Berlin, European Federation – January 2036

  The subzero temperatures and the late hour have done little to deter the tens of thousands of civilians and military personnel gathered along Stra?e des 17. Juni. Among them stands Daniel Schweiger, his wife at his side, and their three-year-old perched on his shoulders, watching in solemn silence as platoon after platoon of soldiers, clad in their finest parade uniforms, march past the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.

  For the remembrance ceremony, the streetlights have been extinguished, leaving only the flickering glow of torches carried by officers and sergeants. Their faces are cast in shifting light as they offer salutes to the tomb, a gesture of honor and gratitude.

  This holiday, marking the liberation of the last German territory from extraterrestrial occupation nearly a decade ago, has become one of the few certainties in these fragile years of reconstruction. His wife, Celine, sheds a tear, and so do many others in the crowd as a lone soldier steps out of formation, carrying a bouquet of flowers picked from the forests near Kaiserslautern, as the new protocol dictates. These were once the battlegrounds of one of the war’s most brutal clashes, a place where the final reserves and units of the Bundeswehr fought against an unrelenting tide of crabs.

  Daniel had the kind of rugged handsomeness that seemed almost effortless. His face was chiseled, with a strong jawline and high cheekbones, a face that could have belonged to a soldier from any other countless wars his country had fought. His hair, light brown and slightly tousled, framed his face in a way that made him look like someone who had seen his fair share of hardship but carried it with quiet dignity.

  There was a certain intensity in his deep-set eyes, a gaze that seemed to carry both the weight of experience and the softness of someone who still czred deeply. Despite his features, his stature, and the steady resolve in his stare, there was no bitterness in him. He kissed his wife and daughter goodbye as they boarded the last subway home, along with hundreds of other people that just wanted to go home. Then, with a nod, he and I walk a bit before sitting down at a nearby terrace to talk.

  "You really should think about contacting people higher up the food chain than me if you want to ask questions about the grand scheme of things," he says after the waitress leaves, lighting a cigarette.

  "They don’t answer my emails," I reply with a chuckle.

  "Right, so you're stuck with old farts like me then," he says with a laugh.

  "When the war ended, I expected every second grunt to write a book, start a podcast, and sell fitness supplements. But it never happened," he adds, shaking his head. "That’s how you know it was the real thing, lack of grifters."

  He takes a drag of his cigarette and exhales slowly. "Real war, real men."

  "And women," he adds, exhaling smoke as if it were an afterthought that shouldn't be forgotten.

  "We had this medic. Medic isn’t the right word. She just got way more training than us. She could outrun a rabbit if she wanted. The only thing I disliked about her was how she could stress us out. The moment we’d receive the order to dismount from our Marder, she'd start yelling for us to jump out even before the ramp was completely open. Every time we talked to her about it, she really meant well and tried to stop acting like that, but every time she'd lose her shit over that door. Like most, she didn’t want to burn alive inside those iron coffins."

  He hits the table, mimicking the sound of the 20mm autocannon of an Marder infantry fighting vehicle. People turn around and look at him as he continues.

  "BAM BAM BAM BAM," he says, rattling his hand to emphasize the noise, "it rattled as we sprinted outside. 'Dismount right, clear the building!' our sergeant had yelled three times in a row. At that time, I wasn’t thinking about the strategic implications of retreating away from Mannheim, Frankfurt, K?ln, Düsseldorf, and all the big cities along the Rhine. We left those in rubble. The Belgians had nuked part of the Ardennes to keep the crabs away, bypassing American control of their own weapons. The Netherlands was still a flooded radioactive marsh, and to top it all off, the French were threatening to nuke what was left of Germany."

  "All I cared about was getting my ass into that three-floor hotel overlooking the highway east. A highway leading to Mannheim, and it was already crawling with crabs. I just turned my head toward it as I sprinted right toward the front door. Saw the 20mm high-explosive shells turning some crabs into a pink mist. Clara—that was her name—was trying to beat the door down as the rest of the squad and the Marder were firing toward the highway.

  She must've seen me arrive the way she made way. If you think I have guns now, you should’ve seen me back in the day. Even with the malnutrition and exhaustion, that door didn’t stand a chance. I flew right through it. Got back outside after regaining my footing to drag her inside. Rest of the squad was not far as the Marder popped smoked and reversed back towards cover. Made my way up the stairs in full battle rattle—G36 in hand, my Berghaus stuffed to the brim with ammunition but no sleeping bag or food. It had gotten quiet since our Marder had taken out those lone crabs on the highway. We were taking the presidential corner room for the weekend, not even knowing if we’d be holding off the crabs for the rest of the war on our own, or if we'd be retreating just half an hour later. War does that to some people.

