Phagocytosis

Wałbrzych, European Federation

Wiktor Zbikowski is the head of the local UN Mine Action Service. With no shortage of mines, unexploded ordnance, and other hazards scattered across Europe, he and his team spend nearly six days a week traveling throughout western Poland. They use everything from unmanned ground vehicles and specially trained dogs and mice, to simple wooden sticks to get the job done. A native of Warsaw, Zbikowski had joined the elite GROM unit just before the war, and was one of the few from his unit to survive it. Having no time to meet with me, he agreed to tell his story by way of email as long as I didn't censor anything.

I was watching the fireworks like a kid. All across Warsaw, hundreds of tracer rounds lit up the sky, most ricocheting off their targets and arcing upward. Explosions here and there. Artillery landing and turning entire buildings to dust. Thick columns of smoke rose in the distance at the outskirts of the city, glowing red at the base where fires lit up the night. Fighter jets buzzed overhead. And I'm sure the banshees were flying too but I couldn't see them, couldn't hear them. The pilot of our Black Hawk was skimming the ground. Any lower and we wouldn't have needed to fast-rope down.

The city was cut off, encircled. Crabs were attacking from all sides while the rest of their forces pushed west, south, and east. We had fifty thousand men and more fighting to hold the line. Helicopters flying in and out wasn't an option. Only reason mine made it even that close was that the powers at be had given us real pipe hitters for pilots. Guys who flew so close to the floor that you could see which lawn needed to be cut.

We flew low over a crossroads where three police cars sat with their sirens flashing. A group of officers was using the cars for cover, firing at something we couldn't see. I think I locked eyes with one of them as we passed just forty meters overhead.

Straight down the avenue, looming in the distance, was a tall building with "WeWork" written on the side. That was our drop zone.

The chopper slowed down, pitched its nose up as it gained altitude. I swear, if that helicopter unit hadn't saved our asses countless times before, I would've thought we were about to pancake against the skyscraper.

The crew chief checked the ropes, gave a quick nod, then tossed them out. My team leader gave my shoulder a squeeze as I adjusted my gloves, making sure the fast-rope grip felt right in my hands.

Held on for dear life as I tried to control my fall. The heli was loud, but I could still hear gunshots cracking across the city as I dropped. My boots hit the ground. I spun around, tore off my gloves, rifle up, ready. The rest of my team fast-roped down right after. Four of us. Me, Andrej my team leader, Antoni with the machine gun, and Jan. Small team, but four's a crowd.

The wife of the prime minister was stuck in the city. Millions of men fighting millions of crabs, and we were tasked with rescuing her out after spending days coordinating airstrikes in the north of the country.

Carefully made our way through the rooftop. "Romeo Oscar Bravo" was down the building and across the street. The parking lot next to it was packed with tanks, APCs, and armored vehicles, all out of gas. The grunts had parked them there, stripped off the machine guns and ammo, and dragged everything into defensive positions or in the underground shelter. They thought they were smart. Problem was, there was nowhere to land the heli, so we had to make our way down to the street.

The streets. You could hear the gunfire echo off the walls and straight into your eardrums. I popped a pill. "Concerta." Like Adderall, but stronger. Without the suicidal side effects. Helpful when you haven't slept in over thirty hours, and your only meal of the day was some dried muesli mixed with water, eaten in the back of the helicopter on your way into the city.

Surprised the lights were still on. My eyes scanned from one corner office to another. I could see sniper and machine gun teams positioned on nearby rooftops. Down on the street, guys were rushing back and forth, hauling ammunition boxes from trucks into ROB. "Reduta Orła Białego.", The redoubt of the White Eagle.

Overhead, I saw the first German Tornado cut across the sky just as we broke the rooftop lock with my bolt cutters. The rumble of carpet bombing hit us as we bolted down the stairs. Whoever was on the receiving end of that run was in for a rough time.

Saw the last of the ammunition boxes being pulled out of an ambulance as we reached street level. We paused to catch our breath while Andrej scanned both directions before giving the signal to cross. The grunts didn't pay us any attention as we moved. I was almost run over by a police van escorting two ROSOMAK IFVs on their way past as I headed toward Sierra Hotel.

It was a Cold War-era nuclear shelter, refurbished back in the 2020s when things started heating up with Russia.

The grunts had slammed the door shut just about twenty seconds before we arrived. They didn't give a damn about us. I still don't know if they hadn't seen us or if they simply didn't care.

