On the lonely road where we had birthed our scouts, the aura of a hunter-killer shone. We had to see what was going on. Our scout slipped in, watched from a safe distance.
John Rosemond, the veteran, stood on the road. He surveyed the area, first in wide sweeps, then he conducted more detailed examinations. Above him a black sky.
The broken-down bus could be seen further down the road. It was surrounded by crime scene tape. The yellow threads swayed in the breeze, awake against the sleeping trees. This had been the doing of those few police officers that had been brought in from neighboring counties to help. Their fear still clung to the place like a quick breathed afterglow.
John eyed the dirt path. He got down on his stomach, slowly moved the dust around with the tips of his fingers.
The veteran got back up. He walked the sides of the road, eyes searching the dead grass, scanning the naked branches. Investigating beer cans, soda bottles, and other bits of trash, he carried out the task quickly but thoroughly.
He entered the wood line. The journey up the road took twenty minutes, that’s how carefully he moved. Upon reaching the bus, he stopped. Waiting in silence. Then he moved to the edge of the road. He stopped and listened again, before stepping out of cover. John glanced up and down the road. Seeing no one, he lifted the caution tape and entered the crime scene.
The man circled the bus several times. He kept his eyes on the ground most of the time but would occasionally look up to examine the outside of the bus, or to check for other people. He completed his final circuit, stepped inside of the bus.
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Blood coated the inside of the vehicle. It was pooled on the rough floor. It coated the smooth, brown seat covers. It was splattered on the dirty, scratched up windows. The blood had dried, much of it tending toward black, like our own.
The remains were gone, taken to the morgue in Orava. Yellow placards marked the places where those young ladies had met their ends.
He moved slowly, stopping at the site at which each birth had taken place. Ripped up seats, befouled floors, one by one he checked each point.
John went back to the door, crouched down and listened for a few moments. Other than the yips of a few coyotes, it was quiet.
He went up and down the aisle. Then he checked the driver’s seat. And then back down the aisle, eyes on the ceiling.
Tires on the road, the sound of an engine that was nearing the end of its days. John ducked into the wood line. He got down, went still.
The car got close, started to slow. The lights glided across the scene. It slow rolled past the bus, did not come to a stop. The vehicle cleared the scene. It sped up again, disappearing into the night.
John waited for a full minute after the sounds of the car had ceased. He moved back to the edge of the road, checked in both directions. He gave the bus and its surroundings another look.
John spotted something. He looked around again. Then he walked over to the thing that he had noticed.
It was a bone. He stooped over a little bit so as to see it better. Looking at the ground, he saw another, and another. They had been stripped clean. Picking one up, he examined it.
“An elk,” he whispered to himself.
The man dropped the bone, looked around again. He froze, listening. Then he headed out, picking his way through the trees.
A chill. We felt a hard, jagged chill.