  Some worried about the big things, while the guys who actually stayed alive only cared about finding lubricant for the machine gun, hand grenades, and cigarettes. The entire seafood buffet of Mannheim, as we called it, was heading our way, and me and the rest of the guys were arguing about who got dibs on the room-temperature sodas and liquor bottles we found in the minibar. By the time I managed to scam a bottle of Smirnoff from my sergeant, our MG3 started blasting.

  The guy hadn’t even communicated that he’d seen anything; he just opened up on four crabs walking in a line on the highway. By the time I made it to the window, I realized that the VW vansomeone had left in the middle of the road was perfect cover for those crabs. At least that’s what they thought—until our machine gunner ripped it to pieces. It looked like Swiss cheese when he was done with it, the barrel resting on the window, one arm holding it against his shoulder, the other hand gripping the ammunition belt as he sprayed.

  Didn’t need to pray. Ali, Turkish kid from south Berlin really knew how to make that MG3 sing.

  They were about 900 meters away—out of range for our G36s but well within the MG3’s capabilities, especially in his hands. I threw myself down on my knees next to him and grabbed the ammunition belt. Without even looking away, he let go of it to adjust his position behind the machine gun. Burst after burst.

  "Three crabs down!" he yelled.

  "I realize that, schei?e, you could’ve warned us before shooting," the sergeant yelled back, as he and the rest laughed.

  "Not like you could hit them with your peashooters," he shot back. I laughed as I unloaded the rest of the ammunition boxes from my Berghaus.

  "Proud of you, e?ek!" he said to me as I prepared the next ammunition belt. He’d taught me enough Turkish for me to know he was calling me his pack donkey.

  The sergeant threw himself next to us. "Don't open fire past what's left of the van," he said, then sprinted back away. We were still pumped with adrenaline, but half an hour later, Ali was lying on the bed behind us, sleeping while I kept watch. Half the squad was resting, while the other half stood guard. Of course, everyone slept in full battle equipment. The sun was setting, and we had maybe half an hour left of sunlight—that was it.

  Our "suicide squad," as we called them, five guys in our company whose sole task was setting up trip flares, was busy finishing up. That, and the truck bringing us a week’s worth of ammunition, made it clear we were in for the long haul.

  "How many men did you have with you?" I asked as I finished my beer and signaled to the waiter for two more.

  "Three access roads leading to that town. Hills and forests around it. We should have had a company overlooking each highway, but we had one platoon—about 35 men with us," he replied. "The platoon to our south had seen no crabs. The one to the north had taken out two just carelessly walking on their highway. We were lucky for now, but we knew our streak wasn’t going to last."

  I was dozing off when the first trip flare ignited. I didn’t see what set it off, but everyone—sleeping or awake—got the memo. From experience, I had learned the crabs had good eyesight in terms of width but not much for distance. What they were better at was spotting movement. So, we all got into position as slowly and smoothly as possible.

  Our sergeant and Ali were the only ones with night vision devices. Before the war, every soldier had one mounted on his helmet, but now we were considered lucky because we had two. I heard a pop, and something fell next to the glowing trip flare. I quickly realized what our sharpshooter, Hans, with his G3 rifle and an improvised silencer, that had taken it out. I braced myself as I strapped on my helmet, knowing things were about to get real.

  700 meters, close enough for our marksman and our machine guns. They shredded through the forest as the crabs took potshot at us. One blaster hit the floor below us, two guys from the squad below were lightly wounded but nothing Clara couldn't handle.

  The marder joined, both driving on the road infront of our building, opening fire like madmen before reversing back to cover.

  "600 meters! Ready yourself!" our squad leader called out. Part of me wanted to join the ball with Ali and Hans, but another part of me just wanted the crabs to stay as far away as possible.

  I got half of my wish. The trip flare that designated about 450 meters lit up as a crab walked over the trip wire, igniting a flare that blinded the five or so crabs that appeared because of it. It felt like the entire squad opened up on them. It took about four seconds from the time they were lit up before the last one fell. Must have been a record, but not like anyone was keeping points.

  "How did you guys manage to fight at night?" I asked.

  "Ha! We managed, that's about it. Lack of night vision, thank god the crabs were worse off than us. We could only rely on those tripwire flares in defensive actions, and the sergeants, along with the more experienced riflemen, carried flare guns. Exact same models used in both World Wars. As if we had warehouses full of them just begging to be used. Blinded the crabs and made the beetles go crazy. So, if we fired those, we were down to the wire—about 400 to 500 meters or so. Rifle range. The higher you fired it, the better your sights, but it also meant the range was even more limited, and it would attract the tripods. Though that was never confirmed to be anything other than just army trench talk."

