Two days had passed since the soldiers of the Twenty-Third Infantry Regiment had last seen the pale light of the cooling sky.
Their unit had been redeployed to the Eastern Front, as ordered.
The Eastern Power sent wave after wave of its Übermenschen against machine guns and flamethrowers.Dozens on both sides had fallen or been mutilated.The frontline had shifted by barely two hundred meters — two hundred meters soaked in blood and grotesquely adorned with the entrails of friend and foe alike.
This tunnel had become a battlefield many times before.Even during the Great War, the fiercest fighting had taken place here, and the highest number of dead had been counted.
David and his regiment had been transferred from Marxstadt Station to the garrison station Messeprater — in the direction of Krieau.The soldiers had dug in deeply at this station: barbed wire, sandbags, machine-gun nests, and flamethrowers protected it from the gene-fanatical brood.They had to hold the position — and destroy the enemy before it destroyed them.
"David, want some tea too?"Gabriel spoke to his friend, who was absorbed in a book. "Don't worry — it's the first infusion." He grinned. "The good one."
David gratefully extended his cup and let the green-yellow liquid be poured.Warm and aromatic, the hemp tea was a small comfort in a hell of steel and smoke.
They were riding in a hand-powered draisine that their political commissar had requisitioned. Originally a civilian vehicle — a means of transporting people and goods — the makeshift contraption had gained a new purpose amid the chaos of war.An entire regiment, along with supplies and consumables, had been distributed across five wagons. Unlike the older cars — now converted into living quarters or rusting away in forgotten tunnels — their wagon was not enclosed, but an open flatbed with wooden crates as seating. Beneath them, ammunition and canned food rattled.
Their regiment contained many newcomers who had known nothing but monotonous surface guard duty. For them, the blood trench would be a baptism of fire.
"What's that pill we were issued?" an unfamiliar comrade asked.
"That's cyanide." An older soldier fixed him with a serious look.
The questioner clearly didn't understand.
"Damn it — prussic acid. So you can poison yourself if they catch you."The recruit, confused and intimidated, stared at the floor.
"Trust me — better that than ending up in their camps. Living as a slave, serving those so-called 'master men.'"
In a whisper, barely audible, the old soldier added:"Sometimes they cut off prisoners' fingers, ears, or noses. And sometimes…"He swallowed hard, forcing fear and revulsion into words."Sometimes they gouge out your eyes and then — without a tongue — drive you toward us in groups of ten or twenty, only to mow you down with gunfire. Mutilated. Desecrated. And sometimes we don't even understand that they aren't the enemy…"
The young man stared silently, full of terror, at the rotating drive shaft beneath his feet.
"I heard," someone began hesitantly, "that they send their mutants and those they call 'the impure' to the front."
"Nonsense — as if anyone treated like that would willingly go to the front," another replied.
"They hold their children hostage. If they don't obey, they mutilate the kids. Believe me — many would rather burn than let their children suffer that. And for fifteen years they've been indoctrinated to believe they're the lowest caste, doomed to servitude by their genes."
"That's bullshit!" someone shouted, his face hidden in deep shadow."I've got a cousin in the SSD. He interrogates POWs regularly. It's not that bad. They just want to breed 'master men.' Like an ant colony — every caste perfectly adapted to its task. And the mutilations aren't true either."He cleared his throat."They run a few tests, assign you to a labor group. No pressure and—"
Suddenly he cried out. His seatmate had kicked him in the shin and snarled:"Shut the fuck up! You trying to defend slaveholders?! Watch your mouth — or the commissar or the SSD will grab you. Your relative won't help you once you're in a re-education camp."
Silence enveloped the group. Everyone knew they were heading into the bloodiest battle their world had to offer. For many, it would mean death — a meaningless end for a few dozen meters of monotonous tunnel.
"If the front is this hard to hold," someone asked, "why don't we just blow the section and cut them off from the network?"
"Are you insane?" snapped a man crouched in the corner."There's an underground river above the tunnel. One blast and the whole line floods. Everyone would drown. Besides — humanity's living space is already small enough. Destroying a tunnel means permanently losing a large part of the territory where we can live safely."
"Anyone got a lighter?" someone asked, a hemp cigarette dangling from his mouth.
"Yeah — here." Gabriel handed over the small, metallic object.
"Thanks."The smoker inhaled. Barely visible smoke rose from the glowing tip, filling the air with the harsh, scratching scent of hemp tobacco.
They were approaching the station.
It was a military showpiece — heavily fortified, armed to the teeth.Its inhabitants had only one purpose: to feed the war. Weapons, ammunition, and equipment were produced here day and night in endless shifts. No civilian industry. No art. No music. Only steel, powder, and sweat.A perfect armory, whose sole purpose was death itself.
Since the collapse of the ZSOK thirteen years ago, this station had become the symbol of eternal war — a machine with only one goal: to keep running, no matter the cost.
As the draisine slowed, the stench hit them: smoke, heat, burnt oil.Wounded lay in rows outside the infirmary; some moaned, others no longer moved. Their screams mixed with the metallic clatter of the manufactories and the dull rattle of machine-gun fire echoing through the tunnels.
