Corporal Jeramiah “Wash” Trujillo rode shotgun as the truck belonging to the Sheriff's Department sped on through the desert night. Sergeant Bridget Reid sat in the driver’s seat next to him watching the open stretch of highway ahead of them with a stony silence. It had been close to four years since Trujillo had moved south from Tacoma, but even still the sheer emptiness of the Mojave, especially at night, still managed to surprise him. Sometimes you would go hours before headlights would appear on the horizon, only for the vehicle to pass on by just as quickly as it appeared. When he pointed this out to other members on the force, they predictably teased him about it. They gave him warnings that the quiet was only there to lull you into a false sense of security until the ghosts or aliens snatched you up. Trujillo was the resident city boy after all, despite his insistence that Tacoma was small compared to the likes of Seattle and Spokane and even more to Gotham or Metropolis. The corporal’s protests fell on deaf ears though, it didn’t matter if you were an overworked port officer, you were still a member of the coastal elite.
Maybe that is why Trujillo enjoyed running with Reid so much, she didn’t say shit. Trujillo’s own journey through the department’s well-greased rumor mill delivered the same old story – Reid was the lead on a case revolving around some sicko who hitchhiked on the railroad to get around and had a penchant to chopping up schoolgirls and fucking their corpses. After that it was a lot of staring off into the distance and morbid conversations from Reid. Whatever jovial seed that had once nestled itself within the sergeant’s bosom had long since shriveled up and died. A psychiatric evaluation after the fact suggested that Reid talked to somebody, but she apparently walked out of her first appointment with the shrink. The higher ups in the Department let her stay on though, driven by their throbbing hard-ons for picturesque efficiency, they only cared in as much as it kept the proverbial trains running on time and luckily for them Reid only got more efficient after the incident not less.
Reid spit a chewed and saliva ridden ball of gum into her thermos before she wiped at her mouth with a sleeve and spoke, “Why’d you come out to the desert Wash?”
“Guess I just wanted a change of pace.” Trujillo lied, caught off guard by his partner’s sudden interest.
Trujillo knew if he had the chance, he’d be back in Tacoma quicker than a shit after a bad case of food poisoning. The emphasis though was on the word chance and the problem was he never would have one, not as long as the Russians were still running amok in the port. Everyone knew that the
russkaya mafiya used the port to smuggle drugs, people, and weapons from the Russian East to the American West and vice-versa. Trujillo just had the shit luck of being on shift the night when Ivan and friends were dealing with a business partner of theirs. They were considerate enough to not shoot him right then and there when he stumbled upon the scene. Instead they provided him with an ultimatum, which was made all the more persuasive by the Glock barrel that they lovingly placed into his mouth. They were never to see Trujillo again or next time they wouldn’t be so kind with their offering.
“This your idea of a fun time then? Riding out into the desert to catch some kids getting their rocks off by setting fires?” Reid mused referring to their current assignment.
It was a “granny call” – some old senior having seen something scary in the night and now the department had to go look at it. Mister Willoughby who lived on the edge of town saw smoke in the distance and frantically dialed in. The pair after an unlucky drawing of straws was sent out to investigate to see if the fire department needed to be called up. As it was easier to send two grunts from the Sheriff’s department out there than potentially sending out a fully supplied fire truck that couldn’t get back to town as quickly if a fire broke out.
“What makes you say they are kids?” Trujillo questioned.
Reid shrugged. “It’s 3:00 AM on a Tuesday Wash, everyone else has lives to attend to.”
They turned off the highway; the truck’s frame rumbling as tires rode across unpaved dirt. As the road vanished behind them, so too did the last signs of civilization. Ahead of them was only rocks, scrubland, and the occasional prickly bushel of a low-lying cactus that merged the border between the two. On the horizon ahead of them, Trujillo could see a dark plume of smoke faintly illuminated by the tendrils of a creeping orange glow that hung on the horizon, the smoke growing fainter as it drifted away from the glow and into a tar tinted night sky. Trujillo whistled at the sight before he spoke.
“Fuck, maybe old man Willoughby isn’t going senile after all.”
Reid didn’t offer any comment.
As the truck rounded a final hill, Trujillo’s eyes widened. Below them in the remnants of a dried-up riverbed was a scene of carnage.
The hulking shells of two black SUVs sat in the riverbed, one of them sprawled out on its side and the other flipped completely on its back, flames licking upwards from the wreckage. Pieces of the two vehicles lay scattered across the scene reminding Trujillo of old pictures of bomb craters from school textbooks. Intermingled with the scattered shrapnel were dark shapes that were vaguely humanoid in appearance all inert. As the truck crept closer, Trujillo reached a hand down towards the pistol at his waist.
Reid pulled the key out of the ignition. The headlights blinked out of existence leaving only the fire from the crashed truck to illuminate the scene. Trujillo looked towards his partner and they shared a glance of silent acknowledgment before they opened the doors. Trujillo drew his flashlight from his belt and his pistol from its holster as he surveyed the scene. As he stood watched out of the corner of his eyes, he could see Reid pull out the shotgun from the mount on the truck’s rearview mirror. The two stood in silence as they swept the area for any signs of movement, but there was only the flicker of the flames. Nodding to one another, the sergeant and the corporal moved down the slight incline into the riverbed their safeties turned off.
