Phagocytosis

Horoměřice, European Federation.

We look at the city of Prague from the heights of the nearby village of Horoměřice, just north of it. Although a few healthy trees and the large fences around it partly hide the view, the ruins of the city lie visible a few kilometres away in the valley. Once alive with movement and light, Prague now stands silent and hollow, its skyline broken and grey. The war left it scarred beyond quick repair, and in the years that followed, the European Federation turned its attention elsewhere. Streets that once echoed with life are now overgrown, buildings stand opento the wind, and the river that once defined the city flows quietly past the remains, carrying only the memory of what it was.

Karel Černý fidgets, as if uneasy to be there. His movements are restless but strangely careful, as though every motion has been learned through scarcity. The sleeves of his jacket hang loose on his arms, his wrists narrow and pale. Even now, years after the war, he still looks slightly underfed, not thin enough to draw pity, just worn down in a way that never quite leaves.

He hands me a pair of binoculars, and I notice the faint tremor in his fingers, the kind that comes from more than nerves. His face is young but lined around the eyes, the skin stretched too tightly over high cheekbones.

"There," he says, pointing toward the valley. "Prašná brána, the Powder Tower. Still standing. I was holed up there for a while."

When he lowers his hand, he tucks it into his pocket quickly, as if he'd rather keep it still, hidden, warm.

"How did you end up caught there?" I ask.

"I was just a student. Sixteen, I think. Yeah, sixteen when it started. At first there were only rumors about what was happening. People thought the Russians had some new weapon. I mean, how else would you explain two-meter-tall crabs? But when ordinary people saw how hard the Russians were getting hit, when the Baltics went dark, then most of Belarus and Poland followed, everyone panicked. They packed whatever they could and tried to get as far away as possible.

I had lost my parents, not in the figurative sense. They were in Paris for their anniversary when it all began. The only things heading east were soldiers and tanks. Parents trying to get to their kids weren't exactly at the top of anyone's transport list.

My cousin, Josef, was eighteen. They put him in military fatigues and handed him a rifle a few weeks before me because of that. I still remember how it was. Some overworked officer came into the room, checking the birthdays of all the other lost kids. The police had done well enough to keep us in that gymnasium until they figured out what to do with us. The last helicopter out of the city was for the girls and the younger children. For me and the boys my age, there was a flak jacket and a thirty-minute course on how to use a rifle.

I didn't realize how bad the situation had become. Prague wasn't surrounded yet, but for every civilian who was evacuated, three more came in from the east. All of them desperate to escape before that black blanket swallowed the city.

"The city looked almost normal at first," he says, squinting toward the valley as if trying to burn the memory into his eyes. "A few shops still open, people on the streets, smoke curling from chimneys. You could almost forget what was coming. But there was this tension, this constant hum underneath everything. Soldiers moving through the streets in groups, checkpoints at every corner. Rumors spreading faster than the trams, about what had already fallen to the east.

"Rumors were everywhere," he says, his voice low. "At first it was whispers of new weapons, monsters the Russians had unleashed. Two-meter-tall crabs, they said. People laughed nervously, but no one really believed it could be anything ordinary. Then came the stories from the east, villages gone black overnight, entire towns flattened. Some said the skies were full of fire, others claimed the rivers had dried up from some strange attack.

They handed me a flak jacket and a rifle, the kind that felt heavier than I could imagine carrying for more than a few minutes. The officer gave a half-hour crash course, showing us how to load it, aim, and fire. That was it. No drills, no practice beyond a few jerky shots at a wall across of a parking lot. Five rounds each. We were expected to remember everything when it counted. They didn't know if we were to stay and help out in the city, or if we were going to be sent east.

After that, the tasks started. We were thrown into building barricades, stacking sandbags along streets and in front of key buildings. We nailed wooden planks over windows, tore down signs, anything to slow an advancing force. Officers barked instructions, and we moved quickly, our hands raw from splinters and the cold. Every corner of the city needed attention, and the older soldiers directed us wherever they could spare a pair of hands.

We learned to spot weak points in walls, to reinforce them before they could be breached. Mines and traps were laid in the outskirts at first. But soon enough there wasn't a crossroad that was set to blow and cause a crater straight out of a kids cartoon. We only helped carry them at first, the engineers placed them under watchful eyes. Soon I got the hang of it. Dominic was the guy's name. Some engineer who hadn't been in the army for a year. He had skills, and soon I had those aswell. Never imagined I'd spend my seventeenth birthday turning anti tank mines into contact explosives you'd throw like a 20 kilo frisbee.

