Smolensk, European Federation – December 2035

  "Back then, I was in Medyn, a small town along the road to Moscow. It hadn’t even been evacuated, despite technically sitting within the so-called "Strategic Demarcation Line"—a fancy bureaucratic term for the frontline between us and the crabs."

  I watch as Dima Rostova tightens his grip on his golf club, lining up his shot. Smolensk, his target about 200 meters away, was like 20% of European cities who were under crab control—unmined, uninhabited, and officially abandoned due to the continent’s worsening demographic crisis. At 34, of average height and a lean build, Dima serves as an officer in the Internal Security Force. His job? Keep looters ,urban explorers and teenagers out, patrol the perimeter with his dog, and, when necessary, provide medical treatment to the unfortunate souls who "stepped on a mine," as he dryly puts it.

  "We’d been fighting for nearly a year. Every time we climbed onto that damn BTR—rain or shine—we braced for the worst. When our sergeant barked something at the driver and we veered off from the main convoy, we knew it wasn’t good."

  Maybe we were about to be the poor bastards sent in first—forced to attack the crabs alone, just to make them show their hand for the next wave. The ones who came after us would probably strip whatever was left of our bodies—our ammo, our wallets—before moving on.

  But instead, we stopped in Medyn. And we stayed. For an entire year.

  I’m pretty sure they just forgot about us.

  The rest of our company was wiped out the same week we arrived. High command must’ve assumed we died with them—despite the orders they’d given us."

  "Which were?" I ask.

  "Hold the town—most importantly, the road. Protect the supply line. Maintain order, which was easier said than done when half the country’s generals were too busy trying to coup each other while the rest of us had to keep the crabs away with our dicks. Oh, and keep an eye on the civilians."

  Dima swings his golf club, sending the ball toward a ruined house. He mutters a curse under his breath as it misses the door.

  "Civilians were alright. At first, the kids were gone, but by spring, they’d come back to help with the farm work. Little rascals always tried to scam things from us. The parents and grandparents had never left. In their eyes, there was no reason to run from crabs they’d only seen on TV. Even with fighter jets screaming overhead and the road constantly crawling with Russian, Chinese, Japanese, and Mongolian tanks. Some days, it felt like the 24 Hours of Sochi Autodrom on that road, a cat didn't dare cross it."

  He shakes his head, sighs, then reaches into a whole bag of golf balls and pulls out another.

  "We set up shop—sandbags, barbed wire, tank traps. Anything to slow down traffic enough for us to check some of them. Supplies arrived the day after we did. We mounted a DShK on the road facing west, and a Kornet ATGM on a flat rooftop, just in case a tripod got through further up."

  "Did they ever get through?" I ask.

  "God, no. Mind you, the front line was a few kilometers away. But it wasn’t exactly Bakhmut out there—the crabs were just as stretched thin as we were. We’d hear artillery from time to time, see the occasional cruise missile fly overhead, but that was about it. The most action we got was when an Indian artillery platoon set up shop north of the village. That screwed up our routine because, for some reason, they got it in their heads that we had to keep watch with them. That didn’t last long—those guys slept like the dead when they weren’t busy tearing up earth with their howitzers from 50 kilometers away. The local kids had allot of fun stealing whatever that wasn't nailed to the ground as they slept, Indians came crying to us afterwards. We just made the kids ditch the military shit, the compasses and uniforms and whatnot, fucking 10 year old even stole a grenade can you believe that? We covered for them of course and when the Indians got their stuff back we shared the laptops, magazines and hard drives filled with Indian movies and tv dramas."

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  Dima places another golf ball on the ground, lining up his next shot.

  *"One time, we stopped a truck heading east. Not military, but that didn’t mean much—some guys drove around the front line in Ladas, so you couldn’t judge by that alone. The soldiers inside—two upfront, three in the back. Odd numbers. You don’t leave the front like that unless someone’s dead or wounded.

  No supplies onboard.

  Hard to explain, but the moment they stopped, alarm bells went off. Overly friendly. Normally, you couldn’t get a hello out of anyone in uniform on that road, but these guys wouldn’t shut up. Worse, the ones in the back just parroted the same story about picking up fresh guys in Moscow—right after I said hello to them.

  Our sergeant, a guy from Dagestan, stepped in. Looked every bit the MMA fighter he was before the war. No idea how he ended up in my unit, but he had a nose that had been broken more than once, cauliflowers ears and a way of looking at people that made them shut up real quick. He told the driver to step out with his transit papers.

  The driver stayed friendly, but he started making a fuss about being late. Dumb fuck didn’t realize everyone was late back then. Next shipment of food, ammunition, the guys replacing you at your post, the artillery strike you called in when the crabs were overrunning your position, your girlfriend back home—everyone was late.

  My sergeant told him to stand still while he checked things over the radio. That’s when I knew.

  It’s like when a guy is about to sucker punch you in an argument. The loudmouth suddenly goes quiet, starts looking around like he's checking for cops.

  The driver looked back.

  Before my sergeant could react, he went for his Grach pistol.

  Didn’t even get it halfway up before I shot him. Twice. Put everyone in the trucks on their knees at the side of the road. Sergeant wasn't happy that if it wasn't for me he wouldn't have seen his wife and kids ever again so he beat one of them to a pulp. calmed him down and we got the military police to come and take them away. Think they all got put away with attempted murder on top of desertion.

  The dead guy they didn't want, we waited two days and when we started worrying about the stench we payed some local kids a few army candy bars to dig a grave and that was that.

  "How was your relationship with the town folks?" I ask.

  Dima chuckles. "Oh, there were a lot of relations," he says with a grin before swinging his club. The golf ball sails through the air, smacks into a door, and swings it open with a creak.

  "Not that door then, alright." He shrugs, grabs another ball, and lines up his next shot.

  "About a hundred people lived there. Mostly old folks, but some younger kids too. Most of the men had been sent off to fight, so we were left with the kids, the infirm, the elderly, and the girls. There were about ten of us, and after a while, we got along with all of them. At first, we kept our distance, but days turned into weeks, and we got so bored we couldn’t just sit around staring at each other anymore. So we started talking."

  He smirks at the memory.

  "The kids were always fun, even if we had to chase them away—threatening to smack them with sticks whenever they loitered too close to our bunkers or heavy weapons. There were a few veterans, guys who had fought in Chechnya, even Afghanistan. Those guys had stories. And then, of course, there were the girls."

  He laughs.

  "Our sergeant and their moms tried—tried—to keep us away from each other. Didn’t work."

  He places yet another golf ball on the ground.

  "We helped them, and they helped us. Medicine they couldn’t get, we ordered through the medical chain. It was funny hearing our sergeant explain to a logistics officer over the radio why we needed diabetes medicine."

  He smirks, swinging the club.

  "They also cooked for us. At least twice or three times a week, one of the babushkas would make a whole meal for our squad. Nothing too fancy, but it beat the hell out of army rations." He pauses, looking up. "In the West, you guys had French and Spanish rations, right?"

  I nod.

  "Yeah, well, we got stuck with those mass-produced Chinese ones. I feel like puking every time I walk past a Chinese restaurant. I just can’t even look at rice or noodles anymore."

  He swings the club again, and the ball flies through the air, hitting the door. It swings open just enough for the trip wire explosive to detonate.

  The house shakes as the tripwire detonates, a sudden, deafening blast. The walls groan and tremble.

  Dima stands there for a moment, staring at the door, eyes wide. Then, a low chuckle escapes him.

  "Guess I should’ve aimed better."