Post by Freakke on May 9, 2010 18:26:24 GMT -6
Thirty bodies filled a hole in a forest far from anywhere. They'd all been stripped down and dowsed in chemicals to cleanse the bodies and remove any trace of where they had been or who had done the deed. Thirty corpses lay seven feet below the surface, soon joined by yet another body.
Above them all were only four men, two designated to toss the bodies from a pile above, one to run the machine that dug the hole, and one who carried a gun. All three wore suits designed to protect them from contamination and disease the bodies could possibly be carrying. The thirty first was the last of the bodies from the surface pile. As that last one landed softly against a cushion of flesh and bone, the man with the gun nodded to the man in the machine and it began to push dirt back into the hole. As the machine roared to life and did its duty, the man with the gun turned to the two who had been throwing the bodies into the mass grave. Several short bursts of automatic fire erupted from the gun and the two men fell dead.
The machine finished replacing the soft earth and began to move over top of it to pack it down. Beneath seven feet of dirt and almost three tons of steel, thirty bodies were crushed and forgotten. Only thirty.
----------------------------------------------------
Gabriel Heart sat silently in the bus as it trailed along on the highway. It had been three years since he went home. Three years since he had been on U.S. soil. Now he had to get used to the idea of being there constantly. Apparently a year missing in South America was enough for an honorable discharge. Especially after aiding several coups that ousted several unpopular figures. Gabriel just wanted to go home.
The bus stopped at the nearest exit it could for the former Sergeant. He got off and looked at the road to his home town. Twelve miles away lay a deserted graveyard of buildings. Gabriel had been told that the town had caught fire after a dry spell and an oil accident. On the outside, he agreed with his superior's, not doubting their words or the 'truths' the documents had printed on their white sheets. On the inside he disagreed wholly though. He knew quite well te town was never dry. Everything in Ravenwood was soggy.
Several hours passed as he walked down the familiar roads and saw the trees that he had grown up believing would trap him forever in the small town. He passed through the wooded road with only blackened birds to stare at him. Several hours came and went before he reached the town itself. Chalk lines and police tape were everywhere. The broken and burnt homes he had grown up with painted a mournful picture for him. Every street was the same. Evidence of fire and death. He expected it. He even expected the eerie silence that accompanied the town's hollowness. He'd seen it before.He even expected to find what he was told he wouldn't. The signs of arson were everywhere.
----------------------------------------------------
Several miles away, another man stood in the ruins of a building burned long before Ravenwood itself caught fire. Ten years before any of this. He had been too late to stop what had happened, but in it arose yet another opportunity to stop it from happening again. Ten years ago, he had been respected and admired in the state as one of the best psychiatrists available. Even after the fire claimed the lives of a colleague he had openly argued and fought with constantly as well as several patients who had been kept in high risk cells to, iroically, protect them, his status was unchanged. It wasn't until he had an apparent breakdown five years ago. Police found him raving and crying in the very burnt out shell he had run five years before that. It was then he started to pick up on what was going on.
The betrayals and secrets became apparent to him. The truth became clearer. Piece by piece the puzzle became whole. By then, no one believed him. He was labelled as a cracked individual. His words were slandered and he disappeared. Now he knew what was going on. He just needed time. Five years was enough. Enough to gather his evidence but not enough to stop it from happening on this scale. The man knew what was next. He knew what the grand scheme was. Thats all he needed to know. It didn't matter who. There wer a million who's and what's before he would ever come to the top. Even then, would it really be that? The end of the line? He knew it wouldn't be so.
He turned back to the empty cafeteria. He should have noticed these things earlier. Back then he could have done a lot more than wallow in self pity. It was too late now. Yet everyday, looking at this self induced hell he put himself through, it made him utter two words.
"I'm sorry..."
----------------------------------------------------
Running naked through a forest is not very appealing to many people. Being shot naked or buried alive were slightly less appealling options though. The chemical powders burned at his flesh. He knew the feeling though. When they still thought he had use, he underwent the treatment once or twice a week. He remembered these woods well enough to know the ways in and out. No one would see him. That wasn't his problem though. More than the powder, the humility, the fear, or even the hatred that coursed through him, his concentration was on his feet. Being naked unfortunately meant being shoeless and he was certain several sticks and sharper stones had already jabbed through the flesh. The blood would be a problem if they saw him. It would be a clear marker to any amateur hunter. If not, he might be able to slip away clean and find one of the shacks scattered throughout the woods.