Roofs were reinforced, basements cleared and stocked, every building a potential stronghold. Even at sixteen, fear didn't stop us; it only made us work faster, knowing any mistake might cost someone's life. We were tired, but there was some kind of pride at that age whern a soldier twice your age hands you a task.

We were a strange bunch, all of us. Kids who should've been in school or playing football somewhere, now dressed in mismatched gear and whatever helmets they could find. Some had proper uniforms, most didn't. One guy wore his father's old army vest from back when we were communist. Another put some stickers his girl friend had given him on his rifle. Akward cats, "i hate mondays" type of deal. We laughed about it sometimes, just to stay sane, but everyone's eyes gave it away, the fear, the exhaustion. None of us were really soldiers. No matter the bravado or pride.

We slept wherever we could, school basements, storage rooms, even the back of trucks that no longer ran. Meals were whatever the quartermaster could find: cold cans, stale bread, sometimes just boiled potatoes. But it didn't matter. We were together, and that was enough. There was this unspoken rule among us: no one got left alone. Not on shifts, not on errands, not even for a smoke break. Being alone meant thinking too much, and none of us wanted that. At first we thought it was some military rule, turns out, they didn't want us to dissapear with a rifle somewhere.

We started hearing the artillery. At first, it was just a whisper. We weren't even sure we had heard it. But over a day or two, it came closer and closer. Officers didn't have time to talk anymore. There were only more tasks. More bunkers to erect, more trenches to dig, more land mines and explosives to place. Every day the city felt smaller, every street a new line of defense, and we were running faster than we ever had, trying to be ready for what was coming.

They came with a cloud of dust, vehicles rattled past in a blur. Polish, French, American, and Austrian trucks, tanks, self propelled artillery, armored cars IFV's and everything barreled east and south through the streets, engines screaming, tires throwing debris. Soldiers hunched inside, faces pale, eyes wide with exhaustion and fear, watching as we moved the landmines we placed with broomsticks. Some of the vehicles were hit, metal bent and blackened, but they kept moving, desperate to escape the tightening noose around the city. The streets echoed with their engines, the clatter of loose gear, the occasional shout or curse. They stared at us as they drove past. They all seemed to have that look in their eyes as if they couldn't wait to get out of there.

Then the Czech forces showed up. Soldiers in dirt stained uniforms, armored vehicles moving slowly through the same streets the others had just raced down. They weren't trying to get out. They stopped at corners, checked barricades, waved people through. Took coordination's on where they should set up shop. You could see it in their faces, tense, focused, ready for whatever came from the east. The difference was obvious: everyone else was running, but the Czechs were staying, holding the city; our city. Like the noise of artillery getting closer and closer, a small voice inside of me grew louder. I couldn't hear it yet but I knewwich tune it was singing.

Later that day, we all ended up at the old church in the center of town. The pews were worn and creaked under the weight of people, soldiers, and teenagers like me. Everyone squeezed in wherever they could, trying to find a little space, a little quiet in the middle of everything going on. Voices here and there, mostly the new comers telling the older guys who were with me what they went through in their fighting east. Josef tried his best to hear what was being said. But once the priest entered, everyone shut up.

The priest stepped up, robes slightly dusty, and began to speak. At first, nobody said anything. You could hear a pin drop over the hum of nerves. And then we all started listening. His voice was steady, going on about courage, about holding onto faith, about looking out for one another even when the world was falling apart. Some of the older soldiers nodded, some of the younger ones stared down at their hands, but everyone was quiet. For a few moments, at least, it felt like the city outside didn't exist. Even I, who had spent the day hauling sandbags and watching retreating armies, felt my shoulders relax a little. We were all just people in a church, listening, waiting, hoping. The sermon didn't make the artillery stop, didn't make the streets safer. But it quenched some sort of thirst in us water couldn't dream of fixing.

By the time the sermon was winding down, the artillery was louder. Not just a distant rumble anymore, but a deep, steady pounding that made the walls of the church vibrate. You could feel it in your chest, like the city itself was shaking. People shifted in their seats, hands tightenin, glances flicking toward the windows.

