Bavarian autonomous zone, October 2035

  Archie Martin looks every bit the part of an Australian soldier—clean-shaven, tall, with piercing blue eyes. His greyish, worn combat uniform is in Australian Multicam, and his high-end military gear is covered in patches. Had I not planned to meet his "friends" in an abandoned parking lot, step onto a truck willingly with its windows duct-taped black, a hood over my head, and be driven for hours before walking for miles more, I wouldn’t have suspected he was one of the most wanted men in the world.

  “Sorry for the long haul and the wait,” he says as he steps into the forest cabin. “Been as busy as a drinking lizard.” He chuckles, then adds, “Hope my mates weren’t too rough. If it had been up to them, they’d have checked your ass for any trackers.” He places his rifle in its rack and removes his helmet, still attached to his night-vision goggles, before sitting across from me with a water bottle.

  “Alps calm this time of year?” I ask, breaking the silence.

  “Snow should arrive soon,” he answers.

  “Not fond of the snow?” I ask.

  “It’s cold as a well-digger’s arse,” he replies, shrugging. “But we’re not here to talk about the weather.”

  I nod toward the makeshift flag on the wall.

  “How did it start?” I ask.

  He walks to the fire and throws another log on it, the flames crackling as he speaks.

  "Started with just a simple ‘no,’ mate. Operation Ramadan, Volodymyr had us all on edge, as you’d bloody expect. All the blokes we lost in just two, three weeks… we knew it was gonna be our turn to climb up those trench ladders and go on the offensive. When Operation Graf Salm went belly up, we pushed all the way to Rosenheim, just west of Vienna, and south of Munich. But we didn’t have the manpower or the gear to liberate Munich. Then the crabs launched a counterattack, and they pushed right back to the Danube. We were boxed in, 3,000 men stuck in Rosenheim and the surrounding area. I was the last one from my company still breathing and fighting.

  We wanted to head south, cross the Alps, get past those bloody mountain passes. But most of 'em had been blown to bits. Looked like the whole mountain range had been split in half, just to keep the crabs north. But the brass—those wankers—still wanted us to attack east, try to link up with another assault comin’ from Vienna and Bratislava. Safe to say, it didn’t go as planned. We barely had enough men or supplies to stay alive, let alone keep pushing forward. Some bloody paper-pusher of a general, probably got promoted up the ranks without ever seeing a day in the field, gave the order. You know the type—the sort of cunt that hasn’t had his boots dirty in the last ten years," he laughs, shaking his head.

  "Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. You probably don’t want that on record, and my missus would have my hide if she heard me talkin' like this."

  "Don’t worry about it," I reply.

  "As the big cheese argued over the best way to throw our lives away, we simply said 'no.' At first, it was just one bloke here and there, refusing to move. But soon enough, entire bunkers, whole platoons started hlding their positions and flat-out saying 'no' to the orders. They threatened us with court martial, threw a tantrum about respecting the chain of command. By that point, we had half a battalion of the Australian Army, thousands of Austrians, Croatians, and a whole lotta Italians. Those Italians, mate, they were bloody keen. You start conscripting every political science student from every uni in Italy, and it’s no surprise they ended up in our ranks.

  The officers from those countries tried to talk us down, but we weren’t havin’ it. We refused to move east, simple as that. Most of the platoon leaders agreed with us. They didn’t want to die either, but they just pretended they couldn’t get their men in line. The brass above ‘em had their heads so far up their own arses, they couldn’t see what was going on. The military police units with us had already taken a massive hit, and the few that were left didn’t fancy their chances tryin’ to force us to follow orders."

  "We didn’t hang 'em from the barricades or anything. We simply said 'no.' Any violence directed at us, we gave right back. An officer slapped you? You slapped him back. He punched you? You punched him back. He pulled a bloody pistol? I’d just lift my EF88 and drop the cunt with two rounds. Things escalated quick from there—about fifty dead on both sides. But in the end, we came out on top. We licked our wounds, reorganized, decided who we’d listen to and who we wouldn’t. It was supposed to be temporary—just ‘til we moved south or got evacuated. But they forced our hand, mate. And once the bell rang, there was no un-ringing it."

