Clinton, Iowa
Night 8

Day breaks in Clinton. All is quiet.

Outside of the campground, a squadron of official vehicles (and some news media) were in position to move in. They had been positioned there for some days now, ever since the town’s inhabitants had started reporting gunfire and other suspicious noises emanating from the campground. Aerial photos taken only two days back had confirmed it – there were people there, isolated and getting dangerously low on supplies, and at the same time going through a very disturbing ritual in which they sat around the campfire for hours at a time before one of them would get hit by a flaming log.

All of this proved evidence enough for the Clinton Chief of Police, and in coordination with the director of the Clinton Department of Parks and Recreation, he would move in as soon as the one access road leading in and out of the campground had dried enough to be able to safely accommodate car traffic. They could have brought in special terrain vehicles or done a helicopter fly-in to get the job done quicker, but the city was still feeling the effects of the recession and the budget was stretched thin enough already.

Mere minutes before the Chief was ready to give the order, however, his emergency-only phone went off. Grumbling, he rummaged through his pockets and picked it up. The thing always seemed to ring in the most inconvenient of moments. At least he wasn’t enjoying some special time alone with his wife this time around… “Hello?”

“Chief, this is Matt Hoopolopopo, Director of the Clinton Hospital for the Criminally Insane. I’m sorry to bother you like this, but I have important information regarding your current rescue operation at the campground.”

“Go ahead, Director.”

“Well,” said the Director, “As you know, we’ve worked together over the past week or so trying to track down the recent, ah, escapees from our facility. And as we both know, there really haven’t been any leads yet. So last night, I got curious and analyzed some of the overhead aerial photos of the campground and the people currently trapped there, and I found some disturbing results.”

The Chief paused, not quite sure how to take this news. “Where are you going with this, Director?”

“After closely analyzing the aerial photos and cross-referencing them with our own patient database, I’ve found a match for two of the campers.”

“You mean to say that –”

The Chief was cut off. “Yes,” said the Director. “Both escapees have been sticking together and hiding out at the campground, preying on the campers already trapped there and picking them off one by one. Chief, I don’t know how many men you have with you for this rescue operation, but these were two of our most dangerous patients. I advise you handle them with extreme care.”

After getting the names and their physical descriptions from the Director, the Chief thanked him for letting him know and hung up. The three officers with him, plus the workers from the Department of Parks and Recreation, who had heard the entire conversation, looked at him expectantly afterwards.

“Should we get more men?” one of them asked. “You heard the Director, these guys could do anything out there.”

“Negative,” the Chief said, shaking his head. “We are the Clinton Police Department. We have better numbers, better arms, and they are most likely near starving at this point unless there is a seriously good forager amongst them. You know your targets. The access road is finally dry, and we’re going in now. Any moment we delay could mean they kill somebody else. Parks Department, stay back. My boys, we’re going in!”

The engines roared and the two police cars made their way down the access road, single-file. Sirens blaring, every officer imagining heroic music playing in the background. Officially, they were annoyed that the media trucks were following them since there was still an operation to take care of, but this was easily going to be the most glamorous moment of any of their careers. Not much happened in Clinton, after all. Aside from the occasional drug bust and domestic dispute break-up, Clinton cops led a boring life. A rescue operation in a campground facing unknown foes? Oh yes, this would be heaven in comparison.

The access road ended, and the campground began. The cops turned their sirens off to find… nothing. Yes, the tents and the campers’ various refuse and the petered-out campfire were all, but there were no signs of people anywhere, living or dead.

“Check the area,” the Chief said. “Who knows what condition these people might be in?”

“Guns drawn, Chief?” asked one of the junior officers.

The Chief thought about it for a second. “Yeah.”

The four officers spread out and searched each tent individually. The media members, confused, pointed their cameras at each tent. Rescue operations usually didn’t end up like this. Usually the people were waiting for the officers immediately, haggard looks on their faces but still bearing undoubted smiles. This was… nothing. There was nothing to be found. No people, no clues, even no corpses. This was almost spooky.

“Christ,” the Chief muttered. “They’ve disappeared on us. Most likely into the woods. They killed all of the campers and made a run for it since everything finally dried out.” He shook his head, and then raised his voice for the rest of the officers to hear. “Fan out and search the entire campground, not just the main area!” he barked. “I’m getting on the phone and getting more reinforcements. Under no circumstances is anyone to go into the woods!”

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Brenda Jorette, field reporter for one of Clinton’s local news stations, drummed her fingers anxiously. She had heard enough of the Chief of Police’s phone conversation to realize that something was amiss. Combine that with the frustration of nothing turning up at the initial campsite, and she realized that this story had the potential to go horribly, horribly wrong. Instructing her cameraman to keep the film running no matter what, she simply watched and waited.

Taking out her cell phone, she quickly put it away. Even though nothing was happening, now was no time to fiddle around with the various applications. This was serious. People could be dying. The police encounter might get violent. Two dangerous killers were on the loose. For all she knew they might have wasted fifteen campers over the past week. For all she knew they might be lurking in wait, ready to pick off anyone who came too close to their hiding spot, whatever it was.

For all she knew, they had escaped into the woods the night before and were hiding at her house, her husband and kids already dead.

That cheery thought now permanently lodged in her head, Brenda began to sweat despite the mild temperature out. This was the problem with waiting. When people can be literally anywhere, and the people looking for those people had a lot of ground to cover, your imagination started to run wild. Trying not to think about all of the horrible possibilities, she took her phone out again and put it away equally as quickly. She played with her hair. Her eyes darted around the campground left and right, taking everything in. How well did she know the other media representatives there? Were they truly who they said they were? Were they the fugitives, simply in hiding? Were –

“Chief!” One of the officers called out. “We’ve got one of ‘em! He’s hiding in the castle!”

The police cars’ engines roared once again, and they trodded over the grass, quickly followed by the various news vans.

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The castle was surrounded by police cars and officers. The Chief held up the megaphone as he spoke to the unseen survivor inside.


“Emerge your head from the window with your hands up,” he said in his magnified voice as it carried across the campground. “Do not make any sudden movements. If you refuse to comply then we will be forced to move in and take you by force.”

Three seconds passed.

Two raised hands emerged, followed shortly by someone’s head. The expression on its faced looked scared but at the same time relieved. “Don’t shoot!” the person inside the castle said. “I’m not one of them!”

The Chief looked through a folder containing two large glossy photos of the escaped criminals with their names beneath. Then he raised his megaphone back up. “What’s your name, son?” he asked.

“Yaseikhaan, Officer.”

The Chief looked over to his other officers. “He’s not one of them,” he muttered. “Come on out, Yaseikhaan,” he said to khaan, a kind tone in his voice. “We have hot food and cold beer. You’re safe now, son.” A grateful khaan emerged from the castle, shaken up but clearly happy to be alive.

The media swarmed over to khaan, but were quickly fought off by all of the police offers. “Can we please debrief him first, ladies and gentlemen?” shouted one of the officers. “Thank you!” he finished, without waiting for an answer.

Fifteen minutes later, khaan was ready to talk. “How many other people are left?” the Chief asked.

“Just one,” khaan said. “Just one.”

“Do you know who he is? Where he is? What he was doing last night?”

“No idea where he is now,” khaan said, “but I did hear a lot of hammering noises coming from his tent for a while. I didn’t ask any questions though. Going into his tent at night, considering what we’d gone through… suicide.”

The officers didn’t hear the last part though. Immediately after khaan said “hammering”, the Chief had rifled through his folder, looking at the profiles of both men. His eyes wide, he passed the one relevant piece of paper over to the other officers, and mouthed one word to them:

"Bomb."

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To be continued…