Prisoner

The gate swung open with a rasp of metal. Cold wind cut through the opening as the soldiers grabbed him again. Leroy tried to speak, perhaps to plead, perhaps to understand, but the nearest soldier lifted his Mosin-Nagant by the barrel and drew back the stock in warning. Leroy fell silent at once as he did before.

They led him through the gates of a sprawling brick complex, its outer wall topped with barbed wire, its watchtower manned by a sentry in a fur ushanka, the red star glinting above his brow. Inside, the corridor smelled of sweat, damp straw, and rust.
Each cell they passed was crammed with faces, gaunt men in torn coats and filthy caps, their eyes hollow yet burning with quiet curiosity as they watched the foreigner stumble by. Somewhere, someone coughed. Somewhere else, a man muttered a prayer.