Then the rain started. At first it was just a drizzle, but quickly it slammed against the glass, hammering the panes so hard it sounded almost like gunfire. Water streaked down the windows, blurring the streets outside. The smell of wet stone and damp wood filled the church.

The priest finished his last words, but nobody lingered. Soldiers rose first, grabbing rifles and flak jackets. Teenagers like me scrambled after them, heart pounding. Everyone knew it was time. Time to leave the strange calm of the church and head back into the chaos, back to the barricades, the trenches, and the streets that were already trembling under the pounding of the artillery. The sermon ended, and the city called us back.

Didn't sleep for three days after that. Spent hours running from one bunker to another, carrying everything from ammo to water and food.

"Poděbrady!" either Josef or I would yell.

The bunker would shout the password back. "Benešov!"

"What took you so long?" a corporal asked. His colleague beside him was firing the machine gun, the sound so loud it rattled the tarp they had rigged above them to keep out the rain. It wasn't doing much. Water dripped through, mixing with mud at their feet. The gunner fired short bursts across the canal, figures moving somewhere in the dark.

"You idiots stop for a cigarette break?" the gunner shouted, pausing to reach for an ammunition box behind him.

"Who the fuck do you think you're talking to?" someone yelled from the dark.

"The kids!" the machine gunner called back.

"That's how you talk to kids, you debil?" another voice shouted from a nearby bunker.

The gunner didn't answer. He just pretended to sort his ammunition.

"Thought so too, bitch! Now stop wasting your ammo on shadows and save it for what's coming in half an hour!" the voice from the bunker added.

A voice from the dark called out again. "Guys, get over here!"

Josef looked at me, then back toward the sound. We ran across the slippery grass, careful not to fall, and ducked under a half-collapsed doorway that led into the bunker.

"What's the password?" a man asked as he peeked out from between two tarps covering the entrance. He didn't sound serious, more like the way my dad used to ask me when I wanted ice cream as a kid.

"Slavia Praha," I said, taking a guess.

"Eehh, fine, come in," the man replied.

"Nick, there's a Slavia Praha fan at the door," he called to his buddy, who was lying on a mattress laid across a table, eye pressed to the scope of his sniper rifle.

"Does he have cigarettes or ammo?" the sniper asked without looking away from the scope.

"You guys have cigarettes or ammo?" the man at the entrance repeated.

My cousin lifted up a half-empty pack of cigarettes.

"Come on in!" the man said.

Inside, it was dim and cramped, the only light coming from the moon spilling through the torn tarps at the entrance. The pale glow cut across the room in thin stripes, just enough to outline the shapes of crates, rifles, and helmets scattered on the floor. In the far corner, the man in the ghillie suit lay on the table, his face hidden in shadow, the glass of his rifle scope catching the moonlight for a second before he moved.

Josef and I were handed empty ammunition boxes to sit on.

Before we could say anything, the sniper fired. The sound ripped through the small bunker, a crack that made my ears ring and my chest tighten. Dust fell from the ceiling. Josef flinched hard enough to drop the cigarette pack.

I froze, heart pounding, staring at the sniper. He didn't move, just adjusted his rifle a little, his breathing steady. The other paratrooper didn't even look up from what he was doing he was filling up a magazine with the new ammo I had brought, methodically checking each round like nothing had happened.

"Got him," the sniper, Nick said quietly, eyes still on the scope.

"Nick, mind if I smoke one?" He asked.

Nick slowly turned his head. Before grabbing a hold of the radio push to talk button on his shoulder.

"Dana, Dana, Corsair here speaking, watch the crab I just shot. If anymovement let me know ASAP."

The other guy went to the small opening, closed it with a tarp before Nick stood up and sat on his table as the room was lit up by a lighter.

You could tell right away they weren't regulars. Their uniforms had more of an edge to them, their movements sharp and deliberate. Patches on their shoulders marked them as výsadkáři, Czech paratroopers.

"You look like you've been running all night." Chris said.

The other paratrooper handed us each a canteen. "You're with the line on the western canal, right? Those two idiots outside need to save their ammo. They shoot at shadows more than they hit anything real."

"They've been awake as long as we have," I said.

"Yeah, but they don't know when to stop," the man replied, then closed his eyes for a second, savouring the nicotine.

"You guys snipers?" Josef asked.

"Accounting, actually," the other answered with a chuckle.

