Djibouti, October 2035

  Gregory "Greg" Kirby leans back in his chair, the ceiling fan overhead doing little to cut through the sweltering heat. A Louisiana native, he’s here overseeing the expansion of the port, a project that will one day funnel three-quarters of East Africa’s exports to the world. Officially, he’s in a managerial role, but most of his work involves handling people—keeping the workforce in line, making sure the job gets done. He doesn’t hesitate to explain to locals why showing up drunk or disappearing on the clock won’t fly. But when the conversation turns to his employer, he gets cagey, refusing to say whether he’s working freelance for China State Construction Engineering Corporation or the EU Bridges and Tracks Organization.

  It’s only when the topic drifts elsewhere—years back, to the war—that he really starts to talk.

  "Any kind of static defense crumbled, and we were left fighting for every street, every neighborhood, every polder. They broke through at Nijmegen and pushed west along the Meuse, trying to cut the Netherlands in half. Northwest Holland got isolated—300,000 troops surrounded, cut off. And we were in Zwolle, average town, south of the Drenthe pocket I told you about. And west of Flevoland. Some artificial island the dutch had robbed from the sea some 200 years ago. Not even an hour away by car.

  Some genius blew the dams, flooded three-quarters of the country. Knee-deep water, if we were lucky. Could’ve been worse. Any deeper and the crabs would still be in that murky sea.

  Our CO and CSM got taken out when a Tier 2 Tripod flanked and hit our command post. That killed any real coordination—we were fucking the dog, wasting time defending the city when we should’ve been breaking out before the whole Crab circus locked us down. We were Marine Raiders—getting surrounded was supposed to be our bread and butter. But with all the losses, the replacements… we were tripping over our own balls. Clumsy. Sloppy.

  And don’t get me wrong—it wasn’t the fresh-faced 19-year-old grunt straight out of boot camp who did the most damage. It was the jocks right out of officer school. We lost a lot of NCOs, the guys who had the rank and the experience to put their foot down when the brass fucked up. Without them, we were just another unit waiting to get chewed up."**

  Greg stares outside at a container carried slowly by a crane.

  "There were just 200 of us—Marine Raiders—along with a few hundred Dutch reservists and police officers, all cut off like the rest. The flood zones around the city were too muddy for the Tripods. Those things would slip if they weren’t careful, and they knew it. Seemed like they were more worried about losing their footing than our ATGMs. We’d watch them push forward, test the ground, struggle for traction, then turn back the way they came.

  It was the Beetles that caused us real trouble. We only had two old leopards from the dutch, a few armored vehicles but nothing that could really do the job, and while we were supposed to be a priority for airstrikes, we were stretched too thin to hold anywhere for long.

  I remember looking up and spotting a B-52 overhead. Big, slow, ancient thing, but still deadly. It let loose—twenty Mk 82s tumbling through the sky. A whole neighborhood, one the Crabs had just taken, erased in an instant. The Stratofortress banked and disappeared into the clouds, heading back the way it came, and I was still staring at the fireball when the next call came through.

  They’d broken through to the south."

  Half an hour later we were moving to the inner city, another fucking island in the middle of other islands. I was down a step of stairs leading to a basement door. With my fingers inside some poor dutch kid's waist trying to stop one of four bleedings, must not have been older than 19. His dutch uniform was soaked through with blood.

  "It's his fucking aorta!" I shouted to my squad leader across the street.

  Our squad was split on both sides of the narrow road, with ten or so Dutch reservists mixed in. We’d just dropped five Crabs who had been fighting over a trash bin, but not before they hit one of ours. An explosive blaster went off a few meters in front of him, and he took God knows how many shrapnel rounds.

  The bridge to the inner city was about a hundred meters ahead, but the place looked more like Bakhmut than a scenic Dutch town. The narrow streets funneled us into tight, exposed areas—perfect for the Crabs. Their weapons carried serious baggage, the kind that forced you to spread out or get wiped out. But here? You couldn’t even fit two Dodge Chargers side by side, let alone maneuver properly while keeping safe distances.