"Polska armio! Otwierać!" Andrej shouted, knocking on the door. Despite the gunfire and explosions, the street we were on was as silent as a tomb. I just hoped it wouldn't become ours.

The peephole slid open, and I caught a glimpse of a pair of blue eyes checking us out before it closed and the door unlocked.

The guy didn't even ask what we wanted. He just let us in, like he was more annoyed at having to lock and unlock the door all night.

"Unload your rifle," he said, taking a drag from his cigarette. We didn't even respond.

The place was thick with cigarette smoke. We soon realized it wasn't just from this tired conscript as we made our way down the first flight of stairs and turned left.

A large room opened up, its walls lined with heating pipes. It was packed with soldiers—not just soldiers, but men and women. Some sat quietly, while others stood in small groups talking. There were professional infantry units, policemen in black and blue tactical gear, conscripts, and people pressed into service wearing 1970s helmets and carrying rifles just as old.

The entire room felt like a football supporters' bar after a lost match, filled with people but dead silent. Some men had bruises, bandaged faces, and wrapped limbs. One man had a bandage over his eye, stained with blood. Nearby, others were loading magazines from the ammunition boxes that had been brought in.

They looked at us as we moved past the crowd. Across the room was a staircase leading down to a long hallway. One side held makeshift beds with injured men, while the other was lined with a platoon of "volunteers," as we called them, civilians with little training who had willingly signed up for the slaughterhouse. They stood in formation as an officer moved down the line, inspecting their rifles and counting their ammunition one by one. I grinned over my balaclava as I saw one with an Adidas track jackets and Decathlon hiking pants over his flak jackets

Another crowd of soldiers filled the end of the hallway, a sergeant passing out grenades, another passing cigarettes packs from a box of ten. They were kind enough to open the door for us, I wish they hadn't. The next room looked like a hospital from hell. The sharp smell of iodine, blood, and tears hit us the moment the steel door swung open. Military and civilian nurses and paramedics rushed between beds. Blood-stained sheets covered men clutching anyone nearby as overworked nurses fought to clamp arteries and stop the bleeding.

"Mind if I help out here, boss, while you look for her?" Jan asked. He was our team's medic. During his paramedic course exam, his instructor had hacked a sheep with a machete, and Jan had to save its life. The guy was eager to help. Andrej just nodded, and the rest of us made our way down yet another set of fucking stairs. It felt like a descent into hell.

Sleeping soldiers slumped against the walls, their gear coated with dust, mud, and blood. At the end of the hallway sat a desk. Behind it, an officer sat quietly, with two soldiers leaning against the sides. They all snapped to attention as we approached.

Andrej stepped forward, making his presence known. The officer barely looked up, just noting something on his tablet and jotting on a piece of paper nearby.

"We're here for Mrs. Bajorek" Andrej asked.

The officer glanced up briefly. "Next room," he said without emotion. Leave your weapons here. He asked.

It was funny, I know. But everyone was still somewhat relying on battle plans we would have used against the Russians. Those guys planned to send infiltrators for false flag attacks. You wouldn't send two armed soldiers you didn't know into a room full of colonels and generals.

It took me a moment to drop off my weapon, sidearm, and explosives.

Pushed one of the two doors open, office space. Do, calling a room with a table with a map open on it, and officers standing around it an office would be an overstatement.

"The line at Warszawa Targówek has been broken. There are reports of crabs all the way to the Vistula River. We had one infantry company still holding the Targówek train station, but contact was lost half an hour ago. The survivors have linked up with the 38th Infantry Battalion on the Vistula River. The bridges are set to explode in thirty minutes unless the enemy pressure stops," an officer explained to General Lewandowski, pointing to a map laid out on the table in the center of the room.

Officers surrounded the table, along with a ranking police commissioner and; what I realized,w as the mayor of the city. What he was doing here, I had no idea.

"The Maria Skłodowska-Curie Bridge has been blown, along with General Stefan Grot-Rowecki, Gdański, and the Siekierkowski bridges," the officer continued, pointing out each one on the map with his sharpie.

"The Warsaw National Stadium is still holding strong, but it's becoming increasingly difficult to supply the men fighting there, including the mortar platoon positioned in the middle of the stadium. The ring road from the Siekierkowski Bridge to the airport is holding as well. But surprisingly, the heaviest assault is coming from the west. Warsaw West train station is about to fall, the neighborhood to the north already have—" the officer said, pausing as he switched maps, from a regional view of Warsaw to a more detailed, close-up map of the downtown area.