"Excuse Dominic's humor," Chris said. "Thanks for the cigarette. How old are you two?"

"Sixteen and eighteen," I answered.

"Bastards," Dominic muttered under his breath.

"Excuse me?" I said.

"Not you," he said. "The brass who put kids in uniforms."

"We want to fight, you know," Josef said. "We have the same right as you."

"Yeah, sure. Go, motherland," Dominic scoffed.

I watched Nick as his cigarette glowed when he drew on it.

"Hope you know what you got yourself into," Nick said.

"Oh, he knows," Dominic added.

"I did not know there was an option," I said.

"There's always an option. Never let anyone think they've got you boxed in — not here, not some girl, not your parents, not some cop," Chris said.

"Corsair, Corsair, Dana here. Some crab is trying to pull his buddy out there. I think that's your queue," came the voice over the radio.

"Well, thanks for the cigarettes, guys," Chris said, turning so he could lie back on the table.

"Go out only after I shoot," He added.

Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.

That first night under siege was the worst. I ended up in some damp basement with Josef and a few other kids, the walls shaking with every explosion. What was left of the air force was pounding the city relentlessly. They weren't picking targets, anything north, east and south of human lines, anything that wasn't human, went up in flames. Rows and rows of carpet bombing, one strike after another, each one shaking the ground beneath us like the city itself was being ripped apart.

The sound never stopped. The walls vibrated, dust fell from the ceiling, and every flash from above lit up the basement in sudden, blinding stabs of orange and white. The air smelled of fire and metal. Outside, buildings collapsed, glass shattered, and screams pierced the night, though none of it reached anyone who wasn't meant to hear it. When the noise briefly stopped, it was replaced by someone shrieking and crying. I couldn't tell who it was, but at some point, we all lost our minds. Cries for mothers, for God, or whoever felt appropriate rose from the darkness. Your mind knew that if one bomber was off course, if one bomb landed above your head, all of us would be gone in an instant.

By morning, the officers finally came down to tell us the numbers. They expected ten thousand of the crabs had died overnight. Ten thousand. I tried to imagine it, tried to picture the streets empty and the city silent, but it was impossible. We were the ones who looked dead — dried tears, dust covering us. I didn't know a living, breathing face could look like that. All I felt was the buzzing in my ears, the ache in my arms from holding a rifle I barely knew how to use, and the certainty that nothing would ever feel normal again.

Tens of thousands dead, and yet our lines were still being hammered by the crabs. Not beetles or tripods — though a few tripods had tried to get close, only to be destroyed by ATGM positions atop Saint Clement's Cathedral. You'd walk and see a piece of glowing red metal streaking across the sky, flying overhead like some cruel, impossible bird.

I had never lain with a girl before the siege, but by the end of the first day of battle, I couldn't say I was a virgin anymore. What started as another run to drop off supplies became something else entirely. We picked up magazines from the wounded, fired rounds at crabs swarming above the "Flora" subway station, and for a moment, survival and desire became the same thing.

We had reached the position above the subway station and realized we weren't just spectators anymore. On the ground below, I saw two men, their position had been hit by a blaster. One of them was frantically trying to pull molten metal off his vest, screaming silently to anyone who might help.

A few dozen meters behind them, I saw it: two crabs on the floor. One was injured, being dragged by the other toward safety. Between them and us, another crab stood with a blaster in hand, pointing straight at us. He glanced back at the duo. I saw his mouth move, but of course, I couldn't hear anything. He was signaling, directing them to safety while using his own body as a shield.

Josef and I moved in sync, throwing down our ammunition boxes and grabbing the VZ58 rifles slung across our backs.

The crash of the boxes hitting the floor must have given us away. As I raised my rifle, the crab turned its head toward me, like that scene with the girl in The Exorcist. Its head spun unnaturally, tracking me. I pressed the trigger. Nothing. Same for Josef.

"Do prdele!" I shouted, realizing the mistake we had made.

The crab fired. The round hit the man with molten metal on his vest instantly. Bits of flesh and gear sprayed across Josef and me, and I stumbled back against the wall.

Unbothered, I chambered a round, took aim again, and fired. One shot hit, the second missed. I adjusted, and the third and fourth rounds found their mark.

