"Click."
Sergeant Wallace squeezed the trigger of his rifle. The firing pin struck an empty chamber and produced a hollow metallic snap that echoed through the small loading dock office. He dropped the useless weapon onto the cold concrete floor of the Solt Warehouse.
"Fix bayonets," Wallace ordered the three surviving members of his supply squad.
The young soldiers did not hesitate or complain. They drew their combat knives from their vests and locked the blades onto the barrels of their empty rifles. Their hands shook violently as the adrenaline mixed with the severe freezing temperatures. They were trapped inside a small glass and concrete office overlooking the main logistical floor.
A deafening chorus of feral shrieks vibrated through the floorboards.
The loading doors of the war