  The fifth flare landed about 300 meters away, lighting up the roundabout in stark, ghostly light. We fired like madmen, desperate to keep them back. Our sergeant was on the radio, yelling a storm, trying to get the lieutenant to call in artillery support. I lost count of how many I took out. The Marders had run dry on their main gun and were reduced to firing with their coax.

  Ali's MG3 was a different beast altogether—no need for night vision to see its barrel glowing bright red in the flare's eerie light. Like an animal howling in the dark, fucking relentless.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  "?LüME G?D?YORSUNUZ, SALAKLAR! BEN? DEL?RTMEY?N!" Ali was yelling as he kept unloading hell at them.

  "UM HIMMELS WILLEN! CONSERVE AMMO AND SPEAK FUCKING GERMAN!" Our sergeant yelled at him from two rooms away, in a small window of time when no one was shooting or yelling. It had gotten very quiet suddenly, even the Marders had gone quiet. The only sound left was the eerie hiss of the flares in the air and the distant rumble of artillery.

  The stillness settled over us like a heavy blanket, every second stretching longer than the last. My breathing was shallow, instinctively trying to stay as quiet as possible, as if the crabs could hear the slightest movement. The occasional flare revealed what happened on the ground level. Shadows of the trees and buildings between the bodies of the crabs and what was left of the intersection. But for now, we were all frozen in the quiet, waiting for whatever came next. There was no more talks, no more "veterans" showing the new guys the ropes. We were all out sitting around with our heart beating in our necks, gripping our weapons like a kid would grip their mother.

  The last flare our sergeant had fired a few minutes ago was now hovering at tree level, casting a cold light over the forest next to the roundabout. It fell between the trees, illuminating what was happening out there. At first glance, you could’ve mistaken the crabs for tree stumps, that's how many there were, scattered across the darkened forest floor, barely moving.

  The air felt thick, heavy with anticipation. No one fired. No one had the balls. We just stared, wide-eyed, at the mass of crabs that seemed to stretch on . Each one a dark silhouette against the harsh flare-light, like they were waiting for us to make the first move. The silence between us and them felt like a fragile truce, knowing full well it could shatter in an instant.

  A low rumble shook the ground beneath us, growing louder by the second, until the air seemed to vibrate with the impending roar. It was like the earth itself was holding its breath. Then, with a deafening crack, the first round of artillery struck.

  The explosion lit up the night, a flash so bright it felt like the world itself was on fire. The roundabout, just 300 meters away, was consumed by a massive fireball, debris fluing in every direction. I didn’t even get a chance to see what happened to the crabs in the forest. I’d already hit the deck, threw myself on top of Ali . The whole building shook, rattling our spinal cords along with it. Artillery had landed damn close—155mm howitzers slamming down so near we could feel it in our teeth. 300 meters, that’s dangerously close. If one of those shells had been off by just a little bit, if it had hit the building we were in… goodbye to the whole platoon.

  Some people were yelling, thinking it’d help with the deafness. Not that we could hear them. I could feel Ali shouting, his throzt vibrating against my body, but not a single sound reached me despite me laying on top of him. The explosions just swallowed everything. I had no idea how long it went on. The noise was like a constant punch to the eardrums, and the earth itself felt like it was shaking apart. We just waited it out, hoping the building would hold, hoping we would hold. But as fast as the madness had started, it was over.

  "You stepped on me!" I yelled as my sergeant boot hit my shinbone as he struggled to make his way across the room.

  "Thought you were dead!" He yelled back, the guy still hadn't gotten his hearing back.

  "You thought wrong!" Ali shouted, pushing himself up and fumbling to get his night vision goggles back in place.

  We counted our ammo by hand, feeling through the darkness. The quiet after the bombardment made everything seem too still, like we were waiting for the next wave to hit. We checked our limbs, making sure everything was still attached. Equipment check done, we were right back to staring at nothing, the kind of nothing that felt heavy, like it could swallow you whole.

  It was Ali's turn on watch, and I collapsed onto the bed, covered in dust from all the firing and the bombardment. I sank into the mattress, I didn’t care. I closed my eyes, and for a moment, I just... let go. It wasn’t sleep, not really—more like I fainted from exhaustion. The bed swallowed me whole, and for those few seconds, I forgot about everything—the crabs, the artillery, the sound of the fighting in the distance. It was the kind of relief that I only pray me and you never get to experience again.

