Charleroi, European Federation, October 2035

  I wait outside the factory for Marc Lamberty, my eyes scanning the crowd. The end-of-day horn blares, and workers spill out, eager to call it a day. Marc spots me first. His silver hair gleams in the fading light, neatly combed back, with the effortless shine of someone who’s always a step ahead. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, a presence that demands attention without needing to raise his voice. The look of a man who knows exactly how to run a show, the wit of a foreman but with the charm of a seasoned player.

  When I suggest joining his colleagues at their usual bar, he waves off the idea with a quick flick of his hand, the gesture smooth, dismissive. Instead, we grab a six-pack of Jupiler and find a quiet bench in the local park, the evening unfolding with the kind of relaxed confidence that only Marc seemed to pull off.

  "You should’ve seen the MOG, an absolute beauty. We had a Milan anti-tank system mounted up front above the cabin. In the back, a .50 cal with full 360-degree coverage. Then a Mag or Minimi covering the rear and both sides. At first, we had to beg, borrow, and steal to arm ourselves—we were just recon units. Either deep behind crab lines or, on quieter weeks, stationed in the rear, ready to respond if a Tripod or crabs slipped through. Or if deserters tried to run. Those were always complicated, at best we had an MP unit join us to handle them directly. But often we'd spot guys who seemed lost or panicked when we saw them. Restrain them and just have them sit for an hour before the MP's arrived."

  "Did anyone ever cause trouble?" I ask.

  "Ask me again when I’m three beers in," he smirks. "The only real trouble was the language. Telling some Mexican, Moroccan, or Paraguayan to drop his weapon wasn’t always easy. We shouted in English, sure, but if you were some poor kid from the middle of nowhere in Peru or Nigeria—someone who couldn’t afford to pay his way out—you probably didn’t speak a word of it."

  "Were there no reports of deserters? Or did you just stumble onto them?" I ask.

  "Depends. Sometimes, we'd hear from a local garrison that a few guys had gone missing. When that happened, we’d set up shop—park the truck in a treeline near a crossroads and send one guy to sit at the edge, watching for movement. You should’ve seen their faces when we popped out of the bushes with the truck, two machine guns aimed right at them. Or we'd storm through less used paths hoping to stumble onto them."

  "Did you ever run into any Red Army troops like that?" I ask.

  His expression shifts. He finishes his beer, grabs another from the pack, and keeps his eyes locked on mine.

  "No. If I had, I wouldn’t be here." His tone is serious now, bitter. "They weren’t active in the Benelux. Only in the Bavarian Alps—at least, that’s what our dear defense spokesperson said on live TV when they were finally forced to acknowledge their existence."

  He takes a swig before continuing.

  "Renegades were our biggest problem. Groups of deserters who jumped to a ship of their own, hiding out in forests or abandoned villages. Some ambushed convoys, looted supplies, even killed people. But in the Benelux? Maybe ten groups like that, tops. Special forces and armoured units took care of them after a bombardment or two if they were pinned. Most deserters just kept walking south. Like the crabs, they wanted to get to France and then the Mediterranean as fast as possible."

  "Why France?" I ask.

  "Because the country was still running, more or less. Sure, it was chaos at first, but there were still millions of people going about their lives—trains running, bars open, factories working, parents walking their kids to the park. And, more importantly, it had the only ports in the region that weren’t completely under military control.

  "Take Antwerp," he adds. "That place—if you ask me, the only reason Belgium wasn’t abandoned in the opinion of this veteran— a giant FOB. Hundreds of thousands of personnel moving in and out, tons of equipment flowing in from halfway across the world. The military had blown up and bulldozed entire neighborhoods just to expand the port through the war. No way to sneak in. So deserters went to France, hoping to score fake papers and a way out—by boat, by plane, anything. So it was up to us to drive around all day in the hopes of running into them."

  "What’d you do once you caught them?" I ask.

  "People thought it was like in the movies, all dramatic, like some Mexican standoff. But nine times out of ten, they just gave up the moment they saw us. Some tried to run, hide in the forests—our K9 squads took care of that. But mostly, they just collapsed. Exhaustion, hunger, days or weeks on the run, drinking muddy water just to stay alive—it broke them.

