As far as the eye could see, dead bodies lined the streets. Every corner you turned, there were more carcasses. There was no avoiding them, they were ubiquitous. Every day they would be tossed into the back of trucks by the hundreds, and yet more would appear. They just kept coming. For weeks they just kept coming. The cold January air helped preserve them to some extent, but occasionally little bits of the remains would not make it into the trucks, maybe a limb here, or a little piece of this or that would fall off after being dragged along the concrete. Remnants of once wonderful lives. Civilians were so used to seeing them, they would simply walk around or over the lifeless bodies. People would allow, even encourage, their dogs to defile the dead bodies. Those who couldn’t be bothered to step over or around, would kick the carcasses out of their way. No one ever stopped to question the meaning of the massacre, or wondered where the tradition of taking hundreds of thousands of innocent lives came from. This wasn’t just a massacre, it was a genocide. There was a specific target chosen at the end of every year for as far back as anyone could remember: firs and spruce.