  As quickly as I had fallen asleep, I was jolted awake by the violent shake of the building. I sat up, watching dust drift down from the ceiling. It was early morning. Ali was still behind the machine gun, staring intently outside, down at whatever had shaken me awake.

  My ears were ringing. I fumbled to put my headset on, desperate to salvage what little hearing I had left.

  I looked down just as a British Chieftain tank fired another shell into the distance. A kilometer away, the beetle exploded in a flash. Instinctively, I threw a hand over my eyes, but it was too late—like trying to fight off a migraine that had already set in.

  "Look who finally decided to wake up," Ali said, cigarette dangling from his fingers, his gaze never leaving the road.

  "Why didn't you wake me?" I asked

  "Not my fault you slept through a tank parking right outside. Just in time to stop that beetle, its a junior those things are younger and younger." He says as I picked a cigarette from his pack.

  "Just like us." I remember telling him. Guy was 22, me 24 and we were the oldest in the platoon. That was saying allot. As our equipment got older and older, the men behind those weapons got younger and younger. That's what got to me when I tried to clamp Clara's main artery before I was dragged by my sergeant to my window. Wounded or not she had to take care of herself and I had to get back to the fighting. Not something you're proud of later in life, but its what helps you die of old age rather than there. They were 200 meters away. The British tanks had retreated. Then they got to one hundrerd as we got taken out one by one. I was throwing ammunition boxes around trying to find which one still had ammo for Ali. Gave up and he picked up a G36 to get back in it.

  Commander was the cherry on top of the cake. The other two entry points into the city were under heavy assault, but they were holding—reinforcements were arriving there. Ours, however, were too far away. We had barely ten minutes to catch our breath as we picked off the last of the crabs.

  "2, this is CO. Enemy forces outnumber you fifteen to one. If Kaiserslautern falls, Ramstein will follow. And if that happens, we lose Germany. To your north, 3 is in even worse shape. We're diverting reinforcements there, but you must hold the gap at all costs. Retreat is not an option. If you fail, the enemy will flood in, flanking us both north and south before smashing into Ramstein. If that happens, the French won’t hesitate to nuke what’s left of us to keep the crabs from reaching them.

  Reinforcements are coming, but until then—you’re on your own. Good luck, Horrido – Joho!."

  Talk about a motivational speech. Our nerves were already fried—we didn’t need the whole damn battle plan. Just tell us to hold and that reinforcements and ammo were on the way. But here we were.

  And then, it happened. Again.

  600 meters. Then 400. Then 300.

  Then they were right below us, flooding the streets.

  I spotted three of them peeking around a corner across the street, advancing like American rugby players. Down the street, our Marders and the Chieftain had pulled back and the crabs were focused on those, but they hadn’t thought to check the upper floors—where we had been firing from for twelve straight hours.

  I put two rounds into the first one. The second lifted his blaster toward me—never got the chance to fire. Dropped him before he could pull the trigger. The third managed a shot. Too high.

  The blaster round slammed into the wall above the window, sending a spray of molten rock deeper into the room. It set some furniture ablaze, but nothing important.

  Not yet.

  The last one went down, but not before firing his blaster wildly at our building. Another crab grabbed him, dragging him back around the corner to safety.

  Whoever had built this place—some long-forgotten bricklayer and architect—had probably saved millions of lives without ever knowing it. The walls held, but only just. Blaster fire raked the facade, countless shots slamming into it.

  Same pattern every time.

  We had smashed every window, so even in the biting January winds, we were fine. The crabs' blasters weren’t accurate; their shots tore through the openings, streaking past us and slamming into the walls behind.

  There was nothing left of those. Just scorched rubble and crumbling plaster.

  But the building still stood. For now.

  The Chieftain only peeked when a Beetle came lumbering toward us from the highway.

  We couldn’t let those get close.

  Everyone had their eyes on it, silently praying our tank would take it out fast. It was the fourth Beetle that morning, another hulking mass barreling straight for us. The Chieftain fired at 400 meters. A direct hit.

  It tried to spew that so-called "napalm" at us, but all it did was add another layer of burning sludge to the already ruined street.

  Maybe we were too focused on that, because none of us saw the "rocket cart" creeping in. That thing, tall as a van and standing on spindly legs, was packed with rocket tubes like their own version of rocket artillery. And it had us dead in its sights. A deafening roar filled the air, that got our attention before the first rocket even landed.

  Rockets pounded our building, shaking the walls and blasting chunks of brick and mortar loose. More rained down on the street, right where the Chieftain was. Fire, smoke, and dust swallowed everything.

  Building shook. Ceiling collapsed on top of me.

  I had thrown myself on Ali again, shielding him the best I could. But I didn’t hear him scream this time.