Beyond his current attempts at survival, very little passed through Michael's brain. That would all come later, when he had more than what God blessed him with to deal with it all. For what seemed like hours, he ran. He didn't stop or slow once. He didn't want to risk it. He made it to one of the shacks he had closed last year after the owner was caught poaching and rushed inside. Some of the mans effects were still there. No guns or weapons but clothes and some cans of food were left there. Before doing anything he shut the door and barricaded it as tightly as he could. He then began to look after his feet.
The running began to catch up with Michael as he sat down and wrapped his feet in old shirt rags. He found a blanket and covered himself before finally passing out. It wasn't over and he knew it.
----------------------------------------------------
Gabriel sat looking through the Sheriff's office for whatever he could find. Anything would be a place to start. He avoided the Sheriff's office, afraid of what he might find. In a community this size, only a few people were needed to run a police force effectively. A Sheriff, as many as two or three deputies, and a secretary or two. Gabriel knew them all. He knew every face in the town up until he joined the Marine Corps. He didn't want to become trapped in a small town where he knew he would never leave if he didn't at the time. All that time away from home and he only wanted to return. Now he wished he hadn't. On the wall a shelf held a series of photos. Old officers, sheriffs, and deputies that had served their home and community. It sat mostly untouched by scorch marks. Gabriel's hands instinctively went for the one on the end. His hands gripped the picture frame as he peered into the faces of the three men in a single fishing boat. He pulled the picture out of the frame and held it as if it were fragile.
After snapping out of his reverie and pocketing the photo, he finally made his way into the office of Sheriff William Heart. The fire had charred most of the room. The familiar desk sat in ruins. He looked upon it remembering the last time he saw it. The thing was never in order. So many papers and trinkets it was bound to go up in flames first. The old man that sat behind the chair had a broad smile about him most of the time. Rarely, you could see him sit off to the side and sigh. He never raised his voice, never exploded. The only thing you ever heard or needed to hear out of him was a clearing of the throat, cough, or grunt to know you were beginning to cross a line. His two sons weren't the only ones to get this treatment. Every kid in town who ran into him seemed to know those sounds.
Gabriel's attention turned to the filing cabinet's. By saving grace they were made of aluminum and kept by one of the secretaries. What disturbed him was the unseenly amount of black left around them. Scorch marks seemed to focus on the cabinet more than anything else. It took some effort, but he pulled each drawer out, one at a time. All he found was ashes. The official investigation hadn't even made it to these cabinets. Everything had just been marked off as a complete loss and abandoned. Gabriel turned to leave, his hopes dwindling and his irritation growing. He hadn't gained his father's complete control over his anger. As he left the building, he looked back once more. Something happened that no one wanted to explain or have explained.
Above them all were only four men, two designated to toss the bodies from a pile above, one to run the machine that dug the hole, and one who carried a gun. All three wore suits designed to protect them from contamination and disease the bodies could possibly be carrying. The thirty first was the last of the bodies from the surface pile. As that last one landed softly against a cushion of flesh and bone, the man with the gun nodded to the man in the machine and it began to push dirt back into the hole. As the machine roared to life and did its duty, the man with the gun turned to the two who had been throwing the bodies into the mass grave. Several short bursts of automatic fire erupted from the gun and the two men fell dead.
The machine finished replacing the soft earth and began to move over top of it to pack it down. Beneath seven feet of dirt and almost three tons of steel, thirty bodies were crushed and forgotten. Only thirty.
----------------------------------------------------
Gabriel Heart sat silently in the bus as it trailed along on the highway. It had been three years since he went home. Three years since he had been on U.S. soil. Now he had to get used to the idea of being there constantly. Apparently a year missing in South America was enough for an honorable discharge. Especially after aiding several coups that ousted several unpopular figures. Gabriel just wanted to go home.
The bus stopped at the nearest exit it could for the former Sergeant. He got off and looked at the road to his home town. Twelve miles away lay a deserted graveyard of buildings. Gabriel had been told that the town had caught fire after a dry spell and an oil accident. On the outside, he agreed with his superior's, not doubting their words or the 'truths' the documents had printed on their white sheets. On the inside he disagreed wholly though. He knew quite well te town was never dry. Everything in Ravenwood was soggy.
Several hours passed as he walked down the familiar roads and saw the trees that he had grown up believing would trap him forever in the small town. He passed through the wooded road with only blackened birds to stare at him. Several hours came and went before he reached the town itself. Chalk lines and police tape were everywhere. The broken and burnt homes he had grown up with painted a mournful picture for him. Every street was the same. Evidence of fire and death. He expected it. He even expected the eerie silence that accompanied the town's hollowness. He'd seen it before.He even expected to find what he was told he wouldn't. The signs of arson were everywhere.
