8 Hours Past a Week

Foreshadowing

The sound of shouting filled the corridors. The thud of boots echoing off the walls, moving steadily towards a door.

Perspiration dampened their brows and rolled steadily down their necks, dampening the collars of their uniforms.

The musty smell of stress, pain, and fear radiated through those halls. It awakened the already alert senses of the ones hoping to liberate, the ones in pain. The stench of death blew in from the windows. It caused some of the men to pause their breath. They internally shook the guilt, the regret, and the loss they felt.

One hand signal, all movement stopped. Someone from around a corner shouted in a foreign language. The few unable to translate still understood. The threat was clear. Proceed and they would be risking their lives.

As their commander, took a brief moment to internally debate best course of action, without knowing what was around that bend. The few under his command, took a minute to compose themselves. Professionals in their line of work, and they were having a hard time dealing with the reality of all the saw outside. Professionals, who have seen many dead before, but never in the manner or numbers they saw outside.

With a few hand signals from their commander, they proceeded with his orders, wishing they had only arrived sooner. A week sooner.