A small town with a name roughly translated to say “bent ass” in sand script.
8 days before this small town was home to 13 families, 234 people
3 generations of desert nomads that had decided to make a home for themselves.
They had survived sand storms, locus, and Taliban raiders.
60 of the male adults were tough as nails, die hard soldiers from varies armies.
In other words they knew how to fight, knew how to keep their families safe.
5 days before, a stranger had arrived, stumbling from the desert.
Sun baked, and ragged he fell into an incoherent daze.
The villagers tried to help him, bathed him, nursed his many wounds. More then a few of them seemed like animal bites.
But on the third day this unknown stranger, gave one last ragged breath and passed away.
Only to open his eyes a few minutes later….
Personal log of sergeant Gregory harries.
Time: 1130 hours
We had been received orders that my men and I would be taking part in a search and rescue operation in northern regions.
I understand that a supply convoy was hit by insurgent forces…all men lost.
Crush unit, my team are tagging along to lend a hand.
We have sited a small village just north of us. We hope to gain information about the convoy here.
I have sighted no movement, not even smoke from cooking fires…this just fells…strange.
(continued without time or date)
I am standing in the village center…everywhere I look is blood, and gore.
Intense fighting took place here, there are bullet holes everywhere.
Signs that explosives have been used…the strangest thing is we can find no bodies.
We are on high alert. And have radioed all intel back to command
I have no idea what has happen here…but it looks like it was a blood bath…