The crab shuddered violently as the rounds hit. Its body jerked, limbs twisting unnaturally, sparks flying where metal scraped against metal. Bullets tore through its armor with a series of harsh, ringing cracks. I could see them enter and exit, little streaks of light flashing as they ricocheted off its body, punching through the air and scattering across the street below.

It collapsed with a deafening crash, the impact sending dust and debris spraying from the pavement. Bits of shattered concrete and loose gear bounced off the street floor like rain, the sound echoing through the empty buildings. I could see the glowing streaks of spent rounds glinting as they ricocheted behind it, slicing across the cobblestones, clattering against walls and overturned crates.

The first crab on the ground tried to crawl, dragging its injured companion with it, but its movements were slow and clumsy. I realized then where it was trying to take its comrade, the subway exit. I didn't want to think about what horrors might be waiting down there.

There was no hesitation. Josef and I opened fire. Even as the crab gave up trying to save its friend, we kept shooting. I hit it three times in the back as it tried to dash toward the subway entrance. It collapsed just as Josef finished off the other injured crab. The creature tried to lift its head and upper body, but one more round tore through it, emptying whatever was left in its brain cavity.

Before we could catch our breath, sharp, deafening shots rang out from the subway entrance. The rounds tore through the street ahead of us, each one punching small craters into the pavement or sending sparks off the nearby barricades. We were caught off guard, adrenaline spiking instantly.

"Get down!" I shouted, diving behind a car. Josef hit the ground next to me, fumbling to bring his rifle up. Their blasters fired high-explosive rounds that turned chunks of concrete and debris into deadly shrapnel, while some glowed red-hot, incendiary rounds that sizzled as they scorched the asphalt.

I saw a round strike the engine block of the car I was using for cover. The blaster punched through the body panel, and the engine block just "popped," as if the gasoline and oil inside had ignited. I could feel the heat through the melting panel. If the shot had gone through the engine block entirely, I wouldn't be here today.

Another round landed just a few meters away, throwing a geyser of stones and fire into the air. The street around us became a chaotic storm of heat, smoke, and flashing light. For a second, all we could do was react, shoot, duck, reload, repeat.

The crabs were relentless, and every shot they fired reminded us just how little cover actually protected us. It wasn't enough to aim and fire; we had to think about blast radius, ricochet, and where the next round might land. Survival was all that mattered, and even that felt uncertain.

I looked back down the avenue we had come from. A Pandur 2 fighting vehicle was barreling toward us. I felt a brief surge of relief,the cavalry was here, until I saw it fire. The round flew just a meter or two above my head before slamming into the subway entrance.

I ducked for cover, trying to make myself as small as possible, and shouted every name I could think of, like calling out to anyone who might be listening.

It stopped just a few meters ahead of us. I was frozen by fear. The back door I saw being lowered followed by an entire squad of boots dissmounting. Real soldiers, not scared conscripts ordered to hold a checkpoint, or some child soldiers tasked with delivering ammunition. One of them sprinted towards me as the cannon stopped firing. I just saw his hand reach for my collar and I was dragged to safety.

They pinned a medal on Josef and me for that. Medals straight out of the military museum. But with it came the hunger. Real hunger. Not the kind you feel after skipping dinner. The kind that sets in after a week of barely eating, gnawing at your stomach and making every breath feel heavier.

By mid-morning, my stomach was twisting painfully. Every step felt heavier, every movement slower. Josef tried to joke about it, but even his laugh sounded hollow, swallowed by the growl of our own bellies. We scavenged what we could, a half-crushed can of beans here, a bit of stale bread there, but it barely made a dent.

It gnawed at your patience, your focus, your nerves. I could feel it clawing at my mind as we hauled ammo, checked barricades, and scanned the streets for movement. Even small mistakes felt catastrophic, and every time a round of blaster fire screamed past, I flinched harder than I should have.

The special forces left in the city weren't just tasked with recon missions or acting as our quick reaction force if a defense line was breached. They were now stationed at the food depots.

I don't know how we managed to carry ammunition all day like that. Every time a plane flew overhead, you didn't hope it was going to drop bombs anymore, but food parcels.

Soon, every thought in my head was about food. Nothing else mattered. We went on recon missions. We carried ammo to guys encircled by crabs, all because we were promised a meal. It didn't matter if it was air-dropped American or Chinese aid, moldy bread or cold-war communist combat rations. We started hating the civilians who had been evacuated for taking all the food they could with them. Soon, there wsn't a shop ile with anything left, not one stray cat or dog anymore. Those were rare.

