Blake Crouch - Run

by

Blake Crouch

SMASHWORDS EDITION

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PUBLISHED BY:

Blake Crouch on Smashwords

Copyright 2011 by Blake Crouch

Cover art copyright 2011 by Jeroen tenBerge

All rights reserved.

RUN is a work of fiction. Names, characters,businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either arethe product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously.Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, orlocales is entirely coincidental.

For more information about the author, pleasevisit www.blakecrouch.com.

For more information about the artist, pleasevisit www.jeroentenberge.com.

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personalenjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away toother people. If you would like to share this book with anotherperson, please purchase an additional copy for each person youshare it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it,or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should returnto Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you forrespecting the author's work.

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Confirmation of the murders came by way oftwo shocking films shot by holidaymakers. The first was initiallybelieved to show a dolphin fishing for salmon - until closerexamination revealed a relentless attack on a porpoise...The teamdescribed the mammals injuries as perhaps the worst example ofinter-specific aggression any of us had ever seen. This youngfemale had literally had the life beaten out of her.

The Daily Telegraph

January 25, 2008

The attack was...the first recordedinstance of lethal raiding among chimpanzees. Until the attack...scientists treated the remarkable violence of humanity assomething uniquely ours. Scientists thought that only humansdeliberately sought out and killed members of their ownspecies.

Richard Wrangham and Dale Peterson

Demonic Males

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THE tattered windsock hangs limp against itspole. Weeds erupt through fissures in the ancient pavement of therunway where she stands, and in the distance, support beams risefrom heaps of twisted metalthree hangars, long since toppled upona half dozen single- and twin-engine airplanes. She watches theBeechcraft that brought her here lift off the ground, propsscreaming, and climb to clear the pines a quarter mile past the endof the runway. She walks into the field. The midmorning sun blazingdown on her bare shoulders. The grass that grazes her sandaled feetstill cold with dew. Someone jogs toward her, and beyond them shecan see the team already at work, imagines they started the momentthe light became worth a damn.

The young man who has come to greet hersmiles and tries to take her duffle bag, but she says, No, Ivegot it, thanks, and keeps walking, her eyes catching on the colonyof white canvas tents standing several football fields away nearthe northern edge of the forest. Still probably an insufficientdistance to avoid the stink when the wind blows out of thesouth.

Good flight in? he asks.

Little bumpy.

Its so cool to finally meet you. Ive readall about your work. Im even using two of your books in mythesis.

Thats great. Good luck with it.

You know, theres a few decent bars in town.Maybe we could get together and talk sometime?

She lifts the strap of her heavy bag, swingsit onto the other shoulder, and ducks under the yellow crime scenetape that circumnavigates the pit.

They arrive at the edge.

The young man says, Im doing my thesison

Im sorry, whats your name?

Matt.

I dont mean to be rude, Matt, but could yougive me a minute alone here?

Oh, sure. Yeah, of course.

Matt heads off toward the tents, and she letsher bag slide off her shoulder into the grass, estimating thedimensions of the pit at thirty-five meters by twenty meters, andpresently attended to by nine people, seemingly oblivious to theflies and the stench, each in their respective worlds, doing whatthey walk this earth to do. She sits down and watches them work.Nearby, a man with shoulder-length graying hair buries a pickaxinto a wall of dirt. A young womanprobably another internflitsfrom station to station, filling a bucket with backdirt to be addedto the mound of gravefill near the southern edge of the pit.Everywhere that human remains have been exposed, red flags standthrust into the earth. She stops counting them after thirty. Thenearest anthropologist appears on the verge of pedestaling askeletonized body, down to the detail work nowpoking chopsticksbetween ribs to clear out the dirt. Other skeletons lie partiallyexposed in the upper layers. The remnants of human beings with whomshe will become closely acquainted in the weeks to come. Deeper,the dead are more than likely mummified, possibly even flesheddepending on the water content of the grave. Beside the autopsytent on the other side, tables have been erected in the grass, andat one of them, a woman she recognizes from a previous UN missionis at work reassembling a small skeleton on a black velvet cloth tobe photographed.

She realizes shes crying. Tears are fine,even healthy in this line of work, just never on the clock, neverin the grave. If you lose control down there, you might never getit back.

Approaching footsteps snap her out of herreverie. She wipes her face and looks up, sees Sam coming towardher, the bald and scrawny Australian team leader who always wears atie, especially in the field, his rubber boots swishing through thegrass. He plops down beside her, reeking of decomp. Rips off thepair of filthy, elbow-length gloves and tosses them in thegrass.

How many have you taken out so far? sheasks.

Twenty-nine. Mapping system shows a hundredand fifty, hundred and seventy-five still down in there.

Whats the demographic?

Men. Women. Children.

High-velocity GSWs?

Yeah, weve collected a ton of .223Remington casings. But this is another weird one. Same thing we sawin that mass grave in Denver. Maybe you heard about it.

I havent.

Dismemberment.

Have you determined what was used?

In most instances, its not a clean break,like a machete or ax strike. These bones are splintered.

A chainsaw would do that.

Clever girl.

Jesus.

So Im thinking they cut everyone down withAR-15s, and then went through with chainsaws. Making sure no onecrawled out.

The blond hairs on the back of her neck standerect, a rod of ice descending her spine. The sun burns down out ofthe bright June sky, more intense for the elevation. Brushstrokesof snow linger above timberline on the distant peaks.

You okay? Sam asks.

Yeah. Just that this is my first mission outwest. Id been working New York City up until now.

Look, take the day if you want. Get yourselfacclimated. Youll need your head right for this one.

No. She stands, hoisting the duffle bag outof the grass and engaging that compartment in her brain thatfunctions solely as a cold, indifferent scientist. Lets go towork.

* * * * *

There is no decent place to stand in amassacre.

Leonard Cohen

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THE president had justfinished addressing the nation, and the anchors and pundits wereback on the airwaves, scrambling, as they had been for the lastthree days, to sort out the chaos.

Dee Colclough lay watching it all on aflatscreen from a ninth-floor hotel room ten minutes from home, asheet twisted between her legs, the air-conditioning cool againstthe film of sweat on her skin.

She looked over at Kiernan, said, Even theanchors look scared.

Kiernan stubbed out his cigarette and blew ariver of smoke at the television.

I got called up, he said.

Your Guardunit?

I have to report tomorrow morning. He litanother one. What I hear, well just be patrollingneighborhoods.