by John O'Brien
Just past the university, Greg has the vehicle turn onto a highway that parallels the interstate connecting Pueblo and Colorado Springs. The increase in the vehicle track sightings makes him nervous, especially with the report from James that the bandits came from this direction. With Fort Carson’s proximity and the large armored presence there, he wants to proceed with all the caution at their disposal. The thought of abandoning this leg of their mission doesn’t enter his mind, but he won’t rush pell-mell into it either. The protection and armament of the Stryker suddenly seems very limited compared with what they could come across.
They leave Pueblo behind in the mid-afternoon. A wide river bottom separates them from an interstate a klick to the west. The river and its surroundings will make it difficult for anyone on the other side to intercept them. The route they have chosen will join with the interstate just south of Colorado Springs.
Sporadic farm houses disappear entirely as they proceed north. Escarpments hide the interstate for miles at a time. The eastern hillsides, showing deep ravines from runoffs, are cast in shadow as the sun pushes its way west across the blue sky. They need to be on the other side of the river in order to get to Manitou Springs, so it’s imperative that they find a bridge or some other means to cross. Going through Colorado Springs isn’t an option; an urban environment can become a deadly place.
There isn’t a single bridge to be found along the way and Greg doesn’t want to risk foundering the Stryker while fording across sandy beaches he sees next to the river. They continue until sporadic farm houses give way to the beginnings of a residential neighborhood. He’s left with a decision. They can go through the urban area to find a bridge to cross, they can ford the river, or they can abandon the mission altogether. With the last not being an option and, as he doesn’t want to enter into the large community ahead, he has the vehicle strike west.
Traversing an empty field, they come to the river. It’s not wide at this point, and they cross a small strip of sand before plunging in. The river is initially deep, rising to the hull itself, but shallows as they progress across. On the far side, the Stryker powers up a low ridge of rock. The engine whines louder and the nose of the Stryker rises into the air before crashing back down with a jolt. To one side, hidden in a copse of trees, old washing machines, toilets, and other discarded sundries are piled.
Greg has them continue west and across the interstate where it becomes obvious that vehicles have passed recently. Their passage has cleared a path on both sides of the freeway. The Stryker climbs and descends the small embankments of the highway. In a field on the far side, with the outskirts of the city in the distance to their right, Greg has two teammates disembark to erase the marks of their passage as best as they can. He covers them with the .50 cal, but they are able to complete their task unhindered.
They continue striking west and enter the barren landscape of the southern end of Fort Carson. Greg has slowed the vehicle to a crawl in order to minimize any dust trail. It’s evident there are survivors of some sort around and he doesn’t want to announce their arrival.
The area is covered with small ravines, ridgelines, and countless dirt tracks branching off the dirt road they are following. The trails they leave behind are easy to spot and follow but, from all indications, no one has made it out this way in some time.
The hills in the near distance to the west rise sharply off the plain, their sides dotted with evergreens and patches of green shrubs. Any natural greenery remains green and those plants that required water to be brought by humankind have browned for lack of nourishment. The land is returning to its natural state.
Passing by an isolated firing range, they come to a two-laned highway – The Vietnam Veterans Memorial Highway. This road runs along the base of the hills for a short distance before heading into the center of Colorado Springs. Greg follows this thoroughfare until they are immediately adjacent to Fort Carson. At this juncture, the hills and the highway say farewell to each other and Greg turns into several residential developments on the very fringe of the city. The houses themselves run right up to hills rising off the upper plateau of Colorado. It’s the best they can do without traversing into the mountains.
Working their way through the twists and turns of the neighborhoods, and sticking to the ones nearest the hills, they eventually clear the urban areas. At an intersection where Gold Camp Road and High Road come together, Greg halts the team to figure out their best route.
“Sir, I know this area,” one of the soldiers says. “Growing up here, I ran and hiked most of the trails in the area.”
He is the one whose family they are currently searching for.
“Okay. What do you recommend?” Greg asks, moving away from the map to make room.
“This road…Gold Camp Road…continues across the intersection. It intersects a trail that the Stryker can negotiate. I think the trail’s name is Lion Trail, but I can’t be positive about that. There’s a ridge that several trails parallel and we can follow that to the highway between the two springs,” the soldier answers. Greg looks on in confusion.
“That’s Colorado Springs and Manitou Springs,” the soldier clarifies.
“And that’ll keep us hidden?”
“Yes, sir. They’re dirt so we’d have to keep our speed down, but there’s no one there, especially if we take the west side. The ridge will block us from view to the east, and there are several other smaller ridges that will block us from the west. It’s the best way I know.”
“Alright, you stay here with me and guide the turns. Show me where we need to go and the best way to get there,” Greg says.
The soldier points to a small neighborhood that extends partway into a valley on the southwestern side of Manitou Springs.
Of course it would be on the other side of the town, Greg thinks.
As if reading his mind, the soldier replies, “Not to worry, sir. I can get us there easily enough.”
“Not to seem crass, but how many are we looking for? Greg asks.