  He pauses, a smirk crossing his face. "We saw ‘em comin'. Mostly ‘cause we still had our radios, thank God. But we knew they’d want to make an example of us. Most thought they’d just leave us to die. But when I saw those bloody Chinooks in the distance and the jets screamin' toward us, I realized they'd massively overreacted."

  "What did they think? That they could drop a few laser-guided bombs, launch a heli-borne assault, and wipe us all out? While the crabs were attacking our position? Please. Those special forces wankers were so desperate to kill us, they shot at us when we tried to rescue ‘em after their helis got shot down and they got surrounded by crabs."

  "We lost a lot of people. But they lost entire special forces units trying to dislodge us. And they had to explain to higher-ups—and to the civilians—why they wasted all those bombs on a position we had purposely made obvious, leaving behind empty tanks and vehicles as bait. And all those high-speed, CQB, steroid-pumping operators—dead. For what? Nothing. That gave us some breathing room as the generals and colonels who organized that slaughter had to answer for it. We retreated to the Alps. We didn’t sleep in mountain caves, though. Most of us stayed in the villages at the base of the mountains."

  "Were those safe?" I ask.

  You’d get the occasional lone crab, but for the most part, they knew better than to try crossing the mountains. After nearly a year of battering themselves against the passes, they had learned their lesson. So, they stayed away.

  Whenever our positions in the mountains spotted tripods, we’d make a run for higher ground while our ATGMs handled anything that got too close. We also counted our blessings. The jets and the units stationed in the mountains—tasked with securing the passes—had our backs. We had radio comms with them, mind you. Italians and Swiss, soldiers who had no idea what was happening on our side of the range but still offered their support. At some point, they were ordered to stop helping us. But when word got out, the public outcry was deafening. Humans not saving humans—that’s what it became.

  With time, we adjusted. We settled in, realizing there was no going home. We started farming, living off the land, doing whatever it took to survive. But mostly, we tried to figure out what the hell to do next.

  The first months were the worst. Hunger gnawed at us, a slow, insidious enemy that no weapon could fight. Rations ran thin. We foraged, hunted, rationed every last scrap. Some nights, the hunger was unbearable. Yet, through it all, no one was left behind. We shared what little we had, watched out for each other, and kept moving forward. We were stranded, starving—but never alone.

  In the first few days, we ate whatever we had left—military rations, canned goods, protein bars—stretching every meal as far as it would go. But supplies dwindled fast. Hunger hit like a hammer.

  We foraged first, gathering whatever we could find in the foothills and alpine meadows. Wild berries, roots, and edible plants—sorrel, dandelions, even pine needles brewed into a weak tea for vitamins. We scavenged nuts and mushrooms, hoping to avoid the poisonous ones.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  Hunting was a struggle. Ammunition was too precious to waste, so we set traps for small game—hares, marmots, even the occasional fox. If we were lucky, we’d catch a fish from a stream, using makeshift spears or hooks fashioned from scrap. But luck wasn’t always on our side.

  Then came the worst of it. Hunger sharpened into something desperate. The weak collapsed first, bones pressing against skin, eyes sunken. We boiled leather from our boots, hoping to extract anything remotely edible. We gnawed on bark, chewed on strips of cloth just to trick our stomachs.

  But we never turned on each other. No one took more than their share. If one of us caught a rabbit, we all ate. If someone found a handful of berries, it was split evenly. We were starving, but we were starving together. And that was the only reason we made it through."

  "But then came the Pope. Yeah, the bloody Pope. Him and his ten or so Italian Air Force A400Ms, chucking down food and supplies like manna from heaven. When the Italians saw the footage—saw their own blokes, tough-as-nails soldiers, bloody digging up roots to survive—it hit ’em hard. And that journo, the mad bastard who hiked across the Alps just to film us, to talk to us… bless him. His story turned the public even more in our favor.