Josef and I sat in the back of an abandoned municipal bus, its windows shattered, seats ripped and dirty, trying to catch a moment's rest. Outside, the city was just a ruin of smoke and rubble. Must have been the the third week of the siege. Our rifles rested on our laps, but even in that brief pause, we couldn't relax.

Across the street, three men were being dragged toward a crumbling wall, their hands cuffed behind them. I could see the fear in their eyes, the way they struggled, but it didn't matter. One by one, they were shot, their bodies collapsing to the ground, dust and blood mixing with the debris. Must have been for stealing foor or refusing orders. Who knows. The sounds echoed against the empty buildings and made my stomach twist. Josef and I froze, staring at it, unable to tear our eyes away, knowing that any second our own lives could end the same way.

Then, across the street behind a window, a stray cat appeared. Its fur was matted, one eye clouded, and it stared down at us with impossible calm. For a heartbeat, it was absurdly ordinary against all the violence, a tiny, living thing that somehow existed in the middle of the chaos. Shelteed from the outside world by an apartment window. The cat blinked slowly, then leapt silently from the ledge and disappeared into the room. I exhaled without realizing I'd been holding my breath.

Josef and I looked at each other. We knew what had to be done. Five minutes later, we were kicking down the door with what little energy we had left. Between two strikes with my leg, Josef fired a round at the lock. I didn't even care how dangerous that was.

The shot caught the attention of some of the ghosts in the street, soldiers, civilians who hadn't had time to evacuate. They wandered through the city like sleepwalkers, moving with the aimless determination of zombies, just trying to figure out where their next meal might come from. I realized we were maybe only a few days away from ending up like them.

A woman stepped towards us from the street, narrowing her eyes as she watched us kicking at the door. "What are you doing?" she demanded, striding closer.

When we didn't answer, her voice dropped, soft and urgent. "If you have some food in there, I can trade you for it" she said, leaning closer, offering herself in exchange for food.

I shook my head, keeping my tone firm. Josef stayed silent beside me. Her face twisted into anger. "What? You're refusing me?"

I forced a tight smile and pointed down the street. "There's a food shipment that just landed at Vrchlického Sady park, not far from here. Go get it. You'll be fed there."

Her eyes widened in disbelief, then she glared at us before storming off toward the park. Josef exhaled slowly, and I felt the familiar weight of hunger pressing down. Like a zombie.

The door gave way with a final kick, splintering along the frame. Dust and the smell of damp wood hit us immediately. We crept inside, rifles raised, hearts hammering, expecting the worst.

The apartment was dark, the moonlight spilling through shattered windows in pale, uneven stripes. Broken furniture lay scattered across the floor, and the silence was heavy, broken only by the distant rumble of the city outside.

Then I saw it. The same cat we saw from outside, crouched on a windowsill, watching us with bright, unblinking eyes. Its fur was matted and dirty, but it moved with a careful grace, tail flicking nervously. It froze as we stepped further inside, as if weighing whether we were a threat.

The cat leapt from the windowsill and landed lightly on the floor. It padded toward me, brushing its head and body against my ankle. I froze as I realized what it was doing, rubbing its scent on me, marking me, as if asking for food itself.

It circled once, then nuzzled my boot again, tail flicking, eyes bright and expectant. Josef watched from the doorway, silent, letting me deal with the tiny, desperate creature. Then he quietly closed the door, cutting off the street outside. No one could see what was going to happen next.

I spent my seventeenth birthday under a blanket of snow, shaking from cold and hunger alike. I was reciting a prayer when I heard the roar of a jet overhead. Must have been four other guys in that canalization ditch with me. All sitting on the damp sofas we had dragged down there, soaked from snow and rain. But you wouldn't have guessed they were alive. That half-sleep was the only thing to look forward to, not peaceful rest, but not truly awake either. It felt like opium.

The city lay in ruins beneath a layer of driving, icy snow. Crumbling buildings jutted out like jagged teeth, streets were choked with rubble, and every corner seemed haunted by shadows of what had once been alive. The wind whipped across the empty avenues, carrying the scent of smoke, ash, and something fouler I couldn't name. Snow swirled through shattered windows and over toppled cars, smoothing the sharp edges of destruction into a cold, indifferent gray.

