20:15, 14 June 2047 — Karlsplatz / Southern Front Outpost
A week had passed since the recruits of the Twenty-Third People's Regiment had been drafted.Five days of refresher training lay behind them—discipline, marksmanship, bayonet combat, obedience to orders. All of it drilled countless times before in the militia forces.
They came from different parts of the Union, spanning wide age ranges and professions.
Now they stood at the front.Their strict orders: hold the twelve-meter-wide double tunnel.
Their position was reinforced with sandbags, reinforced concrete, and barbed wire. At the center of the first defensive line stood an LKM-5—an improvised design, like so much within the People's Army. Its official designation was Light Collective Machine Gun, but in everyday speech it was simply called the Hammer—the hammer that crushed the enemy.
In total, six defensive lines had been constructed. Even if the attackers managed to drive them from their trenches, they would shatter at the latest against the final line.
David and Gabriel had the misfortune of being assigned to the first position. They stood watch in alternating shifts; their platoon had just completed its duty.
Now they sat around the fire, warming themselves.All eyes were fixed on the crackling, sooty flames. Some complained about the smoke burning their lungs and noses. David was used to it—from the soot of his former work—so it bothered him less than the others.
A woman wearing the same gray equipment as everyone else hung a rusty kettle over the fire.
"I hope you like hemp tea," she said in a silk-soft voice.
David didn't know her name. How could he? He had only been here for a week.
A man tore a page from an old book, rolled it into a cigarette, lit it from the fire, and handed the book to the woman. She stared at the tattered relic of a bygone age, confused.
"What am I supposed to do with this?"
"Well, what do you think? Throw it into the fire," the smoker replied."It's just a Bible. Worthless—except maybe to the believers of the Southern League."
He laughed roughly, almost mockingly.
The woman said nothing. She tossed the book into the orange-red sea of flames.David watched as the paper curled, blackened, disintegrated—and finally vanished completely.
"I thought they worshipped the sun," someone else remarked.
"No. They believe the sun is the head of God—the eye that sees mankind. That's also why humanity suffered as it did," the man said casually, flipping through his newspaper."Humanity banished the sun from the Earth, shrouded it in a veil of death—of ash and dust. Only when humans beg for forgiveness and atone for their sins will it shine again in its former glory."
"So they're Christians?"
"No. They're the fourth Abrahamic religion. A mix of Christianity, Islam, and Judaism, with a tendency toward shamanism and sun worship. It's so important to them they even print it on their damn flag."
A sharp whistle signaled that the tea was ready. One by one, they handed the woman their cups, and she filled them silently.
David raised his metal mug to his lips and inhaled the scent.The green tea felt almost noble under these conditions. Carefully, he took a sip. Warmth spread through his chest—it was as if his soul returned to him for a moment.
He ate a ration bar with it. The tea tasted bitter and metallic, but not unpleasant—more like a distant echo of relaxation,a rare comfort in a world that had long forgotten comfort.
The smoker shuffled closer, a bottle of liquor in one hand, a self-rolled cigarette and a cup of hot green tea balanced acrobatically in the other. He coughed heavily, then spoke:
"Why so quiet?" He crouched even closer to the fire. "Swallow your tongues or what?"
No one answered. Shaking his head, he uncorked the high-proof liquor.
"Anyone want some?" he asked the group.
"Don't worry—it's the good stuff from Heiligenstadt Station. Cost a fortune. Well, before the mutants overran it. Supposedly the United Stations couldn't even hold them back with flamethrowers. All the inhabitants were eaten."
"That's bullshit!" one of those crouched at the fire shouted.
"Oh yeah? You know better?"
"They drowned. Water eroded the concrete. They evacuated the damn place, blew the tunnel, and sealed it off. Nothing's getting through there anymore."
"Why didn't they just pump out the water? It was an important station right next to the capital."
"Even if they had, the ceiling would've collapsed within a year. The machines needed to fix that problem rusted away long ago. Cutting off the tunnel was cheaper and simpler."
"Where are you from, anyway?" the man with alcohol and cigarette asked.
"Kaisermühlen Station," replied the man opposite him, tossing charcoal into the fire bowl.
"And what did you do before you ended up here?" the older man asked, taking a deep swig.
"I was an electrician. Responsible for the water turbines—maintenance, repairs, new construction. Making sure the agricultural sector had enough artificial light. The hemp in your coffin nail probably comes from my home station."
The man laughed roughly. "Well then—my thanks for this pleasure."
The fire crackled softly. This was the essence of humanity—sitting around warmth and light, telling stories. A moment of peace. David found it almost absurd, considering how far humanity had fallen.
Then a blinding searchlight flared, tearing the calm apart.
"Enemy contact! All personnel to positions!" the non-commissioned officer shouted.
Without a word, everyone sprang up, grabbed their rifles, and rushed to the sandbag positions. David gripped his cold VSG-3 with both hands. Gabriel lay beside him—his first comrade, and this was their first engagement. Their baptism by fire.
David shouldered the rifle, staring into the darkness of the tunnel.Nothing moved. The searchlight flickered across the gray concrete as if it had burned the attackers themselves away.
Then—footsteps.
Soft at first, then louder, then a full pounding. They were charging.
Black silhouettes emerged in the harsh cone of light, dancing like shadows in fire.
"All units—open fire!" the NCO screamed with all his strength.
David took aim at a figure. His hands trembled.He waited until front sight and rear sight aligned—then pulled the trigger.With a crack, the figure collapsed.
But no sooner had it fallen than two more stepped out of the endless darkness.
The light machine gun barked, volley after volley, expending precious ammunition—and tearing bodies from the night.
David fired as well—blind, deaf, driven by instinct.He didn't know if he hit anyone.
He knew only one thing:He must not die.Not now.Not before he had written to his mother.