Gallows rose before the platform — seven, maybe eight — bodies swaying.Faces discolored red-blue, tongues swollen and protruding.Around their necks hung signs, chalk-written:
"Deserter" — "Coward" — "Traitor."
No one spoke. Only the screeching of a rusted winch broke the silence.
"We're in hell…" someone whispered.
Then loudspeakers boomed across the square, drowning out the whimpers of the wounded and the rattling breath of the dying.A metallic voice, artificially calm, spoke over blood and filth:
"Comrades, in your blood shines our pride.You are the protectors of civilization — the guardians of the Metro.Your sacrifices build a new future.You walk the path of heroes."
The broadcast ended abruptly, swallowed by static and the industrialized screams of death.
Then the harsh voice of the political officer rang out over the scene:
"All men — dismount!"
The soldiers obeyed without a word.
The soldiers obeyed wordlessly.Their fogged army boots echoed across the tiled ground as they dismounted from the draisine.The floor was smeared with blood.Wounded men writhed and convulsed in pain, medics rushed through the chaos with makeshift stretchers.Some lay motionless, covered with white sheets.Twenty — perhaps thirty lives extinguished.On some of the sheets, a red X was painted.
"What is that?" one of the fresh recruits asked quietly.
"He's been sorted out," a veteran replied without looking up.
"Sorted out?" the newcomer repeated, confused.
The old man snorted."Did they bathe you too hot as a child under the Consul or what? That one's dead — or close enough. And anyone with no chance left doesn't get medicine. Dead means wasted material. You get it now?"
The recruit fell silent, his gaze empty.For the first time, he understood that even dying had been rationalized by the Union.He nodded faintly, signaling his understanding.
"Form up by platoon and company!" the political commissar barked beneath his red beret.
As ordered, they assembled — three groups of thirty men, each further divided into two platoons.They now stood in parade formation on this plaza of death, surrounded by pain, suffering, and the stench of mortality.
David pressed his VSG-3 tightly against his chest.Inside, his heart hammered, pumping blood, screaming for escape — for running away from this place.His lungs lifted his ribcage in rapid, shallow breaths.
As before every engagement, the same questions arose in everyone's mind:Would they be thrown into the meat grinder immediately?Would three magazines of NATO-caliber 7.62 × 51 mm be enough?Would they survive the first day — or worse, be "selected out" in the infirmary and bleed out slowly like a slaughtered pig?
Everyone — except David.
His throat burned. In his haste, he had gulped down the rest of his hemp infusion; the hot liquid scorched its way from his throat into his stomach.This tea was popular in the regiments — not for its taste, but for its calming effect.David would have liked another sip, but under the rigid military orders, that thought was already forgotten.
Before the assembled force stood three political commissars, easily recognizable by their blood-red caps.What were these moral and ideological model pupils discussing?Perhaps they were briefing one another on the situation.Perhaps one was complaining about the half-dead lying by the tracks.Or perhaps they were simply reaffirming their convictions and decisions — a small bubble of certainty amid the inferno.
As horrific as the front might be, David never wanted to be one of them.To feel the boot of command pressing down on your neck, constantly demanding results — combined with the duty to maintain ethics and morale within the ranks — that was worse than any firefight.Executing cowards brought no joy, not even to the hardest and most experienced officer.After all, they were killing their own brothers and sisters in arms.
The three figures broke apart.
Their commissar — a man with a burned face bearing the disfigurement of war — bellowed his orders over the chaos:
"All men, attention!"
The soldiers froze. No movement, no whisper — only the dull pounding of their hearts and the rhythmic rise and fall of their chests distinguished them from the dying around them.
"The Twenty-Third Regiment relieves the Fourteenth. We will spend three days in the second, third, and fourth lines."
"And what about the first?" one of the gray-clad soldiers asked.
For a moment, confusion flickered across the commissar's scarred face. He clearly had not expected anyone to dare interrupt him.Then his gaze hardened, and routine took over.
"The first position is held by the Sixth Penal Regiment."
Penal regiment.That was the name given to units hastily assembled from dissidents, thieves, murderers, and spies.They served as living shields so the honorable men and women of the People's Army would be spared.The mortality rate in these units exceeded two thirds.Those who survived, however, could hope for reduced sentences, shortened imprisonment — or even early release.
"All men: check weapons and boots!"
As ordered, they performed the drilled motions.Tighten laces. Check magazines. Inspect the bolt.Routine — the only anchor in a sea of madness.
"Fix bayonets!" echoed across the square.
The officer's voice reminded David of his old sergeant, Oberhauer.Since the battle at Taubstummengasse Station — now renamed Gramscistadt — he had been listed as missing.Most likely, he had bled out in the track bed.In the chaos of corpse collection, no one had noticed that he had been forgotten, never counted.
One by one, they mounted their combat knives beneath the barrels.A metallic clicking passed through the ranks.A silvery shimmer settled over the gray mass of humanity.
For a moment, they resembled an ancient phalanx — steeled, disciplined, ready to die.An echo of a past they had never lived.An echo found only in old, mold-eaten, yellowed history books.