The armored gates of the Bataan compound groaned as they slid open.
Rust scraped against rust, and the sentries above held their breath, rifles steady, eyes fixed on the five figures standing just outside the outer checkpoint. The rain hadn't stopped all day, and now it fell in sheets, soaking the dirt road and the people standing on it.
They looked pitiful.
The man in front had a wooden stump for a hand, wrapped in bandages long since stained with mud and blood. The one behind him limped on a hand-carved crutch. A woman with hollow cheeks clutched a soaked blanket around her shoulders, carrying a child too old to be asleep and too silent to be calm. The last man had a crooked nose and black rings under his eyes.
They didn't speak.
They just stood there, shivering and wet, heads low.
A flashlight beamed down on them from the guard tower. One of the sentries cursed under his breath.
"Jesus… look at them."
"They carrying anything?"
"Nothing but a ragged pack."