Josef nudged me with his elbow and held out a cigarette. "Happy birthday," he said quietly. I took it, the paper stiff and brittle between my frozen fingers. Lighting it felt like holding a spark in the middle of the void. The smoke curled into the frigid air, and for a moment, it was enough, enough to feel alive, enough to feel human, even in a city that had forgotten both.

"Is that a cigarette I smell?" some voice from under three balnkets asked.

"Yes it is!" Josef answered as he chambered a round in his rifle. Making sure the guy knew he meant business.

There were more people around, only because the defensive lines fell one by one, and we were condensenned into a smaller area. We weren't even high up the crabs priority list. Winter had calmed them down a bit, but we were fighting hunger and sickness more than we were the crabs.

Still, day after day, bad news arrived. The reports that most of Europe had retreated behind mountains and that the crabs were turning the low countries into a new Verdun were not what we wanted to hear. Suicides followed one after another. You'd jolt awake in the middle of the night at the sound of someone pulling the trigger, the barrel of their rifle pressed against their mouth.

To make our situation even worse, many of the dams along the Vltava River and the upper stretches of the Danube had been destroyed, causing the water levels to rise dangerously. Streets that had once offered some cover were now rivers of icy, churning water. Debris floated past like miniature rafts, and the current carried everything in its path, broken carts, rubble, even the occasional abandoned vehicle.

We had to pick our steps carefully, balancing on toppled beams or wading through freezing water when there was no other choice. My toes were numb, frozen in soaked boots, and each step sent sharp, shooting pains up my legs. Josef's hands were raw and bleeding from gripping wet ropes and jagged wood, and every stumble left fresh scrapes and bruises along our arms and legs. Every misstep could mean losing your footing and being swept away.

The flooded streets turned the city into a maze of danger, slowing our movements and making every mission, whether carrying supplies or checking on other survivors, more treacherous than the crabs outside. Each day left us battered, chilled to the bone, and painfully aware of how fragile our bodies had become.

We went from thousands to a few hundred. Surrounded, with barely enough room left for air drops. All of us crammed into the inner city, flanked to the north by the rive, and that water was rising. Cohesion and discipline had vanished. It was dog eat dog. The only thing that brought us together, even if just a few times a week, was when the crabs showed their noses and tried to breach our "walls."

Whatever command was left was planning something. A breakout had been attempted by some guys who didn't understand that rallying around the flag could actually improve your chances of survival.

Still, there were only rumors. They didn't tell us, partly because it was "need to know," mostly to avoid giving us false hope.

I was in the northernmost sector, what we called the flood plains, right where the water came up to our knees. I heard the rumble of a few vehicles behind me. The few tanks we still had running were moving slowly through the flooded streets, carrying the wounded and more men on top, the tracks churning through the icy water as if nothing could stop them.

"Prepare to move," Chris said. He had gone from sniper to the third-highest authority left.

"We're retreating into the canal now?" Josef asked, his voice tired and strained. I helped him to his feet. He barely had any strength left to stand on his own.

Chris just looked at us. His stare then turned towards the canal. He stared at it for a while. As if waiting for something

The sound of engines grew louder, cutting through the wind and the roar of the flooded city. Out of the gray swirl of snow and smoke, a Swedish CB90 river craft appeared first, slicing through the water with speed and precision. Behind it came more river crafts, each bristling with firepower. Cannons, grenade launchers, and machine guns were mounted along their sides, ready to sweep the streets and waterways.

A few crabs to the north of the canal tried to fire, but they were cut down instantly. The ships' weapons hammered them relentlessly, tearing through the air and splashing the water with fragments of metal and fire.

Chris stood a few meters away, silent, watching it all unfold. His stare swept over us briefly, then shifted toward the canal. He held his gaze there, motionless, as if waiting for something. The tension was thick, the kind that made every heartbeat echo in your ears.

Chaos erupted along the canal banks. People stumbled through the knee-deep water, leaving behind blankets, heavy weapons, ammunition, and whatever scraps of belongings they had managed to save. Shouts mixed with the roar of engines, the splash of boots in icy water, and the occasional panicked scream.

