The third day of the attack on New Casablanca advanced with the crossing of the highway that led to the slums.
The state of the armed forces was devastated due to the horrendous fights in the prior hours. Rare were those that weren't physically scarred after those long, stressful hours of constant combat against the beasts. And even then, they weren't void of injury as the event would stay lodge in their hearts as though a deep knife had been left there.
Yet those soldiers were forced to accept that reality, and forced to continue advancing forward, despite the low hopes they held for their near future, one where they sadly didn't see themselves as the controlling force. But one where they felt as though they had been thrown in the middle of the sea with a tempest closing on every side—forced to flee to survive a few more hours, or at best mere days.
