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The lantern flickered weakly, barely pushing back the darkness inside the cramped wooden hut. Outside, the sounds of a military camp settling in for the night filled the air—muffled voices, the distant clang of metal against metal, and the steady rhythm of boots trudging through mud. Rain had been falling on and off all day, leaving everything damp, from the walls of the hut to the heavy canvas of their cots.
Private Jacob "Jake" Turner sat on the edge of his bunk, methodically lacing up his boots, fingers moving automatically. Across from him, Corporal Mason Reed was doing the same, though with considerably less enthusiasm. Mason let out a long sigh, rubbing his face before dropping back against his cot with a groan.
"Tomorrow's the day," Mason muttered, staring at the wooden ceiling.
Jake didn't answer right away. He finished tying his boot and glanced over at his best friend. Mason looked exhausted, his short brown hair messier than usual, dark circles smudged beneath his sharp green eyes. They had been together since basic training, but the past few months had aged them both beyond their years.
"You sound thrilled," Jake finally said, leaning back on his elbows.
Mason scoffed. "Oh yeah. Can’t wait to run straight into enemy fire. Really looking forward to it."
Jake smirked, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. "Maybe they'll roll out the red carpet for us."
"Yeah, right. Only thing waiting for us out there is a one-way ticket to hell." Mason sighed again, rubbing his temples. "If I had any brains, I would've stayed back home. Opened that bar my old man was always talking about. 'Reed's Tavern' has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?"
Jake chuckled. "Sure. But then who’d watch my back out there?"
Mason waved him off. "Please. You’d be lost without me."
Jake couldn’t argue with that. They had been through thick and thin together, and now, standing on the edge of something far bigger than either of them could fully grasp, it was hard to imagine going in without him.
The camp outside was still restless. A few soldiers talked in hushed tones nearby, sharing cigarettes and final thoughts before the battle ahead. Somewhere further out, a commander barked orders, his voice barely audible over the wind. The air smelled of damp earth, gun oil, and the faint trace of cooked rations. It was the kind of night where sleep wouldn’t come easy, not with the weight of what was ahead.
"Think we’ll make it back?" Jake asked suddenly.
Mason went quiet. He stared at the ceiling for a long moment before exhaling. "I dunno, man. I really don’t. But we gotta act like we will. Otherwise, what’s the point?"
Jake nodded slowly. He didn’t like thinking about the odds. Dwelling on it only made things worse.
For a while, neither of them spoke. The wind howled against the hut, shaking the walls just enough to make it feel like the whole thing might come down. Jake pulled his jacket tighter around himself, staring at the floorboards, lost in thought.
Then came the noise.
Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.
Both men sat up immediately. The sound was soft but persistent, barely audible over the wind. Mason reached for his rifle, eyes narrowing.
"You expecting company?" he muttered.
Jake shook his head. "Not unless someone got lost looking for the latrine."
The scratching came again—then a whimper. Soft, almost hesitant.
Jake and Mason exchanged a look, the kind of look that said more than words ever could. It was that silent understanding that told them something wasn’t right.
Mason shifted on his cot, tightening his grip on the rifle. "Could be a scout," he muttered, but his voice was unsure, almost as if he were trying to convince himself.
Jake leaned forward, glancing towards the door. He felt the unease growing in his gut. The noise continued, that scratch and whimper, like a plea. The storm outside seemed to get louder, but there was a stillness inside the room that held them in place, waiting.
The sound came again, and this time, there was something more. A soft shuffle followed by a low growl, barely audible, but enough to make both men tense.
Jake slowly stood, his boots making soft thuds on the wooden floor. He moved cautiously, each step measured, as though not wanting to alert whatever was outside that they were about to open the door. His fingers brushed the cold metal latch, and for a moment, he hesitated.
Mason’s eyes never left the door. He shifted, his rifle now aimed in the direction of the noise, ready for anything. "Jake, you sure about this?"
Jake paused, hand still on the latch. "Nope. But we’ll find out in a second."
With a deep breath, Jake unlatched the door, letting the cold air and rain rush into the room. The noise stopped.
He peered outside, eyes adjusting to the darkness, scanning for any movement in the rain. His heartbeat quickened as he stepped forward, eyes squinting through the downpour.
Then, out of the shadows, something moved. Small at first, like a blur, then more distinct. There was a brief rustling sound and—
It was a dog.
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