Blood & Juniper

Accounts of Sam, Surilien mines near daybreak.

After hours of tripling the speed limit, evading the police and persuading a particularly incessant cop instead of cold-clocking him, I reach the mines.

Abandoned machinery and rundown equipment profiles the skyline among unnaturally bald boulders. A strange plant-life is gradually retaking the hollows and craters scr.a.p.ed out of this retired dig site.

The place has been overrun by lanky feather ended weeds, swaying like the rolling hills of Kansas. An alien terrain for the abundant woodlands of Oregon. I spot the rusted water tower in the distance. It's gangly spider legs creak as it glares down on a suspicious clearing below.

I veer off the dirt road, guiding the bullet bike to cover. The area is remarkably quiet, but I doubt it's as deserted as appearances would have one believe.

I start across the field, silent and cautious. The endless meadow is void of large bushes and trees. The yellow-greens begin to stand out in the glade as the sky morphs from black to steely blue. The waning pigment rouses my gut wrenching tension, the unavoidable factor of time slipping away.

I make my way down the slight decline, spotting the shadow of protruding stakes, gaining height as I close in. Rough but notably sturdy, like malnourished telephone poles. This fits the Twin's description. I'm vibrating with anxious suspense.

Limp shapes dangle from the stakes like strange fruit clinging to wilting trees. The water tower is a colossal mass looming above, it frowns upon the despairing shrubless patch.

A conspiracy of crows squawk when I draw near, angry wings flapping as I startle them away. I duck down into the grass, waiting for a sign that I alerted unwanted company.

I examine the untrustworthy ladder leading up the tilting structure. I reach out, listening to the hollow of it. I spy a cut out in the corroded metal and wait for eyes to peer from the slots. The exceptional hush returns as the birds fly off, I'm not getting anything from the depleted water tank. It's vacant, or so I hope.

My throat becomes dry as I sense a weak presence. I make out the silhouettes strapped to the poles, human shapes. The figures look dead.

A withering orange scent has me scrambling forward, my heart is in my throat.

It's like those old depictions of torture in history books, the crude black and white scrawl of unforgiving brutality. A horrid sight.

Two stiff bodies are pinned like insects to cardboard. I don't immediately discern that one is Ashlen. When it hits me, the stress and respite seem to strangle and skyrocket concurrently. My eyes don't want to accept what I'm clearly seeing.

It's her, she looks like a corpse hung out to dry on that wood beam. Pieces of clumpy hair are draping over her sallow cheeks, chalky and sickly. There are curved sabor-like blades jutting out of her c.h.e.s.t, all curling possessively towards her center. Like she was tossed into a thorn patch and now the spiky vines are growing over top and through the stagnant body.

I could potentially cut her heart out trying to get her down. I get a distinct chill. For someone unaffected by cold, it's utterly freezing.

"Ash," I murmur, overcoming the initial horror and rushing to her.

I touch her t.h.i.g.h gently, it's like thin China threatening to crack. I clear the lump in my throat and whisper a little louder, "Ashlen."

Her lids strain open to reveal the glassy eyes of the departed. I don't know if she sees me. She's in a bad way, but at least she's responsive. I couldn't picture her so ghostly and shriveled, a strong wind would blow her away.

Her lips are severely dried out. The cracked bluish mouth twitches wanting to speak. Even haggard and brittle, she has this terrible beauty of the porcelain dead.

Someone deliberately left her like this to perish by fire and silver. This level of sadism… I'm overwhelmed with a d.e.s.i.r.e to hunt down anyone responsible and pay them back ten fold.

"Hang tight, I'll get you down."

I circle the pole to see what I'm dealing with. Intent on making this painless as possible.

The stake she's propped against is a basic flagpole lodged in the ground but the mechanism used for the blades looks intimidatingly efficient. The two are individual set ups, but I don't see how to safely separate the device from the stake.

There are three sliding locks in the shape of an upside down triangle with hinges and springs. I study the workings and find it's not as complex as I feared. The weapons should pull out clean if I do this right. I decide on getting the lowest one out first. It's verticality must make it the most unpleasant of the three.

I hesitate, giving the contraption a final once over and take the plunge.