  "We cuffed them, gave them water. By now, I’ve learned how to say ‘thank you’ in 200 languages. Most of the time, the local units handled the rest. An officer from their country or even unit would drive out with his aide, talk to them. They had a choice—get in the truck, return to their unit, or go through the formal process and be classified as deserters."

  "Did you ever feel bad about what happened to them after that?" I ask.

  "Like what?" he replies, raising a brow.

  "Wasn’t being classified as a deserter a death sentence?"

  He shrugs. "Most had the option to skip the paperwork and just go back. The ones who refused? Why should I care if they got lined up against a wall? Most were just jailed, sent to labor camps depending on the country. Maybe four percent—at most—ended up executed. And those? They weren’t just deserters. They shot their officers, killed civilians, raped, looted. When a man has nothing left to lose, you don’t take chances. And besides, everything was organized well enough. Jury's, lawyers, judges. Not like the Balkans or the guys on the eastern front who would crucify they're men or do that thing where they'd force a guy to walk in place in a puddle for days, waist deep in freezing water. Only to be shot when they inevitably collapsed from exhaustion."

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  His voice hardens. "But that's why, despite the smiles and water we gave them once they were cuffed, we never let our guard down. More than one fool got shot reaching for something in his pocket or fumbling with his weapon when we had them at gunpoint."

  He finishes his beer and grabs another.

  "What about the crabs?" I ask.

  "Well, if we're talking about behind our lines, crabs were rare—but more common as the war dragged on. Especially in winter. Don't ask me why."

  He leans back, exhaling. "Tripods weren’t as bad as people thought. We had the advantage—freedom of movement, intel on their general location. So we’d hit the gas, weaving through panicked supply trucks and rear-echelon guys. Four sets of eyes scanning in every direction, we’d spot them easy enough. Then it was just a matter of staying out of range."

  "The sergeant up front would pop up from his seat, manning the MILAN, while I stepped out with the SPIKE. I’d crack open the ball, fire, and guide the missile—live video feed straight to my display. Mid-course corrections, retargeting, and then—boom. Each hit? Millions of views online."

  He smirks, then shrugs. "If the missile missed—or, more often, didn’t do enough damage—the sergeant followed up with the MILAN. Slower, 80s tech, but reliable as hell. By that time, I’d already be sprinting back to the truck."

  "Didn’t happen often, but if both shots failed? We got the hell out. I’d reload in the back, clinging on for dear life while we tore through whatever was in our way."

  "The real problem? Their red shock units. Those crabs could hunt. Smart bastards. They’d slip past the front line, vanish behind our defenses, then go after supply depots or HQs—living their best lives while we scrambled to catch up."

  "Is that how you were injured?" I ask.

  He nods, exhaling sharply. "We were driving along the E34. Two supply trucks had fallen behind and stopped responding on the radio. We figured something was wrong when we spotted smoke through the trees. Should’ve stopped earlier, but I was just a private. We pulled off the highway, and that’s when we saw them—two burning trucks, black smoke curling into the sky. And then we were slaughtered."

  "Fire erupted from both sides of the forest. They used what we called ‘crossbows’—blasters that fired metal rods at us. Like a slow, semi-automatic weapon spitting out rebar. Even with all our machine guns, it wasn’t enough."

  "The driver slammed it into reverse, but something must’ve hit the engine. We lurched back, halfway up a divider, and I rolled off. Managed to tear the back hatch open just as one of my guys tossed me my Minimi. No time to think—I just bolted to the side of the truck and let loose, spraying automatic fire into the woods where the shots came from."

  "There were three of us in the rear when the ambush hit. The .50 cal gunner never made it—bolt took him clean through the neck. Another guy rushed to the front cabin. Driver was already dead, a bolt straight through the windshield, right between the eyes. The sergeant? He was still breathing, but barely. Had a rod the size of a forearm buried in his shoulder. He just dragged him out while I kept firing like a madman, hoping the rest of our squad—who had been following behind—wouldn’t roll straight into the same death trap."

  "They held back on the highway, couldn’t fire with us caught in the middle. So it was just us. I squeezed off one last burst, then turned to help my buddy with the sergeant. We each grabbed one of his plate carrier straps and ran. Full sprint, dragging him back toward the second truck, praying we’d make it before they cut us down.

