19:20 PM – July 5, 2047 – Surface / No Man's Land
David awoke. He did not know how long he had been lying there—or how long the rats had already been gnawing at him. His body was numb, his thoughts empty.
With great effort, he pushed himself upright and groped for his flashlight. His hand wandered through the dark void. Vaguely, he searched the floor for the cylindrical object, but could not grasp it. The ground was rough and riddled with cracks. A small depression, smoothed by years of flowing water, was the only tactile irregularity. Otherwise, everything felt the same. He braced himself with one hand and reached into the darkness again.
Then he felt the cold metal of his assault rifle's stock. He pulled it toward himself, sat up, and switched on the lamp.
To his horror, a metallic grinning skull stared back at him. Startled, he almost screamed, but bit down on his tongue. After all, he did not know if—and how many—mutants were still out there.
The skeleton lay in shredded rags. Bite marks were visible on the bones—probably the rodents that had claimed this place as their home had fed on it. David examined the room more closely. Next to the corpse, a tally had been drawn in white street chalk: eleven marks—eleven long days fighting radiation sickness. Beside it lay a bottle of high-proof alcohol.
In the other corner rested the bones of a child, cradled in the arms of what was presumably its mother. David gagged. For a brief moment, he thought those bones might belong to Tanja. What a horrible end for an innocent being.
Beside the tally stood a message—pale, smeared, and, like its creator, somehow lifeless, dead. But what did it say? With effort, he deciphered the hieroglyphs.
"I… I hope you moles rot!"Below it was written: "May the Lord forgive you this sin. We cannot."
Moles? A type of mutant? A code word—or a foreign designation?No. The writer was not cursing a demon that haunted him, nor a monster that wanted to devour him, not even the devil who had bound him in a contract and stolen his soul.
No—he cursed his two-legged brothers and sisters who had sealed the doors. Who had saved themselves and condemned all others to death.
Thus they wandered through their final days in this dead city—aimless, hopeless, without a future, married only to death and pain.
David wanted to leave this cursed place as quickly as possible. Otherwise, he feared the restless spirit would drag him into the abyss. Outside, he heard the wind howling—but there was another sound.
A humming and a whirring. It sounded like an engine.
Had they sent out a search party? No—the area was closed to vehicles. Had someone gotten lost?
He approached the shattered basement window and peered outside. Indeed, a truck stood there. But it was not a model typical of the Union.
It was rusted in places, the engine panting heavily, sooty smoke billowing from the exhaust. On the flatbed, a red symbol had been painted. At first, David thought it was the emblem of the Union.
Through the fogged lenses, he could barely make it out. But it was not the three arrows—symbolizing progress, equality, and reason—laid over a cogwheel, the emblem of the post-apocalyptic industrial proletariat.
No. It resembled the Red Cross—but twisted, as if growths or tumors had spread along its diagonal.
"Shit… eugenicists."
He flinched as heavy military boots passed by the window. The cross combined with a double helix—symbolizing DNA—adorned the gear of the new master race: the Neo-Eugenics Front, led by the self-proclaimed military junta council of the Eastern State.
In their ranks gathered all the scum the old world had spat out: eugenicists, racial theorists, and scattered remnants of the former federal army. They saw themselves as the last legitimate heirs of humanity—guardians of a rotting faith in nation and race.
Children of a dead empire, clinging to the past while the world around them had long since moved on. Survival through adaptation—and the weak were the sacrifice used to grease the gears of their nation.
Damned Eastern State—this was the last thing he needed. If they found him, they would kill him—or worse.
Fear shot through his marrow like fire beneath his skin. He stood frozen, as if he had decided not to fight death at all.
Voices echoed from outside:
"Bloody hell, in this weather not even a mutant would be roaming around—so why do we have to?""I'm sick of it too—and especially of your whining. We have our orders.""Yeah, we're looking for the damn outpost and freezing our asses off!""You two shut up—now!"
