The air is vibrating where ground meets sky, the horizon a muddled blur. The red sand has found its way into every crevice of the soldiers during their deployment, and they hardly notice it anymore.
Today, amongst them, is a reporter and a small camera crew. There’re almost twenty soldiers, weapons ready if anything goes awry, in case this turns out to be a sick ploy. Medics are waiting not far away, ready to swoop in.
A van appeared from a cloud of smoke only minutes ago and stopped a good distance away. Since then, the UN group has been waiting, watching as a small group has approached.
There’re eleven of them – one more than they expected. Six are armed to the teeth, faces covered, guns held just as prepared as the other party’s. Four of them are walking with their hands tied, dressed in rags, exposed skin burned from the desert sun. Two of those four have twisted their arms to support the fifth.
The man is hanging between them. He tries to walk, but his feet mostly drag in the sand. As they draw nearer, cries of agony fill the stilted air.
While the reporter murmurs to the camera, narrating the scene to those fortunate enough not to be here, the group stops, and the six armed guards walk backwards, guns pointed towards the last five. The cries continue, haunting in the emptiness around them, but everyone have to stay put.
The moment the dunes carry the sound of a van door closing and an engine brought to life, the medics surge forward.
“It’s a’ight, Sarge,” one of the prisoners rasp, voice strained from lack of use. That’s what he’ll tell his family. His comrades knows his screams. “It’s a’ight. We’re safe. We’ll be a’ight.”
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