But I couldn’t help but believe that the excessiveness expressed in this particular brutal method of searching the trash contributed to the violent and essentially inhumane environment of this secret and closed society.

Preparing to stab the final bag in the center of the truck, the officer stumbled over the outer ones and hovered above it. Raising the weapon above his head, he brought it down with a force far more incredible than even the others had been.

But this time when the rod entered the bag there was a deep thump, followed by the sound similar to that of twigs caught in a lawn mower.

This time the metal implement did not return when the officer attempted to retract it.

He then took another stance and yanked even harder.

On his third attempt in that position he pulled it free, ripping open the bag as he did. It was dripping with blood.

At first, I thought he had stabbed a can of chocolate syrup from Food Services or an old oil can from Maintenance, but his reaction quickly convinced me otherwise.

The young officer lost all color and stumbled backward, dropping his blunt spear, and reached for his radio only to discover that it wasn’t there—something that served to make him only more frantic.

I waved to the officer in the control room, who immediately buzzed me in.

As I ran in, the officer on the flatbed began yelling.

“Oh God. Chaplain. Chaplain. Chaplain, get out here now. Call for help. Get—” His voice, which had been weak and tight and frightened, turned to pure high-pitched hysteria.

“Oh God . . . Oh God . . . What the . . . Oh shit . . . There’s a body in the . . .” With that, he passed out.

I rushed over to the second gate that led into the vehicle sally port, and before I reached it, the control room had already buzzed it open. I ran straight through the gate, pausing on the other side only long enough to close it behind me.

Heart hammering in my chest, thoughts a blur of indistinguishable images. Climbing up onto the back of the truck, I saw that the officer had landed on a bag of papers that had cushioned his fall. I crouched beside him, the sweat from my face dropping onto his. I could tell he was beginning to come around.

My eyes moved down his body. The name tag on his shirt read Shutt. His feet, covered in blood now, were still touching the last bag he had stabbed.

It looked as if the entire bed of the truck, once white, was now crimson.

“Look at me,” I said when he first opened his eyes. “Shutt. Don’t look down. Look right at me.”

He immediately looked down and began backpedaling away from the blood, like a sand crab avoiding an approaching tide.

Blood splattered everywhere. On the bags. On him. On me.