Light, warmth, and hope — all of it is granted by blazing flames.
Crackling and full of promise, the orange-yellow creatures whisper to humanity, inviting them to sit, to admire the presence of this sea of plasma, to watch its dance.
Above it, mushrooms or meat are roasted to a golden brown; a kettle of tea is set on; the closeness of fellow human beings is enjoyed. Fire is the perfect environment for storytelling — of legends, struggles, and fairy tales. It is the heart of every community, the glow in the darkness that reminds us we are still alive.
But for David, it was only a weak consolation. His entire body trembled; his limbs were heavy and cold, as if gnawed by frostbite, slowly turning blue and dying. Despite the sensation of freezing from the inside out, his clothing burned against his skin like molten metal, blistering, peeling away from him like wax dripping from a candle.
His comrades had seated him as close to the fire as possible to ease his suffering — in vain. Even the old warhorse, a highly decorated medic, had reached the limits of his knowledge.
He had treated David's grazing wound provisionally — nothing life-threatening. And yet something was wrong. Perhaps, they suspected, it was psychological shock. This condition had held his mind hostage for five days now — since the encounter with the troops of the Eastern Corporate State. Slowly, he was recovering. According to the medical personnel, he was fit for duty.
David could not remember why they had returned alive — or above all, how. Only fragments reflected in his mind, like shards of shattered glass. He knew they had held their ground against the eugenic scum and had escaped without major losses, almost miraculously. Another patrol had later picked them up. But how he himself had ended up in the truck and finally in the infirmary remained a mystery.
As if the past were playing a game with him — a childish game of hide-and-seek stretched across space and time. Again and again, new images surfaced, from different places, different moments. But whenever he tried to grasp them, they slipped through his fingers like water. A gray, murky, thick liquid swirled around him, threatening to swallow him whole, to drag him into the deep abyss of formlessness. Perhaps he would drown in that drain, together with the blurred images and muffled voices.
His companions acted as if everything were normal — perhaps hoping to pull him out of this strange state of matter. They sat around the fire; the old, crackling radio played The Internationale, distorted and hissing. Between the notes, they told stories — of battles, of home, of things that might never have existed.
"I heard they closed the border to the Commune," one of the men said, crouched by the fire, wrapped in a wool blanket.
"Oh, fuck the Commune," another grumbled. "Did you hear the news from the eastern front?"
"Damn it, yes — we did," Achmet snapped, holding his gloved hands over the flames. "Out here you only ever get one station anyway."
The newcomer fell silent, staring disappointedly into the embers. You could tell he loved stories — even ones everyone already knew.
Achmet exhaled deeply. White clouds of steam rose from the filters of his gas mask. After a short pause, he relented. "Alright," he muttered. "Go on, then."
The boy swallowed, chastened like a child who had been scolded. "No — I won't tell it if you don't want me to," he said quietly.
Achmet rolled his eyes behind the visor.
"But I can tell you something else," the boy added, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Do you know why the border to the Commune was closed?"
No one answered.
Encouraged by the realization that he alone knew the rumor, he continued eagerly. "Apparently, our avant-garde announced a humanitarian operation for the sector. Two regiments were assigned to it. But…" He stopped, turned his head toward the corridor, listening. The rumor was dangerous cargo — not meant for a commissar's ears.
Only after a full minute did he feel certain that no one beyond the group by the fire could hear him. He whispered:
"They brought part of the Brotherhood population into our tunnel section. They sealed the tunnel both toward us and toward the Free Trade Syndicates. Machine-gun positions were set up — no one in or out. And according to some travelers and caravan traders, they shoot anyone who tries."
"And why?" someone asked, leaning closer.
"Officially, tunnel maintenance. But why close the border for that? Any ideas?"
No one answered. Half a minute passed. Then one minute. Then two. Only the crackling of the fire and the song of the radio broke the silence. Finally, someone cleared his throat and spoke calmly.
"What's so strange about that? Probably pioneer regiments, right?"
"Then why the shoot-to-kill order?" another snapped from his field bed.
The storyteller straightened, sitting bolt upright on his cushion, ready to offer the presumed answer — but another interrupted him.
"You know what? I don't give a shit," said one of the men guarding a position reinforced with sandbags and a mounted machine gun. "As long as we're not on the front line, everything else is secondary." He coughed heavily, then turned back to the group."Tell us something about yourself. Half of us don't even know your name."
"Uh… sure," the young man replied awkwardly. "My name's Anton. I'm from the Schottenring transit station — where the U2 meets the U4."
"And what did you do there?" one of his new comrades asked.
"I was a mushroom farmer," Anton answered proudly.
"Oh yeah?" someone said skeptically.
"Yes. I worked in the champignon section. You wouldn't believe it — shelves bursting with plump fruiting bodies, a faint woody smell everywhere, the radio playing while we worked. I harvested twenty kilograms a day, easy."
"You forgot one thing," Achmet muttered.
"Oh? What?"
"The stench of ammonia and shit," Achmet replied. Anton stared at him — maybe confused, maybe angry. Whatever it was, Achmet took it as a challenge."It stinks like shit where you work! You shovel shit, you shit-shovellers, and then you grow our food in it — and then you stink like shit too!"
The argument ended when one of their comrades pointed at David, who sat hunched by the fire.
Silence fell. Only the fire spoke — whispering softly, conspiratorially. As if it were showing each of them their fears, announcing each of their failures, proving how different they had become. How far they were from home. How much radiation they had absorbed. And with the question on their lips: would their future children have twisted limbs, tumors in their bodies — or even two heads?
Some heard their mother's screams, calling them back through tears. All of them had crossed the Rubicon. Ahead lay nothing but uncertainty.
The tinny, cold voice of the radio spoke from the ether into the realm of flesh:
"Comrades, the entertainment program will end shortly. Der Funke will follow with the news. We now play The Song of Labor. In honor of the Consul and the Party."
The voice faded, dissolving back into the static of the dead world. For a moment, one could believe that the crackling was the last breath of this grotesque creation — full of heartbreak as it gazed upon its burned world. Black, charred, corpse-pale were the colors now. No lush green forests, no azure sky, no vibrant art humanity had once created. Only yellowed parchment bore witness to literary imagination; only burnt-out electronics to inventiveness; only gray, rust-covered skeletons to architectural grandeur.
What a pity, David thought. Only the Viennese underground remained — humanity's last bastion, the only clean refuge left. What a strange joke of the ancestors, to build such a vast shelter that also endured the punishment of the heavens. Perhaps God wanted to kill them. Perhaps He was content to watch the prisoners of the metro from the sky. Or perhaps He, too, was dead — like the radio spectrum fallen silent.