Chapter 1316: Chapter 638: There Are Always Those Who Fear Nothing (2)
Corpses fell to the ground like harvested wheat, twitching a few times before becoming still.
After a brief pause in gunfire, the soldiers moved forward to check, executing those bodies that were still twitching or moaning. The sound of bayonets piercing flesh, the short burst of gunfire.
The waiting bulldozers pushed these bodies into a pre-dug pit.
They seemed very practiced at this.
On a gently sloped area near the edge of the gorge, where the vegetation was denser—another execution ground—a “corpse” suddenly convulsed violently.
His name was Juan, once a driver and thug for a minor boss.
During the earlier volley, a bullet grazed his scalp, while another miraculously passed through the muscle below his left shoulder blade, avoiding vital organs.
The tremendous impact had knocked him unconscious beneath several actual corpses, warm blood soaking his back, making him appear lifeless.
The footsteps of the soldier executing the wounded approached.
The sound of boots stepping in blood-soaked mud, like the drumming of death.
Juan’s heart nearly leaped out of his chest, extreme terror overshadowing the excruciating tearing pain of his shoulder blade. He bit his lip hard, holding his breath, burying his face deep into the cold, fetid earth, letting the sticky blood clog his mouth and nose.
The sound of boots paused near him, seemingly using a gun barrel to poke the corpse beside him. Juan could feel the soldier’s gaze sweeping over him. Time seemed to freeze. Finally, the sound of boots moved away, heading to the next area.
Juan didn’t know how long it had been until the sounds in the gorge completely faded away, leaving only the wind and the faint call of birds in the distance.
The soldiers seemed to have withdrawn. The instinct to survive overcame everything else. With all his strength, enduring the piercing pain in his left shoulder, he struggled out from under the pile of bodies.
Each movement tugged at his wound, blood gushing anew. He didn’t dare to look back at the scene of carnage, nor did he care about direction. One thought consumed him: run! Escape this hell!
He staggered into the woods at the edge of the gorge, like a frightened beast, relying on instinct to flee what he thought was away from Medellin.
Branches whipped across his face, thorns tore at his clothes and skin, each fall nearly making him faint. His shoulder wound burned fiercely, each breath filled with the taste of blood and the burning pain in his lungs. He didn’t know how far he ran or where he was going, only sensing the smell of blood and the sound of gunfire following him like a shadow.
The sky grew darker.
Juan was completely exhausted. Blood loss and agonizing pain blurred his vision and clouded his mind. He stumbled across a stream, the icy water jolting him awake, but his legs gave out, and he fell heavily onto the rocky shore, sending up a spray.
He tried to get up but had no strength, only managing a painful groan. Blood stained the stream and stones beneath him red.
At that moment, a deliberately hushed conversation and the rustle of footsteps came from the other side of the woods.
This instantly made him tense.
“The signal last disappeared around here, the satellite maps show a trail that might lead east.”
“God, does it smell like rust and decay? Colombia is disgusting!”
“Be careful, Rafael, get the camera ready, but don’t turn on the light! We don’t know what we’ll encounter…”
A few flashlight beams cautiously swept the edge of the woods, soon concentrating on the bloody, writhing figure by the stream.
“Holy Shit! There’s someone!” A lowered exclamation with a thick British accent sounded.
The beams stabbed Juan’s eyes, forcing them shut.
Several figures quickly closed in, moving swiftly and cautiously.
They were dressed in outdoor jackets, carrying heavy backpacks. One held a professional camera, another a voice recorder and strong flashlight, and another cradled a satellite phone with navigation equipment.
It was the group of “fearless” international journalists, defying the ban, trying to sneak into Medellin for an investigation—Maya from the BBC, Rafael from Reuters, Jean-Pierre from AFP, and their guide and security advisor.
All for viewership, they were truly risking everything!!
“Oh God, he’s been shot! He’s been shot.” BBC’s Maya crouched, her strong flashlight examining Juan’s wounds and his face full of fear and desperation. Her professional instincts quickly assessed the injuries, “Through-and-through shoulder wound, severe blood loss! Quick, the first aid kit!”
Rafael quickly set down his camera, rummaging through his backpack for a tourniquet and dressings.
Jean-Pierre from Reuters kept a wary eye on the dark forest around them.
“Who are you? What happened? What’s going on in Medellin?” Maya asked rapidly in Spanish, motioning for Rafael to help bandage.
Juan’s consciousness momentarily sharpened under the agony and intense desire to survive.
He saw the concerned and shocked faces before him—strange, yet caring—not Mexican soldiers!
He grabbed Maya’s arm with all his strength, his blood and mud-covered hand clinging desperately, his throat producing rasping, blood-flecked sounds:
“Killed… killed them all… all… killed them all… uh uh uh uh uh—” He broke into tears at the end.
The journalists’ hearts sank, a chill climbing their spines.
“Who killed them? Soldiers? Victor’s army?” Jean-Pierre pressed on, his voice trembling slightly.
Juan nodded with difficulty, his eyes filled with endless fear and hatred. He spoke haltingly, each word seeming like a blood clot coughed up from his lungs:
“They… capturing people… woods gorge… inside city… firing squad… follow-up shots… like slaughtering pigs… I played dead… came out everyone dead… Medellin… emptied… Victor… Devil…” His voice, perhaps due to excessive blood loss, was trembling and somewhat unclear.
The journalists gasped.
Rafael’s hand from Reuters froze mid-air, the camera lens cap unknowingly slipping off, but he forgot to hit record.
Maya looked at the ghastly through-and-through wound on Juan’s shoulder blade, then at his blood-soaked, dying state. Coupled with the faint smell of blood in the air and the deathly silent city silhouette in the distance, a surge of immense fear gripped all of them.
With his last strength, Juan raised a hand to point towards Medellin’s direction, there, only a chilling, lightless darkness in the twilight.
“There… not a city… it’s… a graveyard… fire… burned… all… burned…” His voice grew weaker, his gaze started to unfocus, and finally, his head slumped, sinking into complete unconsciousness.
The stream babbled, washing away the blood underneath him, but it couldn’t cleanse the deathly atmosphere in the air or the journalists’ hearts overwhelmed by tidal waves. They exchanged glances, seeing unprecedented shock and a heavy sense of impending revelation that would unveil Hell’s veil in each other’s eyes.
Making Victor seem like a villain.
Rafael, trembling, finally turned on the camera, the red recording light lit in the dim light, like the eye of Hell.
Maya took a deep breath, speaking into a voice recorder, her voice slightly trembling with excitement and fear:
“Record: Coordinates XXX, by the stream on the outskirts of Medellin, found a gravely injured survivor claiming to be a Medellin resident. He encountered a Mexican Army mass execution. He claims Victor’s army is systematically killing those associated with the drug cartel, and the entire city… has become a ghost town.”
The truth of Medellin, through this dying drug trafficker’s tale and the trembling lenses of the journalists, was about to tear through the “silence” Victor tried to maintain, revealed to the world in the bloodiest, most shocking way possible.
And Victor’s cold remark, “What good people can cry out for drug dealers?” now sounded with spine-chilling extremity.
…