Mud. The first thing Silas felt was mud, followed swiftly by a searing pain that ripped through his body.
Distantly, he heard the faint pops of firecrackers.
Consciousness returned to him a few seconds later, dragging with a hell of a lot of pain. The firecrackers, no longer faint, sharpened into the chilling staccato of gunshots.
Gunshots?
He stirred. Mud? Gunshots? This is not how his office should feel.
His own heartbeat throbbed in his ears, ragged breaths tore through his lungs, and the weight of layered clothing felt a little too heavy.
Gritting his teeth, Silas forced himself onto his back. He opened his eyes, only to be met by a sky choked with smoke; the sun was nowhere to be seen. All he could discern were vast, oppressive clouds, a sickly mix of black and yellowish-brown.
"Where the hell am I? This… This hurts"
In his peripheral vision, mud walls rose around him. He was in a trench, a cold, undeniable truth settling in his gut: he was on a battlefield. The realization sent a shiver down his spine, his pulse escalating.
"Calm down! Calm down! This must be a dream; there's no way I would spawn in a battlefield from nowhere. I was writing a freakin' email! HOW DID I END UP HERE?!"
Silas fought to snap out of his spiraling panic. He struggled, pushing against the muddy wall, desperate to regain his footing. As he braced himself, his hand brushed against something cold and metallic at his waist. An old-fashioned, bolt-action rifle. He was a soldier.
Rubbing his eyes, Silas took in his surroundings. Corpses lay strewn around him. He had been lying amidst them. Nearest to him was a soldier, younger than himself, his eyes staring blankly into the void. The boy's arm was twisted at a horrifying angle, blood still oozing from the mangled limb. Bile surged in Silas's throat. His knees buckled.
He moved his eyes around, only seeing more dead bodies, some of them had their brain splattered, some had limbs torn off. The smell was only making it worse. The blood had soaked and blackened the mud.
A shell detonated near the trench, the concussive blast throwing him off his feet, right onto the corpse of the young soldier. Silas scrambled away, sweat slicking his forehead despite the chill in the air. Faint screams of soldiers pierced the cacophony.
Then, a voice. It cut through the chaos, "Congratulations, Silas Volkov."
Silas's head shot up. Hundreds of meters above, a small, black dot hovered in the smoke-filled sky. Somewhat looked like a modern-day drone.
"You have been considered a candidate worthy of climbing The Locus. Now you must pass this entrance test to prove your worth to the controllers."
Volkov. Silas hadn't used that surname in ages; he was Silas Hayes now. But this voice knew.
What's going on? He shouldn't know that.
His breath quickened.
Controllers? Locus? And anyway, He thought, as his gaze inspected dead bodies lying in the trench, what the hell was that dot? Had the voice really come from it?'
Before Silas could make sense of the dizzying questions, the voice spoke again.
"For passing, you must be the last man standing on the battlefield. Additional achievements would be rewarded gracefully."
This is no dream.
Silas fell to his knees and vomited. He started taking deep, shuddering breaths. "Calm down, Silas! This is just like those games, I am not gonna die, I am not gonna die. I am not gonna fucking die!"
Silas successfully convinced himself that if his theory was right, he should have an ability or power given to him. He started by checking for any equipment he had. A bolt-action rifle. A pistol. An empty water bottle and some dried bread. But nothing magical.
Then he tried testing it. He outstretched his hand, trying to focus, trying to conjure… nothing happened.
"NO!" This couldn't be happening. No powers, he didn't even know how to shoot.
Silas dropped down, shivering in fear. "This isn't right," He murmured to himself. Memories of his life flashed before him. His parents, his friends, his wife…
Natalia.
Shells continued to drop near the trench, only heightening his stress.
Silas took a deep breath and stood up. "If I am going down, I won't go down as a coward at least."
He sighed and started adding up things in his mind. From looking at the type of technology and guns, this battle oddly represented European wars of the Twentieth century, probably one of the world wars, but Silas wasn't sure which one.
Man, I should've studied history.
The first thing he decided was to search the corpses of his fallen comrades. The gore was too much for a desk worker like Silas, but as he continued searching, he got used to the pungent smell and the visceral sight in front of him. His hands moved as if doing chores. This usually happens with people; once the mind gets used to something, it detaches itself from it to work efficiently, but in Silas, this virtue was much more; he could easily achieve this state of detachment.
Maybe that was how he got successful in his life. By being efficient.
He started with the nearest corpse, the young soldier.
Silas quickly checked his pockets and found a tattered leather-bound journal, a few loose coins, and a small, rusted pocketknife.
Moving to the next, a burly man with a thick beard, Silas found a half-eaten hardtack biscuit, a compass with cracked glass, and a worn-out map, its details faded and unclear.
The third body, a woman, yielded a small, intricate locket, a single bullet, and a surprisingly sharp bayonet. Lastly, he checked an older soldier, whose lifeless hand still clutched a photo of a smiling family.
His children would be orphaned now.
Silas pressed his lips and decided to keep searching.
From him, Silas retrieved a full canteen, a small pouch of tobacco, and a box of matches. He also found a half-filled bottle of water from one of the bodies.
Happy with his findings, he gulped down some water and chewed on some bread. The shooting and shelling in his immediate area had subsided; the enemy probably assumed everyone here was dead.
Silas gathered his courage and peered over the trench. Beyond the mud, a desolate landscape unfolded.
Twisted metal skeletons of what were once artillery pieces lay scattered. The ground was cratered by explosions, resembling a lunar surface rather than a battlefield.
In the distance, the faint outlines of bombed-out buildings smoldered, releasing black smoke into the decaying sky. No signs of life stirred amidst the devastation, only the stench of rotting flesh.
A chilling silence hung heavy in the air, broken only by the distant, sporadic crackle of gunfire and the mournful groan of collapsing structures.
Silas hoped the artillery wouldn't spot him.
Silas squinted, trying to discern any movement or structure.
His eyes scanned the horizon, searching for anything that resembled an enemy position, a fortified bunker, or even a hidden sniper's nest. The smoky haze made it difficult, blurring the landscape. He focused on the bombed-out buildings in the distance, wondering if they might be a hideout, but they seemed devoid of any activity. The gunfire still echoed, giving no clear indication of its source. All he could see was the vast, scarred expanse of the battlefield, offering no obvious answers.
He ducked back into the trench. Silas gripped his rifle and started moving towards the direction of the gunfire, following the winding path of the trench.
And then a human voice broke the silence.