  And in the end, it was the Pope—of all people—who convinced the Italians to do something, to at least drop us a few scraps. That’s why, despite all the "no gods, no masters" talk around here, you’d best not go mouthing off about the late Pope Francis."

  "We had talks. Long talks."

  "That's where the 'comités de soldats' came from?" I ask.

  "Yeah, so we aren't like your usual mob of blokes marching in neat little rows, saluting some dickhead with a shiny hat. But its still organized yeah?

  No one’s barking orders just for the sake of it. You’ve got groups—small, tight-knit crews—that make decisions together. We pick our own leaders, but they ain’t officers or any of that bollocks. They’re just the ones we trust to have a bit of a plan, generally the ones with the most experience. If we're about to see combat they're the ones who we voluntaraly choose as squad leaders and platoon commanders. and if they start acting like bloody tyrants, or fuck up one too many times, we boot ‘em out and pick someone else.

  No one’s forced to fight. You’re here ‘cause you wanna be, not ‘cause some government sent you off to die for a flag. Discipline? That comes from respect, not fear. You look out for your mates, and they do the same. That’s how it works. Despite all of that there were some periods were we still caused serious troubles to the crabs. At the end of the day it was still humanity against the crustaceans. Don't let anyone tell you we just sat it out. Besides, we all saw combat for nearly a year before that. The battlegroup they had chosen to push west to Munich were the cream of the crop. Made out of units from before the war who had seen combat with the crabs aswell. Not just any hot pot unit filled with conscripts and ex officers cadets taking the lead.

  Most of the time, we work in small teams, ‘cause big armies get messy real quick when no one’s got a supreme overlord telling ‘em what to do. But we coordinate—radio comms, couriers, whatever it takes. We ain’t running around like headless chooks. Supplies? We share. Weapons, ammo, food—it all goes where it’s needed, not just to the top dogs.

  And yeah, we fight smart. Guerrilla tactics, ambushes, hit ‘n’ runs. We don’t line up like it’s the bloody Napoleonic Wars. We strike where it hurts, then vanish before they can hit back. That's how we managed to keep pressure on the governement even when south Germany was "liberated". Too much fucking with us and we'd hit supply convoys till the defence ministers called us crying on the phone in a matter of speaking.

  It ain’t perfect—sometimes you get a bunch of stubborn bastards arguing over the best way to do things. But at the end of the day, we ain’t fighting ‘cause some politician told us to. We’re here ‘cause we believe in it. We weren't needlessly dying for some doomed from the start offensive. That’s the difference. And when the civilians arrived, we learned more about that way of working. We also had less strain on our logistics as we could trust some 22 year old poli science student from Paris or Beirut to take over the farming and such."

  "Where did they come from?" I ask.

  Everywhere.

  At first, it was just a few farmers or old folks who’d been left behind. Yeah, that happened—don’t care what anyone says. I saw my fair share of old ladies trudging up to our position, tears in their eyes, thinking we were finally there to rescue them. Broke your heart, that did.

  Then came the lunies—that’s what we jokingly called them. A whole group who actually crossed the mountains, on purpose, just to get to us. At first, we were pissed. Why the hell would anyone willingly put themselves in that kind of danger? Imagine being a 19-year-old Italian or Croatian conscript, crouched behind your machine gun, and out of nowhere, here comes some Italian uni student with long black Rasta dreads and a grin from ear to ear, handing you a joint and a pack of smokes. That was our version of shock and awe.

  Most of them showed up toward the end, when southern Germany was cleared. That’s when things went nuts. Word spread, and suddenly, people from all over the world were turning up, wanting to help. Some came to fight. Others just wanted to stand with us, daring the government to try and move us.

  And the girls—yeah, I say girls because, for some reason, three-quarters of them were. Probably had to do with conscription laws. But every day, there were more. It was like one of those ecological protection zones, except instead of trees and birds, it was a wall of people. If anyone wanted to dislodge us, they had to go through them first. And a few of our lads were mixed in there too, just to keep things steady.