The speaker was clearly the commander. He wore a long black leather coat, his face concealed by an old gas mask—a relic of the former army.
They were all armed with improvised replicas of the STG-77. Even in these times, they clung to the past.
"Our gene-smith has made it clear that the war depends on this mission. So I expect more professionalism."
Which war? The Union had a ceasefire—David remembered.
"Yes, Commander!" the soldiers replied in unison.
The superiors began searching the street. What were they hoping to find? An outpost? Pre–Third World War military supplies? Or something else?
Either way—he would report this anomaly and hope they did not discover him first.
"There's blood!" one of the legionnaires shouted, having spotted a pool in the snow."Here, Commander—shell casings!" said another, picking up the brass-glinting pieces.
A deep growl echoed from the commander's helmet.
"These are Union rounds. Fan out and find them—maybe they're still nearby! We can't afford any witnesses!"
Like machines, the troops obeyed. The Eastern State's forces began searching the buildings. Doors and windows were kicked in; glass shattered and crunched beneath boots. Systematically, almost mechanically, they combed the area.
It wouldn't be long before they found David's hiding place.
He positioned himself in the corner beside the entrance. With trembling hands, he disengaged the safety on his weapon and fixed the bayonet. Breathing heavily, he stared at the door—knife in one hand, rifle in the other.
Countless thoughts swirled in his head like an angry swarm of bees.
Each thought stung him, until his head burned and his body was soaked in cold sweat.
They were getting closer. Building by building, room by room—louder, nearer.
He was not ready for this fight. But he had no choice. Where could he flee? Outside, mutants roamed—and now this.
Footsteps approached. David tightened his grip on the knife. For a moment, he thought the steel might yield under the pressure—but the blade held. At least it would not betray him.
Then he saw the enemy—a faceless figure in a black uniform, the symbol of the Eastern Power emblazoned on its helmet.
Before the man understood what was happening, David drove the steel blade into his chest. He threw him to the ground and clamped a hand over his mouth as blood spat against the lenses.
Instinctively, he twisted the knife, pulled it free, and stabbed again—again and again. With each thrust, the blade sank deeper until life drained from the body.
David's clothes were soaked dark red with his enemy's blood. His hands trembled, adrenaline lashed through his veins.
He wiped the blade clean, staggered upright, and dragged the still-warm corpse into the corner.
Another soul had lost its place in this cellar today—but David had no time to dwell on it.
With a click, he mounted his bio-scope onto the VSG-3. Through the broken window, he looked outside—and saw the rest of his squad.
Apparently, they had been rounded up by the Eastern soldiers. Now they knelt in the snow, hands raised.
"Sir, we found these ones in the building!"
They were clearly wounded by the flying beast. Shame crept up inside David—he had fled while his comrades had needed help.
How could he ever atone for this sin?
"Well, what do we have here? They look like impure ones, don't you think?" the commander said in a muffled voice behind his gas mask. Condensation formed on the filter.
"Impure"—that was what the Eastern State called mutants. Its ideology was shaped by eugenics and social Darwinism. Humanity was to adapt to the new world through selective breeding; genes determined rank and profession.
A genetic caste state—or rather, a modern caste system. Sacrifices were calculated. The impure were killed, sterilized, or sent to the front as cannon fodder.
"I won't take that from a failed breeding experiment like you," the squad leader shot back.
The commander grabbed him by the throat and squeezed."I was planning to send you to a labor colony. But if you want to die—fine."
He drew his pistol and aimed it at the man's head."Pray to your Marx—or your Consul."
A loud, final gunshot rang out.
Blood spilled onto the white snow.
But it was not the body of his squad leader that fell.
David had shot the pig in the chest.
Like a man possessed, he swung the weapon and fired again. His assault rifle spat fire like a dragon. Methodically, routinely, he killed two enemy soldiers.
His comrades seized the fallen men's weapons and turned them against their executioners.
Either they would fall here in battle—or leave the field as triumphant heroes.
In both cases, blood had to be spilled.