14:55 – 05.07.2047 – Surface / Outpost 11
It was cold. Unspeakably cold. Vienna was no longer the capital it once had been.
The buildings were burned-out skeletons of a long-dead civilization.Snow and ice covered the city like a burial shroud, as if God Himself wished to lay His dead creation to rest.
Or perhaps He merely wanted to spare the souls in heaven the sight of what radiation had done to the once-beautiful flora and fauna.Mutated creatures roamed the ruins—beings no one could any longer identify by the animals they once had been.
Humanity lived like moles beneath the earth, dependent on whatever their ancestors had left behind.
And yet, even the most devastating war had not ended the killing and mutilation of one's own kind.
No—now they fought over the remains like vultures.The fire of progress had been extinguished.But the ambitions of those who survived burned hotter than ever.
The old radio crackled and hissed loudly—so loudly that not even the heavy snowfall could smother its sound.
"At the request of the workforce of the Marx IV Steelworks, The Spark now plays the Hymn of the Nation."
For a moment, there was silence—only the crackling of damp wood in the fire bowl could be heard.Then a melodic, proud chant filled the room:
We are the builders of the coming world.We are the sower, the seed, and the field.We are the reapers of the coming harvest.We are the future—and we are the deed.So fly, you flaming, you red banner…
A voice cut through the revolutionary song:
"Achmet, turn that damn thing off! My ears are about to burst!"
The soldier crouched by the radio looked over at the man who had clearly had enough of the hymn. He covered his left ear with one hand and waved angrily with the other.
The radio operator replied calmly,"It's almost over anyway. After that comes the Consul's victory speech—we can't miss that."
"That may be," the man snapped back, "but if those idiots only know one song, they should just shut the hell up!"
David and Gabriel were in the room as well. They stood around a weak fire burning in an old oil drum.Their outpost served as a storage and collection site. In the surrounding area, labor crews scavenged steel scrap, wood, furniture, and even plastic waste.Sometimes they found useful items—medicine, fertilizer, or weapons from the old army.
They had taken shelter in an old apartment building, reinforced with sandbags and machine guns. From their position, they had a clear view of the main road and the intersection—a perfect strongpoint to protect the valuable supplies.
Although it was summer, temperatures hovered around minus twenty-four degrees Celsius due to the events of the Great Fire.Since that war, the Earth had been covered by a blanket of dust and ash.The sun shone only faintly, like the moon once had. The world lay trapped in eternal twilight.Scientists were no longer even certain whether there would ever be a time without this endless cold.
All soldiers wore the iconic leather gas masks to protect themselves from radioactive particles.There was little in their shelter that stood out. They were stationed in what had once been a living room.They had buried the remains of the former occupants in the courtyard outside.A black soot stain spread across the ceiling above the fire bowl.The furniture had been rearranged and supplemented according to the needs of the new inhabitants.
Improvised beds were lined up tightly together, and by the window stood a machine-gun nest.
Technically, they were in a quiet sector—relatively low radiation, few mutants, and above all, no other people.
Only the storm raged across the city.
Freezing rain lashed against the roofs of rusted cars, and lightning tore through the gray-black sky—as if it were the last pulse of a dead world.
On the roof of their post stood four wind turbines, welded together from scrap and old three-phase vehicle generators. They fed power into discarded lead-acid batteries, supplying electricity to the few devices they had—radio, transmitter, lighting.
David stared at the crackling Geiger counter.It hung right beside an old mercury thermometer.
The reading: 63.2 millisieverts.
"Damn it!" he burst out—so loudly it almost felt as if the music itself had fallen silent.
"It's gone up again?" Gabriel asked.
"Yes! This damn storm is stirring up all that radioactive dust!"
Both wore their gas masks, but they knew: if the radiation kept rising, the masks wouldn't matter.
"We've got the lead shielding," Gabriel muttered. "It shouldn't be that bad."
David snorted. "Yeah, maybe it protects our balls—but it won't save us from leukemia or bone cancer."
For a moment, they stared at each other through the amber lenses of their masks.The tension between them was palpable. Lately, they argued often—their nerves were raw.First the inhuman deployment at the front, and now they had been sent into this irradiated corpse of a city to guard some goddamn depot and a few labor crews.
Then the radio operator spoke up:
"Transmission's about to start."
The casual remark cut the tension like a razor blade.
Gabriel tossed blackened, twisted pieces of wood into the fire barrel while David began writing a letter to his mother.From the radio came the familiar melody of the revolution.
Then the announcement followed:
"Comrades—The Spark presents the address of the Guiding Star of our Workers' Union."
Everyone tried to ignore the howling wind and focus on the broadcast.
What a miracle it was that humanity could still communicate through radio waves.Artificial light, medicine, energy—all born of human ingenuity and the will to leave behind a better world.
Then the ancient technology spoke—its membrane vibrating under electric fields, sounding as if the machine itself were addressing them.