  The kid on the ground reached for me with what little strength he had left, grabbing my vest near the collar. He muttered something—too faint to hear. His face had gone gray. I never knew someone could turn that color so fast.

  It took two minutes. Two fucking minutes from the moment he was hit to the moment his body gave out.

  "He's dead!" I called out, handing his dog tag to one of his Dutch buddies. The guy looked just as pale as the corpse.

  That’s when I saw it—movement on the rooftop. A Crab peeked over the edge.

  I lifted my Mk 48 and let loose. I shouldn’t have been the one dealing with the wounded; I had the heavy weapon. But the others didn’t have much field casualty care experience. Either way, it didn’t matter now. My first burst caught the thing right on the top of its shrimp-like head. Its carapace exploded, and it tumbled backward out of sight.

  I barely had time to yell "Contact!" before all hell broke loose.

  Gunfire erupted from both rooftops. In my peripheral vision, I saw Kevin explode in two at the waist. The Crabs had us in a crossfire—shooting from above while more of them peeked out at the far end of the street, cutting off our retreat.

  I fired a volley at one struggling to keep its footing on the sloped tiles. That’s when I saw it—the red war paint.

  And I knew we were in deep shit.

  My second volley took him out clean. He tumbled down like something out of an old Western, limbs flailing, before crashing onto the pavement. The Dutch reservists across the street lost their shit, unloading into his already-dead body.

  I ducked into the basement stairs I told you about, hoping to avoid any ricochets. Took me two seconds to remember—I had the only automatic weapon in the squad. No time to sit this out.

  I peeked back up and let the Mk 48 rip, raking fire across the rooftops. Three, maybe four houses worth. I wasn’t aiming—wasn’t trying to be precise. I just wanted those bastards to keep their heads down. The shock crabs were different. Smarter. They knew when to push, when to wait.

  As I fought for footing on the staircase, nearly tripping over the dead Dutch kid, the Crabs across the street pulled back. One on my side wasn’t so quick. He leaned over, trying to get a shot at me with the same heavy blaster that had torn the kid apart earlier.

  A deep whump-crack sounded as he fired. The angle saved me—he was nearly ninety degrees above, so the shrapnel spread was minimal. But I felt every goddamn shockwave, rattling my bones every four and a half seconds like clockwork. Whump. Crack. Again. Again. Until someone finally put him down.

  Everyone was screaming. My squad was yelling. No idea how many we lost in that first minute—probably half.

  I caught sight of my squad leader and Jayson sprinting across the street like lunatics, desperate to find cover. Jayson didn’t slow down—just barreled full-speed into a door on my right, shoulder slamming through the wood. He disappeared inside.

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  I didn’t need a fucking memo. If we wanted to live even a few minutes longer, we had to follow.

  I screamed at the guy to my right to run inside, hoping he'd understand my English. Then I realized—he was already dead. He was standing upright, pinned in place by a metal bolt from the blaster that had hit him. It had implad him, holding his body against a steel beam.

  I didn’t waste time. I fired the last of my ammo belt, then sprinted up the stairs and threw myself inside.

  The hallway was narrow, and I tore through it, making a beeline for the back door that led to an inner courtyard. I knew exactly what I needed to do.

  I pulled the bolt back on my Mk 48, flipping open the machine gun cover. I slammed in a fresh ammo pack, shoved the cover shut, and kicked open the door. The second my boots hit the ground outside, I raised the weapon and scanned the rooftops.

  Three Crabs were up there, looking down at the street we’d just cleared.

  My first volley hit one in the back—he went limp, collapsing forward. The second burst found its mark too, and the second Crab dropped. The third one spun around, realizing I was there. It fired an explosive blaster, but the shot missed and hit the wall behind me.

  I didn’t hesitate. I let loose, unloading twenty rounds into him until I was satisfied he was dead enough. His body slid off the rooftop, crashing into the yard below.