It’s been one of the things on his mind since they began. If they do find loved ones intact, how are they going to transport them? Especially if they find very many of them. His plan was to find other vehicles which they can use, and he supposes that will have to do. It may not be easy finding ones they can get started, since the batteries will have drained long ago, but he’ll deal with that when he comes to it.
“Well, sir, there’s my younger sister and brother and my mom. My dad moved to New York a while ago,” the soldier answers.
“I’m sorry,” Greg says, referring to the fact that the young man’s dad is out of reach.
“Not to worry, sir. We didn’t exactly get along.”
Guided by the soldier, they find the trail and proceed up a series of switchbacks as they climb the lone, north-south ridge. Greg opts to travel on the western side as the soldier indicated it will allow for them to be better hidden. That of course means they won’t be able to see trouble coming either.
They cross over the long ridgeline and descend along more switchbacks. Meeting up with another trail which leads through a deep ravine, they continue their northbound travel to the freeway ahead. Small trail signs along the way indicate they are proceeding along the Red Rock Canyon Trail. The path is at the base of a steep hill. In places, Greg can see the rocky top of the larger ridge which the soldier identifies as Hogback Ridge. The path is narrow and the vehicle’s wheels roll on either side, flattening scrub brush that grows alongside. Looking behind, Greg is satisfied with their speed as dust rises no higher than the top of the Stryker.
The trail ends at an empty dirt parking lot. Ahead, Greg can make out the east-west line of the highway they’ve been striving to reach. So far, they have been lucky and haven’t encountered anyone. The hogback ridge ends abruptly at the edge of the freeway. He stops and pulls out his binoculars.
Across the road, he makes out the side of a large department store. Trees adjacent the highway block any further view of the area, b
ut he gets the impression that a residential neighborhood lies beyond the foliage. The two cities have almost grown together.
He focuses his view on something on the highway itself. He can’t make it out from his vantage point, but it doesn’t look right – it’s not part of the road system. It gives the appearance of a road block with stakes pointing outward. It almost looks like triangular anti-armor stakes.
That doesn’t bode well, he thinks, trying to ascertain exactly what they truly are. If there are anti-armor stakes, that means there’s armor in the area. And, obstacles like that are meaningless without supporting arms to take advantage of the blockage.
He takes a long sweep of the surrounding terrain looking for any sign of dug-in emplacements or anything to indicate that someone is lying in wait. He doesn’t see or hear anything other than the whine of the Stryker idling and a few birds circling. He orders the Stryker to advance slowly. As he draws nearer, he sees that he was totally wrong about the items in the road.
It’s a series of crosses placed in a semi-circle next to the multi-lane freeway. They are constructed of heavy timber and driven into the ground. The shadows from each cross stretch long to the east. It’s taken them almost all day to reach this point. Greg removes the field glasses and rubs his eyes, trying to erase the tired and gritty feeling in them. He’s strained to focus on objects for most of the day and he’s beginning to tire. Looking again, he turns the knob to sharpen the focus. The scene that jumps into view is horrifying.
In the magnified view, Greg sees that someone is tied or otherwise attached to one of the crosses. The figure hangs limply with its head down, chin almost touching the chest. Long black hair drapes lifelessly down and obscures any features. A light-colored shirt over jeans appears heavily stained. The person isn’t moving and, to all appearances, doesn’t appear to be alive.
Suspecting a trap, Greg methodically scans the terrain, but he still can’t see anything that might indicate someone else is around. All things human-made give tell-tale indications, no matter how slight. It’s just a matter of looking for those things that seem slightly out of place or the color seems wrong. He scans the area with thermal-imaging but sees nothing except the figure on the cross. The fact that they show up on thermals indicates that they are still alive.
Greg informs the team of what he sees and has the Stryker slow its advance. When they are about to emerge from the ravine and into the open, Greg has the team disembark. Although they will be slower and more exposed, the team afoot will create a lower profile. The Stryker will remain at the edge of the deep gully and provide support should they need it. He keeps two at the Stryker and takes five with him.
They advance across the open ground, their boots stirring up dust with each step across the rock and dirt. The lowering sun casts their dark outlines across the terrain, their shadows undulating as they cross rocks and small hillocks. Birds circle high overhead searching for food. Greg imagines the roar that rush hour traffic along the highway must have created at one time. Today, the quiet is pervasive. He can hear the crunch of their boots as they cross the sandy soil…hear the breathing of the nearest teammate behind him.
With caution, carrying his carbine at the ready, Greg walks ever closer to the figure on the cross. He hears the low whine of the Stryker behind as it shifts into a better position from which to cover them. At the sound, the figure on the cross ahead lifts its head a touch and tilts it in their direction. It then drops back to stare downward. The brief look doesn’t give an indication if it is male or female, but with the long hair, he’s guessing it’s a woman.
A rank scent begins to suffuse the area as he closes in on the figure – the smell of something rotten. Greg has run across this smell a number of times in the past. His wariness increases.
Greg crosses a low, barb-wire fence and startles a flock of crows that were settled near the crosses. They take flight with the sound of flapping wings and cries of disdain. Shaken loose from the sudden surge, several black feathers float gently to earth. Greg has one soldier follow him across the fence and tells the others to remain and provide cover.
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 bel
ow 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.