  Only felt the blood soaking me. His and mine.

  By the time I got my senses back, everything was muffled, like I was underwater. My head throbbed. Dust caked my face, mixed with sweat and blood. My left arm wouldn't move. Trapped under a chunk of debris, maybe broken. My side burned, sharp pain with every breath. Probably shrapnel.

  Ali was worse.

  A jagged piece of rebar had punched through his chest, pinning him to the floor. His eyes were open, staring past me, unblinking. Mouth slightly parted like he wanted to say something but never got the chance.

  I pressed two fingers to his neck. Nothing.

  Didn’t need to check. I already knew.

  Ali was gone.

  I tried to shake him awake, as if that would do anything. As if I could will him back.

  That was when I realized the extent of my own injuries. Pain flared through my ribs, sharp and searing. My lungs burned, every breath like inhaling broken glass. I tried to scream that he was down, that we needed a medic—nothing came out.

  Not that it would have mattered. Everyone was already screaming.

  From every room overlooking the roundabout and the highway, voices filled the air. Insults, orders, desperate pleas. Some cursing the crabs, some calling for God, some just howling in pain.

  Then came the roar of the tank cannon. The Marders joined in, their autocannons shredding the silence. They had seen what happened. They understood.

  Caution was gone.

  The engines roared as the Chieftain and Marders surged forward, rolling over what little remained of the street, charging straight for the roundabout.

  Brave bastards didn’t even have radio comms between them. No coordination, no orders—just raw instinct. I don’t know which one moved first, who decided to leave the safety of the city and push into the open, but it didn’t matter. They all played their part.

  I picked up the MG3. My arms were burning, covered in cuts, blood dripping from a dozen wounds. Didn’t matter. I was going to help the vehicles the only way I could.

  One ammunition belt left. One that someone had thrown at us just before the rockets just shredded our building. I slung it over, braced the barrel atop the shattered window frame, and got to work.

  The Chieftain was taking a beating. Blaster fire rained down on it, hammering the armor, leaving glowing scorch marks across its hull. Luckily, the front plating held—their weapons weren’t strong enough to punch through.

  Then, the tank fired.

  A split second later, an explosion tore through the hill overlooking the roundabout. The ground shook. Trees were ripped from their roots, flung aside like twigs.

  Had to be that rocket system.

  The BAM BAM BAM BAM of the Marders still echoed in my head. The Chieftain had reversed into a wall, bringing it down in a cloud of dust, making space to retreat. I had thought everyone was dead—until the occasional machine gun burst, a stray potshot, or a distant shout proved otherwise.

  My grip on the MG3 tightened as I searched for a target. That’s when I noticed my gloves—shredded. My hands were worse. One had so many cuts that when I pulled the glove off, it took skin with it. Blood ran freely, dripping onto the ammo belt I was lifting.

  Sixty rounds left. Give or take.

  One more attack like that, and it was over.

  I tried to make my peace with it, but I couldn’t focus on anything other than the rumbling of engines and the tension in my gut, waiting for the next target. But none came.

  Instead, I heard voices behind me, a language I didn’t recognize. Didn’t bother turning around. Didn’t even glance at the Abrams as they rolled down the street, took up positions on the highway—then turned back around like they’d taken a wrong turn.

  A hand gripped my shoulder. Spanish. A second later, another soldier dropped his MG3 on the window next to mine, just like I had. A Chilean flag was stitched to his shoulder.

  "They're waiting for you downstairs," he said in English.

  I tried to stand. My legs refused.

  It took half an hour to get the injured and the dead downstairs. Through the rubble, down what was left of the stairwell, every step was a struggle. My body protested, but eventually, I made it outside.

  Snow.

  It covered everything in a thin layer, fresh and undisturbed. The sky was heavy with clouds, casting the afternoon in a dull, gray twilight. Felt like early evening.

  I kicked a loose brick and sat on it. Watched the blood drip from my hands, staining the snow in little crimson pools.

  Then I looked around. Looked at the faces of my comrades.

  For a moment, there was no difference between the dead on stretchers and the ones still standing. Hollow eyes, blank expressions, like none of us had really made it out.

  Across the street, an Abrams sat motionless. I clenched my fists, pain be damned, and cursed at them under my breath.

  If they had arrived ten minutes earlier, more of us would still be here.

  More of us would have seen another sunrise. They would have gotten older, married, kids, taxes and all of that.

  

  Instead I won that cursed lottery. Not Ali, not Clara. Didn't care about the gunshots in the distance, the snow, freezing temperatures. Just laid down in the snow and I collapsed from blood loss.