  There were fifteen of us in that street, but only eight of us made it into the house—six from my squad and two Dutch reservists. We quickly reloaded and checked ourselves for injuries. One of the Dutch guys was crying, and the rest of us were yelling at each other, debating whether or not we should go back out to try and save whoever was still alive.

  My squad leader was dead set against it. Thinking back, he was right. Anyone still out there, if they were alve, wouldn’t last long with their injuries. We couldn’t risk the rest of us for one person. But it got heated, and before we knew it, we were throwing punches at each other.

  Then, right outside the door, the Crabs started blasting at us through the windows.

  I was down to about two hundred rounds. Holding our ground in that house was looking like a losing battle, so we bolted out through the backyard and made our way to the hole in the wall the Crabs had made for us earlier. Everyone was gasping for air, like we’d been running for hours. We were in a small alleyway, guns pointed at the rooftops as I took the lead. This alley would spit us out on the other side of the canal, where everyone else was making their last stand on the opposite island.

  That’s when we heard it—engines rumbling. Our tanks were finally here, well, Dutch tanks. They weren’t ours, we had no coms with them and they were old-school Leopards from the ‘70s, pulled back into service. Two of them rumbled past, along with a Dutch M113.

  I peeked out from the alley, and before I knew it, I was showered with dirt and broken bricks. The M113’s turret gunner opened up on us for a few seconds, then realized his mistake. He switched fire, aiming at something to our right on one of the rooftops. The armored column had us blocked from the bridge about thirty meters to the right. The M113 kept firing like it was his last day on Earth, while the Leopards tried, but couldn’t get enough elevation to hit anything on the roof. They started shelling the buildings to our right instead. One of the shells hit the third building over, and the shockwave rattled the ground beneath us.

  “Pop smoke!” My squad leader shouted from behind. I did what I was told, but then someone started yelling, and I just lost it. I wasn’t sticking around. I bolted across the street, planning to take cover behind the M113. But before I even made it, the damn thing exploded.

  I watched the gunner—who’d shot at me earlier—jump out, engulfed in flames. He must’ve taken one of those heavy shells, the kind that penetrates and floods a vehicle with a gel-like, flammable liquid.

  I barely looked back, but I saw everyone sprinting behind me, so I didn’t stop. Just as I pushed forward, one of the Leopards opened fire on a building ahead. I got thrown off balance and went down hard on my knee pad, but I was back up in seconds. I glanced back and saw two houses collapsing in on themselves. I didn’t think twice. I just kept running for the bridge.

  I nearly got flattened by one of the Leopards as I tore across the street, its massive treads grinding the pavement beneath it. The other side of the bridge finally came alive—don’t know what took them so long, but it was too late for the Leopard I’d just seen. The damn thing veered off course, crashing straight into the corner of a building. The metal screeched as it reversed, tearing through the ground floor like it was made of paper. The entire building shuddered violently, and so did the Leopard, rocking on its tracks.

  The commander popped the hatch, trying to find out what the fuck was happening, but then he realized the building wasn’t going to hold. In a pnic, he ducked back inside just in time—before the whole goddamn thing collapsed beneath him. The tank dropped right through the floor, smashing down into the basement below.

  By some miracle, the ceiling above them stayed intact. The Leopard was stuck, but at least it was hunkered down. The sound of crumbling concrete and gunfire echoed in my ears as I kept running, knowing that there wasn’t much time left for any of us. Sprinted inside of a coffeeshop, two houses away from that damned leopard. The glass was broken so I kneeled behind a window with my machine gun on its bipod. I didn't see anything. The other side of the canal was empty other than the burning m113 and the leopard driving full spreed across the bridge. Rest of my squad joined us.

  I yanked the goggles off my face, and for a moment, it felt like my skull was still attached to them. My eyes burned from the pressure, but I managed to slide the goggles back onto my helmet.