  Blocking roads, standing in front of military vehicles, throwing rocks or Molotovs when it came to it. And if they gave us too much trouble we had machine gun nests, TOW anti tank weapons in the mountains, layered defence trenches, mortars. Not going to spoil the game but, even now there's still allot of surplus from the war hanging around. Things that were supposedly destroyed in combat.

  "So, even during the war, we still had our farms, bakeries, cows, pigs—everything. We even made some bloody good cheese, if I do say so myself. Remind me later, and I’ll sort you out with a wheel. When they liberated Munich at the end of the war, we went on 24-hour alert. The bastards would drive south in long columns, all loud and obvious, just to keep us on edge. But once the Germans—or, hell, now the European Federation—realized they’d be lucky to have half of Germany’s pre-war population, they just… stopped harassing us.

  Still, we’ve got a few gendarmerie units at our unofficial border, stopping anyone who tries to enter and questioning anyone who leaves. But they’re just a token force. They’d rather chase down the ones who decided to head home than actually try to attack us."

  "I thought there was a truce?" I ask.

  "In a way, yeah. Most of the ones who left are fine. Lost maybe half of us, all things considered. A lot of them were left alone, aside from the social stigma. Mostly problems with employment and the like. But plenty came back. Not just because of that… but because, honestly, why the hell would you wanna live anywhere else?"

  "How’s that?"

  "Have you seen Bavaria? It's fucking 'Heidi, girl of the alps' here. Would you rather be stuck in an office or a dusty factory where you’ll get cancer in thirty years just to help rebuild EUROPA to its so-former goods and services glory? Workin' five days a week unless you've got four kids to bump up the population and get an extra day off? Nah, mate. You can keep that. Here, we’ve got clean water, beautiful hikes, cabins you can just ask for a week of work with the missus—no pesky landlord taking half your salary. Most of us work in agriculture or making goods. Sure, we don’t have cheeseburgers, fresh jeans, or all the crap they peddle in the cities, but it’s good. Really good, actually. People here live simple, but they live right. Even got my dad to move in here."

  "How do you deal with defense and law enforcement?" I ask.

  He leans back, scratching his chin for a moment, considering.

  "Defense?" He chuckles. "Mate, we’ve got a bit of both, really. The whole community’s on guard. Everyone pitches in when it comes to keeping the place safe. It’s not just about rifles and ammo—it’s about watchin’ out for each other. We’ve got our own militia, nothing too fancy, but enough to hold our own if need be. Some of the lads from the old days came back and helped us set things up, taught us a few tricks. You don’t need an army when the whole town’s watchin’ your back."

  He shrugs, a little smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

  "As for law enforcement... well, we don’t exactly have police walking around handing out tickets. We look out for each other, mate. If someone’s out of line, the whole village knows, and we deal with it. Sometimes, it’s a good old-fashioned chat, other times it’s a little more direct. No need for courts or judges when you’ve got people who care about what’s right."

  He pauses, eyes glinting as he adds, "We call it community justice. Keeps things simple. And it works. Not for nothing, we’ve got a porcupine on our flag. With our bunkers in the mountains, heavy weaponry from before… it’d be a bloodbath if anyone tried to dislodge us."

  I raise an eyebrow, sensing a new twist. "A German parliamentarian claimed you had contacts with the Italian underworld?" I ask, leaning in a bit.

  He laughs, a deep, almost surprised chuckle. "Underworld, eh? Some people just can’t help themselves, can they? It’s like a bloody game of whispers. Yeah, sure, we've got people from all over—locals, travellers, even a few lads from Italy. But ‘underworld’? Please. You think a bunch of folks livin' in the Alps, growin' cheese and vegetables, are runnin' with the mafia?"

  He shakes his head, still smiling. "Nah, mate. You get a few blokes who can source some stuff or make a trade happen, be it antibiotics or spare parts for our Leopards and suddenly you’re the villain. Everyone’s got a story, but I reckon the only crime we’re guilty of is wanting to be left the hell alone."

  ======================================================================================================================================================

  AUTHOR'S NOTE: File recovered after temporary detainment by EUROPOL