Brussels, European Federation, January 2035

  What follows is an excerpt from a video call I had with Sebastián Fernández, a Santiago native who had spent the entire war as a rifleman in the Chilean military. Starting his journey as a private, he climbed the ranks through sheer grit and battlefield promotions, ultimately earning the title of company commander. Far from his days as a company commander, Sebastián now runs a bakery with his wife and is preparing to welcome their fourth child. Beyond this, he remains tight-lipped about his personal life, sharing little more than what’s necessary.

  "Before this war me and most people had that fantasy of what a battlefield looked like. That there'd be dead people left and right. Clutching pictures of their kids or surrounded by foes they'd have killed in a last stand. In reality its way different than this. You'd find the bodies in places that make sense. Huddled together like kids where they thought they would be safe. You'd find two or three of them huddled together in a ditch, in a crater or a small alley. Probably taking cover in their last moment. Probably thinking "if I just make it in that storm drain I would be safe! Just a few more meters and I'll be between those destroyed cars. And you'd find them laying them. Their blood and bodies black and putrid. If they weren't fresh and the crabs hadn't taken the bodies you'd find the dead maggots around and on top of them. Stiff when you'd roll them over to take their magazines and hand grenades if they had any. If you found one, you most often find another or two right next to it. Then maybe a ten meter empty stretch to the other part of their squad. Germans, French, Belgian, Guatemalans didn't matter. They'd all be like that in their last moments. Huddled together trying to dodge the blasters or artillery landing above their heads.

  Sometimes, it wasn’t even the enemy that got them. More often than we liked, we found our own men torn apart by friendly ordnance. Just craters where they once stood, their bodies shredded by shrapnel. Sometimes, you’d even find an unexploded shell nearby—silent proof of who had done this.

  Like that time in Stuttgart. We pushed into an industrial zone—empty, silent. But we knew an entire platoon of Indonesians had vanished here. When we opened one of the hangars, the stench hit us first. Two APCs sat inside, untouched. Beside them, neat rows of sleeping bags. At first, it looked like they were still resting. Then it clicked. They’d been gassed in their sleep.

  Who gave the order? No one knew. But those men had crawled in their sleeping bags one night, expecting another dawn. Instead, they woke up choking, vomiting their lungs out. Try sleeping after seeing that. Try doing it night after night.

  And then, there was that car. The front seats and engine block—gone, vaporized. But in the backseat? A baby seat, half-destroyed. The tiny body inside had been there for nearly a year.

  We were far from Chilé. Far from Santiago, Vi?a del Mar or Villarrica in my case. But all of that, we either wanted to wipe those crabs from the face of the earth as soon as possible, or go home just in case they landed again this time closer to our families. I was still very glad that I was part of the army that existed before the crabs first arrived. The conscripts afterwards were used like cattle. Be they Chiléan, French, Portugues or Chinese.

  Didn't even follow what glorious operation we were in anymore. Felt like every two months a fresh army general would find the name of an obscure European leader or philosophe and call his glorious plan after it. While it was just capturing or recapturing lost territory.

  We were near the border where France, Germany, and Luxembourg meet. Just a patch of countryside, nothing remarkable. I spotted the TV crews from a mile out. The border post itself was barely more than a national farm road, with a single parking barrier across it. Its purpose? I had no idea. It wouldn’t have surprised me if it was there purely for symbolism.

  About five different media teams had gathered, cameras ready, surrounded by German soldiers of all kinds. Our entire company sat there waiting. One hundred fifty men and sixteen M113s, all held up by a flimsy barrier and a crowd of journalists. Our commander stepped out and went to speak with the Germans.

  After a short exchange, the German officer gave a signal. The cameras came to life. They made a whole show out of it, staging the moment as German troops pushed the barrier out of the way like it was some grand event.

  I was on the lead vehicle, up in the turret of our M113 behind the .50 cal. I was already in a bad mood, so you can imagine my face when our Company Commander had asked me earlier to strap the Chilean flag to the hood, front and center for everyone to see. Didn't matter that Argentinian and South African recce's and tanks had already past that same road twelve hours earlier.

  The barrier was finally pushed aside, and we moved forward into Germany. Probably the tenth time that month human troops had crossed that particular strip of land, swapping control with the Crabs like it was some kind of game of hot potato.

  It didn’t take long before we started seeing the Crabs. Just a few here and there. Rear echelon types. The fast IFV platoons were supposed to take care of them. What started to bother me was when we passed two destroyed South African Olifant tanks. That got my attention. I started flipping through my notebook, the one with photos and specs of damn near every tank on Earth, trying to confirm who they belonged to.

  The wind kept slapping me in the face as the M113 pushed as fast as it could down the road. It felt like forever, but we finally reached the village we were meant to take. The others I mentioned earlier had already taken position south of it. We had no intel from that side, just vague radio chatter. Our convoy came to a stop next to an Argentinian squatting in the mud on the roadside, pants around his ankles. Couldn’t tell his shit from the wet ground.