  The second we were inside, my squad leader immediately focused on the radio, his fingers working fast. My ears were still ringing from the chaos outside.

  One of the reservists on my right, who must've been searching the fridge, handed me a lukewarm Coca-Cola bottle. The condensation slicked off the plastic as I took it. It was nothing special, but in that moment, it felt like the sweetest thing in the world as I analysed the street for anything.

  The Sergeant came by and laid out the sectors I should hold, but it wasn’t like I didn’t already know what to watch for. The Crabs who had attacked us earlier? They were just probing—ambushing, hitting and running, the same tactics we’d been using on their brain-dead brothers before they finally showed up in force.

  I knew it, deep down. We were done for. Low on ammo, a few hundred of us stuck in a siege. There was no rescue coming. I could feel it in my bones—the inevitable end. I made peace with it. I’d never see my family again. My kids, my ex-wife—none of them. This was it.

  And yet, in the midst of it all, I glanced over at the conscript sitting beside me. He didn’t seem bothered by any of it. Just sitting there, calmly munching on some dry cookies he’d found in the corner. It was like he was in a completely different world, the absurdity of it all almost making me laugh if I wasn’t so damn sure we were all going to die here.

  At first, I thought the guy was high on something—some kind of mental escape. But then I learned the truth. His entire family was dead. His girlfriend was gone. And now, his squad—everyone, except for the other guy curled up in a corner crying—was wiped out. He’d snapped.

  It was like he’d fully embraced the abyss, just surrendered to the madness. He sat there, focused entirely on those dry cookies, like they were the only thing that mattered anymore. He wasn't running from the reality—he had accepted it, in some deep, almost philosophical way, and just kept nibbling away at his fifty or so “out-of-date” cookies.

  Even when the patrol crafts and Zodiacs finally came to pull us out, even as we raced west back toward friendlier lines, he never stopped. While we all scrambled, eyes darting, hearts racing, he just sat there, chewing slowly, as if he were in some kind of trance. It was eerie. The world was falling apart around him, and yet, there he was, the cookies his only constant.

  But then, as we hit the waves, I saw something strange. He looked out toward the horizon, his eyes locking onto something in the distance. Without a word, he stood up, got on one knee, and took aim. I followed his gaze. There, alone, was a Crab—just digging a hole, like it was in no rush, unaware of the danger.

  Without hesitation, he fired. One shot. The Crab dropped, collapsing in a heap, lifeless.

  He didn’t even flinch. Just sat back down as the rest of us scrambled, panic setting in as we frantically searched for more targets, trying to keep our heads together. But he—he just sat there, chewing his cookies, like it was all perfectly normal. His eyes distant, unfazed. Every now and then, he’d mumble something, repeating lines from a Dutch song under his breath. I only caught part of the chorus, but it stuck with me.

  "Voor dat de bom valt!"

  It translated to something like “Before the bomb falls,” but the way he said it, over and over again, made it feel like a strange mantra, like he was detached from everything else. Even the fight. Even the war. Everything was just noise to him. And as we sat there, waiting for whatever came next, he kept chewing, lost in his own world.

  I didn’t care much for the briefings when we got to Almere. While the officers droned on about the cities and sectors our submarines would nuke off the map, I wasn’t really listening. It didn’t matter anymore. The war had already decided its winners and losers.

  Instead, my eyes drifted across the hangar, searching for him.

  There he was, on the other side, casually drying his long, soaked hair, still bobbing his head to whatever song was playing in his headphones. Looked like he was just happy he finally got a shower and his phone charged, like none of this had ever happened. Like we hadn’t just crawled out of hell.

  Meanwhile, everything north of Nijmegen and south of the pocket—the place where hundreds of thousands of Dutch, Americans, Venezuelans, and Argentinians were holding—was gone. Just gone. Turned into cobalt and fire, reduced to an irradiated inland sea that still burned today.

  Maybe that guy had the right idea after all. Maybe he figured it out before the rest of us.

  Just focus on your damn cookies.