this story is based on the story brennan told in 'The Woman In The Garden." It really intrigued me so I decided to write about it, as she only gave the idea vaguely.
So here's my take on it!
Please review with ANY comment, just to see whether I should continue or not.
Dedicated to my friends Brooke, Emily, and Veronica who provided me with heaps of support and kept harassing me to write.
"The nick on the femur suggests brutal stabbing," Temperance Brennan concluded, turning the bone over slowly in her hands. She squinted closely at the mark, looking for any hints of a weapon ID. Her eyes blurred and re-focused. She sat back, wiping her hand across her forehead. She really needed a drink, but the water here was unsafe. She felt as though she would pass out any moment from the sun, baking the mud onto her clothing.
A man walked over to her, and asked her something in Spanish. The language was vague to her, and she could only remember key sentences. He spoke quickly and Brennan was unable to distinguish each word.
He spoke slower, in broken English. "Another. Stab?"
She nodded. "Si," she agreed. She heard the pain in her own voice. She was surrounded by stab victims, murdered by brutal, uncaring brutes who thought they owned the world. They needed to show who was boss, and achieved that by killing hundeds. Soon a small group spread like fleas, recruiting hundreds, sending them all around the city to kill people.
Less people, more food.
It was sickening.
She straightened up, feeling her back crack. She was surrounded by silence and hot wind, everyone standing back to give her room. Her tent was about 50 metres away, and she could see the last patient on a make-shift table. Soon this person would be in its place, and she would continue to the next victim.
She whistled and signaled to the leader of the dig. He waved to a few of his men next to him, and they came over to her, their thick boots cracking the muddy ground. They carried the body over to the table.
Brennan dealt with death nearly every day, but she rarely got so many in one day. It was overwhelming, and began to exhaust her. She really needed a rest, but knew these poor souls had to rest peacefully.
She had to bury as many as possible, properly.
She allowed the leader to guide her to the next body. It sat beside a deep pit, presumably an old well, and the bones were dripping.
She immediately saw the cause of death, and it sickened her.
A gunshot wound to the cranium.
And even though she couldn't currently see it, she was certain that there would be evidence of rape.
Her bones suggested around 8 – 10 years old.
Brennan sat back on her haunches. She had dealt with hundreds of murders, but these cut deep. They were mostly young girls and boys, ranging from 6 – 18, all with evidence of rape.
This was not how they were meant to die.
Without looking at the face, Brennan ran her hands over the body.
"No visual evidence of stabbing." She scraped aside the wet mud covering the bones. "Gunshot wound to the head. Several bones broken from the fall through the well. Young girl. 8 – 10 years old."
Too young to die.
Something about this victim seperated her form all the others. Maybe it was because she was dumped into a well. Maybe it was the gunshot. She didn't know, but she wanted to work this one herself.
She followed the Spanish crew back to the tent. An empty table laid waiting, its plastic surface still sporting old marks of caked mud. They lay the girl gently onto it.
Brennan started on it immediately. She cleaned the bones the best she could, and ran over them with her well-trained eyes. She could see indentations the whole way down. She felt her stomach drop.
She had been shot, raped and stabbed multiple times.
Brennan felt tears begin to form in her eyes. She blinked heavily until she felt the dew return behind her eyes. She sat on the plastic chair behind her and buried her face in her hands.
She shouldn't get emotional.
She let the tears flow, emitting her emotions of anger, hate, and saddness and letting them fall into her hand. She tasted the salt building up on her lip.
A woman working with her came over to her. "You. Go." She pointed to her tent about 100 meters away.
"Sleep. You. Tired."
Brennan nodded, grateful.
"Brason. Wait. You."
She wasn't sure whether someone called Brason would be waiting for her there or she had to wait for him, but the woman waved her off, and so she stumbled blindly across the cracked mud, the dirt whipping around her feet. She desperately wanted a cold breeze to freeze her, but none came, only hot gusts. She breathed in the humid air, stilfling her.
She swore this place was reducing her.
