Early next morning, at Checkpoint 4, the sun has just risen.
Time seemed to have frozen, carrying an inescapable aura of death.
Song Heping rode in a convoy of three reinforced Humvees, rapidly approaching in tactical formation.
The vehicles rolled over soil repeatedly ploughed loose by dense shrapnel.
The tires occasionally made a bone-chilling crunching sound, rolling over metal fragments, weapon parts, and other unidentifiable charred hard objects.
A twisted metal strip, vaguely recognizable as an AK-47 barrel, was pressed by tire, clanged against the car door, and fell back into the dust.
The closer to Checkpoint 4, the stronger the pungent smell in the air became.
At first, it was the acrid smoke from high-explosive ammunition and propellant that hadn't fully dissipated, irritating the nasal mucous membranes; then it was the greasy stench of diesel burning from punctured fuel tanks.
Finally, a dense, overwhelming stench of sweet blood and rot.
