains to the west. The intense fear at hearing the first of the shrieks call out into the night. Panic filling their souls at the pad of running footsteps as the night runners made their way closer. The sheer agony of being ripped apart.

What kind of person can subject people to this kind of agony?

The soldier holds his sister upright and feeds her a touch of water from his canteen. He then moistens a towel and begins cleaning off her face.

“There’s enough time for that later, soldier. We need to get the fuck out of here. Carry her,” Greg orders, his voice rough with emotion.

Without replying, the soldier hands his M-4 to his teammate and lifts his sister in his arms. Her face is turned up to the blue sky and her grungy raven hair hangs in matted strings. Part of the gruffness directed at the soldier is his anger and shock at what has been happening. They leave the place of horror and begin heading back to the Stryker.

As they depart, the stench dissipates and Greg feels his mind clear. He directs the three other soldiers to form around Kyle as he carries his sister. Glancing over, Greg sees Kyle look upon his sister with a mixed expression of warmth and fear. Diane looks up from time to time and tries to give a smile, but her swollen lips make it look like a grimace. Exhausted from her ordeal, her body hangs limply in the arms of her brother.

Upon reaching the vehicle, Kyle makes Diane as comfortable as he can. Sitting on the bench seat, she slumps against the back rest. Kyle gives her sips of water and she seems to draw strength with each sip. Wetting a towel again, he commences with cleaning her face and hands. Chipped fingernails, bruises on her face, and her split lips attest to her ordeal.

The lowering sun casts the ravine in shadow. The mountains to the west silhouette themselves across the landscape. Shadows and darkness come early near the eastern side of the Rocky Mountains. The night runners enjoy longer periods of their nocturnal activity here. With abundant food sources, aside from those tied to the crosses, and the long nights of hunting, it’s amazing that anyone is left alive.

Greg has the Stryker retrace its steps back up the valley as far as they can go. The terrain rises into the hills and he follows the ravine upwards, wanting to get as far away from the city as they can. They make their way into the hills until the steep slopes and trees bar their way. He wishes he could build a fire to bathe them all in smoke so their odor won’t carry. The cool air of the evening will carry their scent down the narrow ravine and give them away to any night runner pack that happens to come across it. Within the deep shadows filling the high valley, he takes one of the fuel drums and pours some of their precious diesel across the gully in front of them. He hopes that the smell of the fuel will hide their odor.

In the failing light, the soldiers open packets of food and wolf them down. It’s their last chance to be out before nightfall and then it will be all elbows and arms as they try to find some comfort within the cramped Stryker. Kyle sits inside with his sister, feeding her portions of a meal. Those outside feel the cool air rushing down from the mountains above. Birds call from the surrounding trees, singing their farewell to the sun. Many swoop in the twilight to catch a last meal before retiring. It’s a contrasting scene of peacefulness compared to what they just witnessed.

An image from the ghastly scene on the highway below surfaces, but Greg pushes it down. He has a good idea about what is going on, but not the reasoning — as if that really matters. There’s no valid reason for someone to be doing that — purposely staking others out for night runners to feast on. It doesn’t really matter what that person did. The number of bodies alludes to the fact that it’s not done for punishment. Those are definitely sacrifices. Not wanting to relive the memory and have sick images flood his mind, he shuts down his train of thought along those lines.