She met who she assumed to be "Brason" at the door of her tent. He had a large gun strapped across a muscled chest. Brennan knew he wouldn't be afraid to use it. She vowed to be polite.
"You here to protect me?" She mimed the sentence, pointing first to him, then herself, and then crossed her arms over her chest to suggest defence.
Whether he understood or not, Brason nodded.
Brennan walked past him and into the tent.
The inside of the tent was even more stifling then the heat outside. She tried not to choke on the enclosed air.
It was hard. It was everywhere.
She threw off her vest and untied her shoes, relieving her feet to the air, glad that they were free from their confined spaces.
She lay down on her sleeping back, closing her eyes, trying to erase the images of the sun-baked bodies from her mind.
There wasn't much else to fill it with.
Think of Angela. Her new-found friend she met at a bar. The life of the party.
She began to drift off with her friend the focus point of her mind, when she heard the fly on her tent being unzipped. She was confused – no-one else shared the tent.
With some effort, she opened her eyes. She saw Brason, her guard, standing in the entrance of the tent. She was puzzled. Why was he here?
And then the door opened again, and two other men joined Brason.
He pointed at her. "You are to stop."
They were here to hurt her. That was her immediate thought.
The fact that he spoke English clearly didn't register into her mind.
"You are to stop what you are doing. There are hundreds more. They deserve their punishments. You are ruining our overall plan. Stop or we will kill you."
She didn't doubt it. Brason must have been in one of the gang, sent to stop her.
She knew she was facing dangerous people.
"I can't stop," she said. She chose her next words critically – she knew they could get her killed. "I have no choice. These people deserve peace."
Brason turned his head to the other two burly men and nodded. The moved forward, crushing her clothes and bags as though they were insects. She felt scared, and felt her heart shrink inside. She knew she had said something wrong.
What would they do to her?
They descended to the floor, and ripped off her pants.
Oh, dear God. It was even worse then imagined.
They would kill her as they killed all their other victims.
Raped, then stabbed or shot. Or both.
They grabbed at her panties. Brennan shot her leg out, kicking Brason in the nose. He stumbled back, but the other two men flew onto her like flies onto a carcass. She swung around, managing to get to her feet, and punched the second guy in the mouth, kicking him in the stomach when he bent over. She swung the same leg around back into Brason, and then hit her knee to the thrid man's crotch, making him double over in pain.
"You bitch!" Brason screamed.
He punched her face, and kneed her in the stomach. Despite herself, she bent over. The three men together forced her skull into a headlock position, and threw a black bag over her head, wrapping a piece of rope tightly around it.
She was dazed. She wondered whether they would strangle her. She had heard of an old method of killing used many hundred years ago. It was called burking. They tied a bag around the victim's head and sat on them, making them gasp for air but choking on nothing.
They were crazy enough to kill thousands of people. This would be nothing.
But they didn't sit on her. They held her up, and she could hear low voices in Spanish.
Probably deciding her fate.
After a few minutes she felt a tug on the rope around her neck. The rope slid against her skin, leaving a burn. They pain ripped through her. They dragged her outside the tent. Though the bag was dark, she could tell that it was already dark outside.
Perfect. For them.
No-one would see them.
Brennan tripped on a rock, and tried to land on her palms. But Brason tugged on the rope mid-fall, choking her. He growled, and began to drag her. She had no idea where they were going, but she was scared.
Her dangling feet trailed over loose rocks and dirt. The shards cut her bare ankles, and she felt the blood trail down her feet. She hoped they were close to arriving.
After about 10 minutes they stopped. Brennan could feel the rope cutting her neck and multiple stones caught in her feet. She felt like hell, and she still had no idea what was happening.
She strained to hear what was happening, but the bag was thick, and she could only get vague sentences of Spanish. She gave up, awaiting her fate.
She felt herself airborne, and braced herself for the landing. She landed on her side, her face in dirt. She spat it out.
She heard the clanging of a metal door closing. She strained her ears, but could hear no sound.
Where was she?
What was happening?
She was as good as dead.
So, what did you think? As I said, please review with ANY form of a comment, whether good or bad. That would be SOOO great. Thanks guys!!!