The voice of the leader of the greatest—and perhaps last—bastion of humanity emerged from the ether:
"My people, brothers and sisters of the Union," the Consul began calmly."Workers of humanity—our honorable People's Army has achieved a phenomenal victory. In the fight against the fundamentalist barbarian hordes of the Southern League, we have liberated the inhabitants of Taubstummengasse Station from the yoke of oppression.
Naturally, we welcome their station into our proletarian state. We extend our hand toward the future—away from the irrational frenzy of faith and the unrestrained surrender to emotion.
Emotion has already dragged this world into the abyss once before.The tyranny of emotion stole from us an unburdened future.The dictatorship of the ignorant masses elected leaders who led them into nuclear holocaust."
Even the wind seemed to listen.
"Driven by the unchecked growth of a capitalist consumer society, exploitation, environmental destruction, and war were accepted—merely to increase the wealth of a few.But our calculating state has triumphed over the ideology of growth capitalism.
Growth for growth's sake is not the ideal of an egalitarian society—it is the principle of a tumor.
Emotion and greed bombed us into this frozen wasteland.But technology and calculation will save humanity—under the honorable sacrifices of our new society of equality, progress, and reason.
Through our ideals, our ideas, and our labor, we will rise like a phoenix from the ashes.The future belongs to techno-socialism.The future belongs to us!
And if we must, we will defend it—like beasts.With claws and teeth, with the blood of our heroes, with the martyrs of our future.
For the honor of humanity!"
The radio fell silent.Only static remained—until a metallic voice declared:
"The Consul has spoken.Honor to the Consul and the Party."
Normal programming resumed—music, news, monotonous voices from the ether.Everyone returned to their dull routines: standing guard, writing reports, performing maintenance, or simply staring into the white-gray nothingness.Without purpose. Without thought.Some prayed only for deliverance from the constant crackle of the Geiger counter.
David let his gaze wander across the room.The new recruits assigned to his unit were still brimming with zeal—thrilled by the leader's speech, full of dreams of heroism.None of them had ever seen battle—only endless guard duty.
Two played chess on an old board, its paint flaking off in large patches. Missing pieces had been replaced with rusty screws.They played almost constantly—day in, day out.
David didn't know their names. And he didn't intend to learn them.Once the military situation escalated, they would be sent back to the front.Then it would be killing or dying once again.
He wrote yet another letter to his family.What was he supposed to write?That he was freezing his ass off up here?That every day was the same, and only the ticking clock proved that time still passed?Should he mention how much radiation he had absorbed?
All he wanted in this icy hell was a cup of tea.Tea—nothing more.He would rather starve than give up that single moment of warmth.But if he removed his mask, he would inhale particles—and almost certainly develop lung cancer.
How strange it was that the mask had become part of him.He had worn it continuously for three days.As long as the storm raged, they weren't going anywhere.
He stared at the blank sheet of paper.Before he could decide what to write, someone gently nudged his boot.
"Here—you can have it," Gabriel said, handing him a newspaper.Then he leaned back against the wall and slid down into a crouch, exhausted.
The paper was familiar: The Daily Worker.David skimmed the headlines.
Rations Increased.Cultural Revolution.Criticism Session and Destruction of Reactionary Literature by the Red Brigade.Victory on the Battlefield.Production Campaign in Full Swing.Border to the Commune Closed.
Always the same. Always the same slogans.
He flipped the pages quickly, hoping for something—anything—to break the monotony.But nothing changed.
The final headline read: Mobilization of the People's Militia.
Bored and disappointed, he passed the paper to the next equally expressionless comrade.
"So—did you see it?" Gabriel asked from his crouched position.
"See what?" David looked up, confused.
"Oh, the ration increase. Good news, right?"
"That's not what I meant." Gabriel leaned forward, pressed his hand to David's ear, and whispered:"I mean the bloodline."
David frowned.He hadn't read anything about that sector of the front—had he missed something?
"What do you mean? Is the Eastern Corporate State causing trouble again?"
"No," Gabriel whispered. "They didn't write anything. Not even a short notice."
"So?"
"Isn't it strange when there's nothing at all? And then the mobilization… I think hell's breaking loose again over there."
David waved it off. "The ceasefire still runs for another year. They're not that stupid."
"Who knows. Skirmishes happen all the time—but they're usually reported."
They fell silent.Both knew what it would mean if Gabriel was right.
Then they would be sent to the Frost Front.
For now, boredom was the lesser evil.At least it was better than machine-gun fire.
They sat in silence. It felt as though they had been trapped in this wasteland forever.
Then the door opened.
The political commissar stepped inside.
He wore the same mask as everyone else—but beneath it was a face marked by fire.His left eye milky white, his right shining blue like the sea once had.Two fingers were missing from his left hand—a war injury, a sacrifice for the motherland, as he always said.
With a rough, cutting voice, he shattered the silence:
"Squad Six! Report to the Parolin Passage—now!"
The men rose heavily.Boredom gave way to leaden duty.
And somewhere outside, beyond the walls, the wind began to howl once more.