The Swedish sailors looked like they were from another world, their uniforms clean and dry compared to ours, faces calm against the storm of noise and panic. They waded into the water, pulling survivors to the side of the CB90s and other river crafts. They were firm and steady, offering both guidance and reassurance as people climbed onto the ships. We all looked like people in hell hanging on to a passing angel. We didn't even care that we had to sail for days north till we reached the north sea. All we wanted was to get out of there. Dying was on the menu but aslong as it wasn't here.

People pushed and scrambled, but the sailors' presence imposed a strange order. Their steady commands and practiced motions gave everyone an anchor in the chaos. The water churned beneath the engines of the crafts, carrying away the desperate, the battered, and the lucky, while the ruined city and rising floodwaters receded behind them. All the while, a coordinated air strike campaign flattened parts of the city. Everything to let us out.

I didn't understand it. All that effort, all those engines, all the sailors risking themselves, all the firepower and coordination, for maybe two hundred people. Two hundred while thousands were dying everyday. Two hunderd people who had already received their death sentence. It didn't make sense.

The CB90 cut through the water like it owned the river, and the other crafts followed in tight formation. On deck, the sailors worked quietly but efficiently, moving as if every action mattered, even though I had no idea why anyone had chosen to save us in particular. The hum of the engines, the occasional crackle of the guns from ships in that long congo line who might have spotted something, even the distant roar of explosions behind us, it all felt unreal.

Inside the cabin, people were silent now, exhausted, wrapped in blankets, watching the walls of the city shrink behind the snow and smoke. It was filled to the brim so I sat outside. I could feel the tension in my shoulders easing a little, but it didn't make sense that the world outside had gone to such lengths for us. For a handful of survivors, the city had been flattened, the rivers swarming with ships, and the skies filled with bombs. And yet, here we were, being carried away, alive.

I watched the two sailors in the back of the ship. Each had their machine gun mounted on a tripod welded to the side just for this mission. They scanned the edges of the river, eyes sharp, hands steady, voices calm as they clicked into their intercoms to coordinate.

I couldn't help noticing the differences between them and us. Their movements were smooth, practiced, almost effortless. Muscles flexed under dry, clean uniforms, not the gaunt, frozen limbs we had from days of snow, floodwater, and carrying supplies. Their faces were healthy, skin unchapped, a few bruises and scratches here and there. A few wrinkles under their eyes. But no pale exhaustion from endless nights. They seemed untouched by the living hell we'd been living through, like they were operating in a different world entirely.

It made me feel small and tired in a way I hadn't felt in months. The city, the flood, the crabs,we had been scraping by, surviving, moving like zombies. And these sailors were calm, precise, almost untouchable. I swallowed hard, tugging my thin blanket tighter around me, and kept my eyes on them. Maybe that's what it took to survive to be untouchable, or at least act like it.

Even on the rocking boat, they managed it. Small bowls of thin soup were passed hand to hand, rations measured carefully so no one got more than they could handle. Every bite was slow, every sip deliberate, the sailors and a few of the stronger survivors guiding the weak, propping them up, making sure no one tried to swallow too fast. The boat pitched and rolled with the current, water slapping against the hull, but still they kept the rhythm, keeping the desperate, shaking hands from spilling or choking. It was exhausting and delicate work, but somehow, by sheer discipline and quiet coordination, everyone got fed without falling apart.

As I finished that small ration of oats with milk, I didn't even have the strength to throw the pack away. It just lay there on me, on my two blankets keeping me warm, as I watched that sailor.

His eyes caught mine. At first, he looked away, as if embarrassed. Then his gaze met mine again, longer this time, over and over. He tried to give me a smile, but I was too weak to return it. I saw him put his machine gun on safe.

He lowered it carefully, holding onto the side rails as he moved closer. He took a cigarette from a pack and waited until I nodded.

I took the cigarette with trembling fingers, barely feeling its weight. He used his lighter to light it and I let the smoke curl slowly into the air and be taken away by the wind, tasting warmth I hadn't felt in days. The sailor leaned back slightly, giving me space, but there was a quiet understanding in his eyes.

For a moment, I realized the truth, deep down, the reason we had been saved, the reason all this effort had been made to get a few hundred of us out, was the same reason he had offered me this small comfort. Not heroics, not strategy, not orders,just the simple recognition of humanity. Someone saw us and chose to care, even in the middle of a city being torn apart. In the middle of a continent being ripped to shreds.

I drew a slow breath, letting the smoke and the warmth settle in, and for the first time in days, I felt the barest flicker of relief.