----------------------------------------------------
Several miles away, another man stood in the ruins of a building burned long before Ravenwood itself caught fire. Ten years before any of this. He had been too late to stop what had happened, but in it arose yet another opportunity to stop it from happening again. Ten years ago, he had been respected and admired in the state as one of the best psychiatrists available. Even after the fire claimed the lives of a colleague he had openly argued and fought with constantly as well as several patients who had been kept in high risk cells to, iroically, protect them, his status was unchanged. It wasn't until he had an apparent breakdown five years ago. Police found him raving and crying in the very burnt out shell he had run five years before that. It was then he started to pick up on what was going on.
The betrayals and secrets became apparent to him. The truth became clearer. Piece by piece the puzzle became whole. By then, no one believed him. He was labelled as a cracked individual. His words were slandered and he disappeared. Now he knew what was going on. He just needed time. Five years was enough. Enough to gather his evidence but not enough to stop it from happening on this scale. The man knew what was next. He knew what the grand scheme was. Thats all he needed to know. It didn't matter who. There wer a million who's and what's before he would ever come to the top. Even then, would it really be that? The end of the line? He knew it wouldn't be so.
He turned back to the empty cafeteria. He should have noticed these things earlier. Back then he could have done a lot more than wallow in self pity. It was too late now. Yet everyday, looking at this self induced hell he put himself through, it made him utter two words.
"I'm sorry..."
----------------------------------------------------
Running naked through a forest is not very appealing to many people. Being shot naked or buried alive were slightly less appealling options though. The chemical powders burned at his flesh. He knew the feeling though. When they still thought he had use, he underwent the treatment once or twice a week. He remembered these woods well enough to know the ways in and out. No one would see him. That wasn't his problem though. More than the powder, the humility, the fear, or even the hatred that coursed through him, his concentration was on his feet. Being naked unfortunately meant being shoeless and he was certain several sticks and sharper stones had already jabbed through the flesh. The blood would be a problem if they saw him. It would be a clear marker to any amateur hunter. If not, he might be able to slip away clean and find one of the shacks scattered throughout the woods.
Beyond his current attempts at survival, very little passed through Michael's brain. That would all come later, when he had more than what God blessed him with to deal with it all. For what seemed like hours, he ran. He didn't stop or slow once. He didn't want to risk it. He made it to one of the shacks he had closed last year after the owner was caught poaching and rushed inside. Some of the mans effects were still there. No guns or weapons but clothes and some cans of food were left there. Before doing anything he shut the door and barricaded it as tightly as he could. He then began to look after his feet.
The running began to catch up with Michael as he sat down and wrapped his feet in old shirt rags. He found a blanket and covered himself before finally passing out. It wasn't over and he knew it.
----------------------------------------------------
Gabriel sat looking through the Sheriff's office for whatever he could find. Anything would be a place to start. He avoided the Sheriff's office, afraid of what he might find. In a community this size, only a few people were needed to run a police force effectively. A Sheriff, as many as two or three deputies, and a secretary or two. Gabriel knew them all. He knew every face in the town up until he joined the Marine Corps. He didn't want to become trapped in a small town where he knew he would never leave if he didn't at the time. All that time away from home and he only wanted to return. Now he wished he hadn't. On the wall a shelf held a series of photos. Old officers, sheriffs, and deputies that had served their home and community. It sat mostly untouched by scorch marks. Gabriel's hands instinctively went for the one on the end. His hands gripped the picture frame as he peered into the faces of the three men in a single fishing boat. He pulled the picture out of the frame and held it as if it were fragile.
After snapping out of his reverie and pocketing the photo, he finally made his way into the office of Sheriff William Heart. The fire had charred most of the room. The familiar desk sat in ruins. He looked upon it remembering the last time he saw it. The thing was never in order. So many papers and trinkets it was bound to go up in flames first. The old man that sat behind the chair had a broad smile about him most of the time. Rarely, you could see him sit off to the side and sigh. He never raised his voice, never exploded. The only thing you ever heard or needed to hear out of him was a clearing of the throat, cough, or grunt to know you were beginning to cross a line. His two sons weren't the only ones to get this treatment. Every kid in town who ran into him seemed to know those sounds.
Gabriel's attention turned to the filing cabinet's. By saving grace they were made of aluminum and kept by one of the secretaries. What disturbed him was the unseenly amount of black left around them. Scorch marks seemed to focus on the cabinet more than anything else. It took some effort, but he pulled each drawer out, one at a time. All he found was ashes. The official investigation hadn't even made it to these cabinets. Everything had just been marked off as a complete loss and abandoned. Gabriel turned to leave, his hopes dwindling and his irritation growing. He hadn't gained his father's complete control over his anger. As he left the building, he looked back once more. Something happened that no one wanted to explain or have explained.