The cold rubber eyepiece of the binoculars was clenched tightly by Song Heping's fingers, emitting a faint creaking sound under pressure.
His sweat had soaked the fitted rubber edges, stickily adhering around his eyes, yet his vision was unusually clear, clear enough to be suffocating.
This open space on the outskirts of Deir Ezzor at this moment has turned into the most primal slaughterhouse.
At the end of his line of sight, the leader of 1515 wearing a black turban flexed his muscular arm, raising a machete high above his head.
Beneath the blade, a woman in tattered black robes was pinned down hard by two militants on the scalding, rough ground, dust covering her fear-distorted cheeks.
A non-human shriek, like being grated by sandpaper, squeezed out from her throat, hopelessly tearing through the air.