As they got close to the nearest body Trujillo knelt to get a better look. The poor sap was dressed in heavy black body armor from head to toe. His helmet’s visor had been punctured through in two places with great force, slowly congealing blood dripped from the jagged holes left behind. Trujillo deduced that he was a PMC of some kind judging from his gear alone. A set of heavy bandoliers were attached to his armor containing several clips of extra ammo. The firearm though wasn’t anywhere near the body. Looking down at the body, Trujillo realized that he was crawling towards something, one arm reaching out towards a bush a few feet away.
He traced the reaching trajectory of the dead man’s arm and found a gun. It was a TSB17-9 submachine gun. The barrel had been sliced clean off from the gun landing a few feet away. Kicking the gun over with his foot, he noticed a pair of black padded fingers that still gripped the trigger, severed from the hand that was holding it. The corporal recoiled in shock as he fought against the bile that was forcing its way up his throat. Taking a slow breath, he slowly stepped away from the mangled weapon and appendages.
Trujillo made his way towards Reid who was currently examining the SUV turned on its side. As he crossed the riverbed, he watched the horizon and listened. There was still nothing, but the crackle of the fire from the other vehicle. The flames were spreading out now. The fire licked at the edge of the surrounding shrubs and a few of the corpses.
Trujillo turned his attention back to Reid and the unconsumed SUV. The vehicle’s tinted windshield had a hole in the center like something vaguely humanoid had burst through it. There was a woman in the driver seat dressed in a similar get up to the other corpse he had examined. He noted that the only difference was that this one didn’t have a helmet on, instead a black beret. His eyes though were fixated slightly below the head at the woman’s neck which had been shredded open. He stood there and thought about that for a minute, thought about what could do something like that.
Reid came back around towards the front having examined the vehicle’s cabin. Her face was pale, but her voice remained steady.
“Three more bodies in the back. All the upholstery is torn to shit as well.”
“What the hell is all this Reid?” Trujillo asked shaking his head.
“I have no idea Wash… This isn’t normal, not one bit.”
“Do we at least know who they are?”
“People with a lot of money that’s who. Not even the cartels pack this much heat.”
“There are more bodies beyond the burning wreck. Maybe they might give us a clue.”
Trujillo turned away from the SUV and trudged further up the riverbed. As he marched along, he shined his flashlight across the ground. There was a lot of blood, discharged bullet shells, and footprints. Judging from the amount of clutter, he began to get a picture of the events that transpired. Whatever survivors there where from the two wrecks moved in pursuit of something and whatever the something was it was fighting back. And judging from the corpses that lined the trail he was following that something was winning.
He passed four more bodies and stopped at the fifth that was furthest out. Still dressed in the same body armor, the man had managed to brace himself up against a rock. Resting in his lap was a shotgun pointed away from the wreckage. The shotgun had a short barrel and it was fitted with a pistol stock and a twenty round drum magazine. A blood-stained tactical knife lay not far from him having been tossed to the ground. There was a singular large puncture wound in his left leg just above the Popliteal artery and there was about a dozen more similar wounds each in pairs of two across the armor. It seemed that this man had managed to hold out longer than his other compatriots, trying to prop up his shotgun with his dying breaths. Trujillo didn’t know if such dedication was admirable or tragic.
He squatted down next to the dead man and followed the direction of his gaze. Leading out of the riverbed was more footprints and more blood. The footprints were different from the heavy imprints left by the soldiers’ combat boots. They were lighter, smaller, and belonged to somebody that was wearing no shoes at all. They must have belonged to the last man standing whomever they were. The footprints were erratic and staggered in a limping gait and there was a lot of blood. They couldn’t have made it all that far.
Trujillo scrambled up the short incline that lead out of the riverbed. He paused at the apex and looked back. Reid was checking over the other bodies as the smoke continued to belch into the sky. He paused and listened again as he watched the country. There was nothing: no sound, no movement. Not even the buzz of flies coming to nest on the corpses. He wasn’t sure if the place was cursed or sacred. Either way, he felt like an intruder.
The ground ahead of him was disturbed having fallen downward in a miniature rockslide. The footprints stopped at the edge, but the blood continued. He could see a pair of handprints where somebody caught themselves after a tumble. The trail continued like that. The heavy imprint of a body dragging itself across the ground like some large snake. The movement had aggregated whatever wounds they had received as there was more blood now. Dark heavy streaks tinted brown as it mixed with the desert dust.
Can’t be far now. Nobody can survive losing that much blood. Trujillo thought to himself.
The trail brought him to the foot of another small hill. There at its base was a small dark shape. The beam of his flashlight uncovered another body. He watched the body for a long time. His gun was trained on the corpse watching for any movement. Satisfied he crept on forward to get a better look.
The girl was curled up in such a way that she reminded Trujillo of a sleeping dog. A trail of blood smeared with dust went halfway up the hill before stopping. She had pale skin and long black hair, and both were matted with blood. Her black t-shirt was riddled with stab wounds and bullet holes and her black jeans were in a similar state. Yet Trujillo couldn’t make out any visible injuries.
He took another breath and holstered his weapon. He could feel his hands shake as he reached out to place a pair of fingers on the girl’s neck.
badumpbadumpbadumpbadumpThe pulse was slow and strong. The girl was still alive.
Trujillo gripped the trigger on the radio receiver clipped to his shoulder and spoke.
“Reid, you are gonna want to come and see this.”
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