The heat of summer was fading, but that didn't stop Collins as he marched along with the other men of his platoon. His mane of auburn hair stuck to his forehead, the salt of sweat stinging his eyes. Cole, his fellow comrade grumbled at his side about the brutal trek and their merciless superiors. But Collins wasn't bothered by their hardship; he had weathered far worse. He was bothered by something else, something much darker.
"Something's wrong," Collins muttered, his eyes scanning the woods on either side of their path. The forest was an eerie stillness, almost like it was holding its breath. The birds were hushed, the animals hidden; the wind was the only sound competing against the march of boots. It was almost as if the forest knew something they didn't.
Cole frowned, looking at Collins. "You always say that."
"And I'm usually right," Collins pointed out.