  He stood up, calm as anything, and explained in perfect Spanish that their tanks had halted and were waiting for us to clear the village. Said they had spotted Crabs holed up in the houses and weren’t about to roll into close quarters until our infantry did the dirty work. He repeated the same to my commander as he pulled his pants back up.

  We practically made him swear on a Bible that they hadn’t seen any Beetles. Those were a different problem altogether. When we asked where his platoon commander was, he shrugged and said we should’ve spotted his burnt corpse on the way in.

  It took us another hour to find the South Africans. We barely spoke English. Their officers did, thankfully. But by then we were late. Night was setting and there was no way we were going to do the dirty work in the dark. Especially with all the friendlies with no night optics who would have have us in their sights with 120MM cannons.

  One long cold night of pulling security later, we watched the sun rise as me and the other sergeants were briefed on the plan.

  My squad was set to push second. The Argentinians would send two of their TAM light tanks ahead to draw fire. The South Africans were in position to answer with heavy fire on anything that dared show itself. My squad would be right behind, riding on top of the M113s. There would be no time to dismount through the tight cargo door if we came under fire.

  A guy from my unit, the one who had twisted his foot the night before, would take over for me on the .50 cal. I was going in with the dismounts. Barely had time to show him how the gun worked. I lit a cigarette, took a couple drags, and then it was time.

  The two TAMs didn’t last five minutes. They were hit about two hundred meters from the edge of the village, right as we rolled up behind them in our M113s. The Olifants started hammering the buildings with high-explosive rounds.

  The Crabs had learned a few things. They were firing from cover now, setting up their rocket carts in hiding, waiting until the last second to launch. But they made one mistake. They deployed one of their heavier weapons—some long tube the size of a man, needed two Crabs to carry and fire it. They placed it in the top window of a church tower.

  Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.

  That church looked older than anything else for miles, but it didn’t matter. The tanks in the treeline saw the flash, and they brought the whole thing down in seconds. The tower collapsed in a cloud of dust and shattered stone.

  My stock slammed into my jaw as I dropped from the M113. The .50 cal was blasting above me like it was singing its final aria. The guy manning it went at it like there was no tomorrow. I tried not to think about the HE shells screaming over our heads toward the village. There wasn’t much left of the houses on the outskirts — just splinters and smoke now.

  Our plan was twofold. Our commander, still back at the treeline with the Argentinians and South Africans, would radio in to have them cease fire once we reached the village. We would also fire a flare into the sky, just to be sure. Belt and suspenders.

  We were about a hundred meters out. I was lying in the mud, already soaked, trying to fumble my way through my gear. Found the flare gun, gripped it wrong, and fired it into the air. It kicked hard and messed up my wrist, but there was no time to dwell on it.

  We waited. Thirty long seconds. Then the shelling stopped. I found myself wondering what the hell they’d even been shooting at.

  I gripped my GALIL tighter, minding my wrist, and shouted to my men that we were about to dive straight into the thick of it. My squad was split in half. Alpha was with me — my medic, a machine gunner with a Minimi, and a marksman. Bravo, my support group, was led by a corporal and made up of two riflemen and another machine gunner.

  I told them to get their asses into the half-destroyed convenience store ahead. No need for the door — there wasn’t a wall left standing to even use it. Some other squad was a few hundred meters to the right, doing the same thing.

  Come to think of it, war’s just a whole bunch of people doing the exact same thing, all convinced they’re somehow different from everyone else. We all think we’re the ones making the difference, like we’re the ones who’ve got the right angle, the right strategy, the right heart. But we’re all just part of the same machine, marching in sync, barely aware of the cogs that grind us along.

  You see it in the eyes of the guys around you. Every man thinks his fight is more important than the next guy’s, that the stuff he’s going through is somehow more intense. But in the end, we’re all just trying to survive the same shitstorm. Doesn’t matter if you’re stacking bodies on the front lines or sitting behind a desk with a radio — we’re all just responding to the same orders, pulling the same triggers, applying the same things we learned in training, and hoping we make it through the next second.

  The truth is, everyone here is playing a role. Some guys believe they’re heroes, others think they’re just doing their job, but the fact is, the whole show was written long before we ever showed up. We’re not that special, not really. We’re just soldiers, caught up in the machinery of war, each convinced his part matters more. The brass probably already knew which units would suffer, which battalion would be decimated by an attack, which would become inoperable and which would be spared. There were millions of sergeants like me, doing their best to keep their men — and themselves — alive, just so they could go home, hug their parents, or embrace a fiancé.

  I didn’t think of my girl as I shoved the door open. I was frustrated that my guys had been kicking at it for thirty seconds when I just needed one good push to open it. But I shoved too hard. Instead of pulling back to cover, I ended up stumbling into the room.

  I froze when I met the eyes of a Crab, crawling across a shopping aisle. The stacks of goods were all gone. The dark blue blood trailed from the door to where it had been. Its legs were gone, and it had dropped its rifle somewhere, but there was no question — I wasn’t taking it prisoner. And I wasn’t about to give my position away by shooting.