  "The sergeant was screaming in pain. Being dragged through the forest with a chunk of rebar sticking out of his shoulder didn’t help—every branch, every root snagged on it, making it worse. But we didn’t have a choice."

  "We barely made it to the highway before the other truck opened up, unloading everything it had. Just as fast as the ambush had stopped earlier, it started again. Then—bam—my buddy, the one helping me drag the sergeant, took a metal rod to the back. His ceramic plate saved his spine and his life, but the impact knocked him flat. I turned, unloaded everything I had, praying my ammo would hold out."

  "Then salvation—a Pandur. Six-wheeled armored beast, rolling in with its remote-controlled .50 cal. Half our platoon was in UNIMOGs, the other half in those. The moment it arrived, it started shredding the treeline, cutting down everything in its way. Didn’t matter that we were still there—they fired right over our heads. Nothing to be done but trust and keep moving."

  "I yelled for my buddy to keep dragging the sergeant when I felt it—something hit my hand. Didn’t even register at first. Then I looked down. My hand was cut in two."

  "Lucky bastard, that’s what I was. If that bolt had hit anywhere else, I’d be dead. Instead, I let my ruined arm dangle and grabbed the sergeant with the other, dragging him toward the Pandur. Blood was pouring out of me, but I didn’t stop."

  "I reached the Pandur, barely holding on. My vision was fading, the pain in my arm an ever-present throb. With my good hand, I hauled the sergeant up in the back door, his body slick with blood. He screamed, the rebar still lodged deep in his shoulder, snagging on anything it could. Hands grabbed his plate carrier from inside the vehicle, yanking him up and inside ."

  "No room left. It was packed, and everyone but the driver was firing from outside their hatches. The Fifty Cal had jammed and the gunner had to literally jump out and fire it manually. No time to argue. I slammed the armored door shut hoping my sergeants ankle wasnt in the way and turned. I saw my buddy still moving, still alive. We ran, dodging gunfire, keeping low as rounds whizzed past us, kicking up dirt and sparks. The UNIMOG was roaring to life, the engine screaming as it tore down the road. We grabbed the side rails and barely pulled ourselves aboard the truck started to move the moment our foot was on the step to climb on."

  "I hit the bed of the truck hard as someone dragged me in it, dropping to my knees. Blood from my hand was dripping onto the floor, but there was no time to think. I grabbed the Minimi which I was still holding by miracle with my good arm, just put the barrel on the side of the truck's edge, my broken hand hanging useless. I struggled to keep the weapon steady, but desperation took over. My finger squeezed the trigger, and I fired into the treeline—blind shots, just hoping to hit something. I could barely keep the weapon steady, but I kept pulling the trigger. Each burst sounded deafening in my ears, but the sound of gunfire was the only thing that made me feel like we were delaying death."

  "The others were doing the same, lighting up the forest as we sped away, trying to put as much distance between us and the ambush. But as we kept shooting, something gnawed at me."

  "I hadn’t seen a single crab."

  "Not one."

  "Just the ambush, the fire, the bolts cutting us down."

  "But no crabs."

  "I yelled at my colleagues, asking if anyone had seen anything, but no one had a clue. One of them, the guy who still had a decent hand, was already putting a tourniquet around my arm. We all looked at each other, faces blank, stuck in that dumb, disbelieving stare."

  "Even when the artillery came in, wiping out that forest and the surrounding houses—everything gone in less than five minutes—when the units that followed up claimed they didn’t find a single body. Not one. Not even our driver."

  "Six reconstructive surgeries in Buenos Aires. Spent most of the rest of the war there, stuck in rehab. I thought long and hard about just cutting the damn hand off. With half my strength gone, my grip barely working, and those sleek Japanese prosthetics hitting the market, it seemed like a better option. But those late nights in Buenos Aires… they weren’t so lonely. Found plenty of company, and I told my story more times than I could count, with the good-looking locals. No point in crying about it. Everyone’s got a sob story—or ten—from this war. All of them thinking they’re some special snowflake as they lick their wounds."

  "Those people drink for the wrong reasons, thinking it’ll make them feel better with their grim thoughts. Guys like me? We drink because it feels damn good, and we deserve it."