Unlatching the sliding bolt, I pull steady but sure. The hulking blade arcs, metal glides against metal in solid slip like a blacksmith racking a sword against his stone. It wh.i.p.s out and I jerk back. My bones feel weak at close proximity to the reinforced silver, it could slice through me with no effort.

I unlock bolts for the horizontal blades. Readying to take both at the same time and then grab her.

I heave, they retract smooth and simple as popping a vehicle trunk. I slip around the side before Ash collapses. My stomach drops as I catch her. She feels fragile as a babydoll with ceramic ligaments.

I curl her into me. She m.o.a.ns soft and breathy and head falls back as if lacking support. All her limbs hang limp yet rigid. I try to keep level headed as she swallows the hurt down dry.

I hold her tight and let out the breath I didn't know I was keeping in. I was beyond scared, a gut cloying fear. I didn't know if I'd find her alive and I've yet to experience a worse feeling than that.

I lower us to the ground and brush the mess of tangles from her face. She stares up at me with distant coherence as I huddle her. I stroke her frail cheeks and cup her face. Her eyes crinkle slightly in an attempt at a smile. Her lips barely move as she mumbles, "Sam."

I breath out something that's almost a laugh and almost a sob. My eyes fall closed, they're wet. I cradle her, bending down to kiss her forehead and whisper, "I'm here."

She's alive, she's with me. I *will* keep her safe. I have to.

I breath in her golden brown hair, all tousled and dirty. Yet, hinting sweet citrus blossoms through the dry crusted filth. Black and brown stains down the front and sleeves of her ruined shirt. A lot of her blood mixed in with the squallor. I lay another kiss on her forehead to tamp down the rage for her blatant mistreatment.

"I'm getting you out of here."

Her fingers furrel, attempting to squeeze. She rasps, "Am I dead?"

"No, you're going to be fine," the edge of panic and anger is concealed from my tone, "It's over. I'm not going to let anyone hurt you anymore."

She murmurs an unclear something about an angel.

I rock and hush her, holding her to my c.h.e.s.t. I stand to carry her away from this horror show.

I come to a sudden halt, and drop into a crouch. The hair on the back of my neck bristles. We're being *watched*.

I clench my teeth as they shift, eyes darting around. I clutch her to me and press against the base of the stake for cover, scanning the area. Someone is undoubtedly spying on us.

Ashlen's fingers startle me as they enclose, a snap of strength as they twist my shirt. Her eyes fling wide and feverish. There's an urgency as she sputters, "Wait, June."

Ice creeps along my shoulder blade and I jerk my head around. The neighboring corpse, it's staring at me. An unnatural pair of eyes that are undoubtedly alive.

My gaze romes over the preserved body to a heinously disfigured face. A realistic anatomy model of bulging flesh and liney muscle clinging to the bone. A head that's been whittled down to its barest form, skin torn away and discarded like a decaying peel. Patches of hair are sprouting from an all but scalped crown, waving like limp cobwebs in the breeze.

A hideous cadaverous contastrophy. This is beyond flaying, no one could live through such a mutilation.

That thing, that aura, the repugnant color of those manic irises. Recognition combats with my disbelief. It's *her*, the Reaper!

The devil blue eyes are suspended in black sockets, evil, outright savage. The shark-like grin is stretched from ear to ear, except there are no ears, only freakish holes. Such an abomination is a crime against nature.

Ash insists something but I'm too preoccupied to comprehend, instead I hiss to myself through gritted teeth, "How the hell are you still alive!"

I examine the damage. The skull is malformed, like it was bashed in, completely torn away… perhaps the entire head was ripped off.

"Impossible,' I object aloud. Growing back limbs, granted, but a head? No, you lose the head and it's over. But I can't deny the similarity, I've seen the slimy amalgamation that forms after losing a limb, the early and repulsive regeneration stage. Just like that face.

Ashlen paws at me with her boney tips and I nearly jump, forgetting myself, flabbergasted by this unfeasible hellspawn.

Her lashes are fluttering, exhausted and her nails dig in unconsciously, "Help her…"

I clench sharp teeth, the hatred floods in hot, overtaking the initial dubious shock. She shouldn't be alive and won't be for much longer.

Could this be an instance of divine justice? My bared fangs strain into a sneer. The daylight will take care of it.

A dark complacency blankets my countenance. I stand to leave. The reaper will finally, *finally* disappear.