  I motioned for my men to enter the room, keeping my voice low. Then, I moved closer. I reached for my trench shovel at my side — not for digging trenches, but for moments like this. The first strike sent a crack through its skull. By the third, its head split open, the blue blood splattering across my shooting glasses.

  I folded the shovel back and shoved it into its pouch, then radioed to company that I had secured the store. Me and my machine gunner moved to the entrance. The windows had been boarded up, leaving only a narrow view of the small German street through the shattered glass.

  I damn near shot a farmer boy from Villarrica as he stumbled through the door, cursing like a storm. His squad followed, and then the rest of my platoon came in. Barely had time to shout at them — we could’ve easily shot them for walking into our killing zone, and they’d probably just given our position away.

  Then the Crabs started firing potshots at the building. The first few blasts didn’t penetrate, just shook the walls and rattled the windows. But then they brought out the heavier ordinance — the kind that would tear through brick and cement, turning the walls into rubble and splattering the inside with shrapnel and incendiary crap. By the time our platoon commander was yelling in the radio for tank support, not realizing that if the tanks fired they only had a view of the buildings we were in I was by the door firing at a building across the street where I saw a blaster firing from a first floor window. Lifted my M203 after I loaded a shell and fired at said window. I had only 3 such shells so I couldn't waist them. My platoon commander was focused on his radio in the back of the store. As if he could talk his way out of this situation. The other sergeants were yelling at him to come up with something as the room was being littered by more blaster rounds. A miracle we only lost one guy, took a piece of shrapnel to the thigh.

  People always told me I acted Impulsively. Be it ADD or just my upbringing. Always got yelled at. Be it my teachers at school, parents, girlfriends or superiors in the army. Don't know why I did shit like that, always was a hail Mary. But I wouldn't be here I think if I wasn't who I am.

  “Squad with me!” I yelled, pulling a hand grenade from my pouch. We sprinted across the street. I lobbed it into the window as I charged toward the building, praying to God it wouldn’t land at street level with me and my men. Thank God they were on my ass, not hanging back like the rest of the cowards in the store. The grenade exploded just as I kicked down the door.

  We were met by a long corridor on one side and stairs leading up on the other.

  “Bravo, clear the ground floor. Rest with me.”

  Diego, my machine gunner, didn’t need any instructions to take point up the stairs. He knew the drill, and this wasn’t our first rodeo. He glanced up the stairs, then back at me as I moved in close behind.

  I could’ve rushed it, sprinted up and finished it quick, especially with the blasters still going off upstairs across the street. But even with the human mashed potato that was probably the store by now, I wasn’t about to throw my life away.

  “Two rooms, doors closed,” Diego said as we reached the top of the stairs.

  Despite what we’d been taught, I left the door to the room that wasn’t overlooking the street and the store alone, just put one guy next to it to watch. Me, Diego, and Garcia moved toward the room where the shots had come from.

  Diego took a knee in front of the door, eyes never leaving it, his grip on the Minimi relaxed but steady. He handled that weapon like it was a loaf of bread, easy and natural. Solid as hell — who knew a life of copper mining would make you stronger than city rats like me?

  He nodded without looking away from his iron sights, signaling he was ready. I warned him I was about to open the door. I kicked it hard, and it flew open. As soon as my leg cleared the frame, Diego fired, the crack of his rounds cutting through the air. We were firing deadly bullets at less than a meter from each other, and coordination was everything. We couldn’t afford to be clumsy.

  He emptied his salvo into something inside before standing up and rushing in, weapon raised. He opened fire the moment he rounded the corner, bullets tracking a target neither of us saw before his own eyes.

  I was right behind Diego, rifle lifted so I couldn’t pass easily. As soon as he moved out of my way, my rifle dropped, and I put three more rounds into the target he’d shot earlier.

  "Left stable!" Diego yelled. I didn’t need to look; I knew that meant he’d cleared something on the left side of the room. If there was nothing, he would’ve just said “clear.”

  "Right stable! Give the bastard another salvo!" I yelled back. We both fired a few more rounds into our respective targets, making sure they were dead before we took a better look around.

  My grenade had hit the mark. The corner where the window was had a huge black burn, shrapnel scattered everywhere in the room. Aside from the bullet holes on Diego's targets, there were pieces of Carapace missing, as if they’d been scalped by the grenade’s fragmentation.

  "Diego, don’t peek that window if you value your head. Don’t want some bastard mistaking you for a target," I reminded him.

  "Mateo! Bravo! How’s downstairs looking?!" I yelled, turning toward the rest of the squad.

  An hour later, we were in the village center, clearing what was left of the church as the rest of our infantry company pushed forward. We’d taken minimal losses: three dead and four injured. It meant one less squad in total, but beggars can’t be choosers.

  "Se acabó!" my company commander told me with a smile as my squad and I joined him and the lieutenant just outside.

  By the time I was being congratulated for my actions earlier in the store, the South Africans and Argentinians had rolled past us through the village. We still had two more villages to clear that day, but that didn’t stop the reporters from asking us to recreate the battle for their cameras.