"The police units in Moczydło are spent. We're sending reinforcements, but they've counted four beetles and twelve tripods in that area alone—along with what amounts to a brigade of crabs. German Tornados are carpet bombing the neighborhood as we speak, but the situation in Młynów, just north of there, is going from bad to worse. Our troops are suppressed by the bombing and a renewed crab push."

"Even worse," another colonel cut in, "the 18th Mechanized Division just informed me their artillery has to relocate west to avoid being encircled. We'll soon be out of range of our 155mm howitzers. Our HIMARS stock is nonexistent. They're waiting on resupply from NATO, but it'll be two days before they're firing again." the man said as he wiped away the sweat from his forehead.

"The 18th Mechanized Division is down to 40 percent operational after the defeat at the Sikorsky Line. The 11th Armoured Cavalry Division is taking heavy losses as it tried to push east to reinforce the 18th. And they are hold up at Łódź right now as the crabs are attempting to encircle it. The German First and Tenth Armoured Divisions are on their way, but they won't arrive in time to save Łódź," he continued. Let alone, break our siege" The room was silent after those words were uttered.

The man standing on the other half of the table, all by himself, didn't take his eyes off the map. With a sharpie, he corrected the situation in Moczydło, its thick black ink wiping out the previous police unit symbols from the plastic overlay.

General Stanisław Zieliński, as difficult as his name may be for foreigners like you to pronounce, there's a reason so many avenues, stadiums, and even an airport are now named after him in Poland.

This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

"Any news on the Americans?" he asked, not looking up.

"Their brigade was split in Gdańsk. Half the survivors were cut off and retreated west along the coast. The others, more mauled, are expected to arrive in Toruń by tomorrow morning," someone answered.

He continued staring at the map.

"Belarusians and Russian Army?" he asked. A few officers visibly recoiled at the question.

"Other than the entire division they lost in Kaliningrad, the Russians just pulled off a rescue operation in Vilnius yesterday afternoon. Evacuated thousands. But the Belarusian army's spent. There are reports they're forming a last-ditch defensive line around Minsk. Realistically, the city can't be saved from the east," another officer replied. "The crabs are moving to fast, to numerous south. Towards Lublin, and the Polish,Belarusian and Ukrainian tri border area."

"Well," the general said as he lit a cigarette.

"Well," he repeated, dragging smoke into his lungs.

"Our men have three days' worth of ammunition. I'm going to phone our friends, the ones in the West, our new ones in the East. Anyone willing to airdrop us ammo. Reserves are to stay at the airport, civilians are to be kept being sent there as long as the defensive line at the S2 expressway holds. Once our brothers in the air manage to take down those flying bats I've been assured helicopters are on standby to evacuate the women and children. But we're in a shit situation. I hope you all realize that. Report back here in fifteen minutes, hopefully by then I managed to suck out more solutions out of my thumb."

The room stood at attention. Andréj and I awkwardly followed suit.

"You're dismissed," he added.

We stood in the middle of the now-empty room, the general still glaring at the map.

"High Command send you to drag me into a helicopter?" he asked, smoke curling from the side of his mouth.

"No," Andréj answered.

"Good. They know better. What can I do for you? Be quick about it."

"Mrs. Bajorek. We're here to get her out," Andréj said, trying to catch his attention.

The general finally looked at us.

"Just like that, huh?" he said flatly.

"Pardon?" Andréj replied, confused, his expression visible even through the balaclava.

"How many of you are there?"

"Five."

"You'll need more than a fireteam to pull her out. Last we heard, she's a few blocks away. 30th floor of the Santa Fe Tower. Her and her lunatic friends. Even if she wanted to leave, I doubt they'd let her."

"I can't spare anyone to send with you. Santa Fe Tower is right across from the Palace of Culture and Science. Defensive line's a few blocks west of that, but expect some ragtag crabs in our perimeter. Now go. I won't lie to you about your chances. Just don't let those bastards get the upper hand."

Zieliński knew more than he said. Wouldn't surprise me if he knew exactly what was going on in that tower. Yet he sent us anyway.

Andrej briefed the rest, as we made our way up the stairs, towards the exit of the building, half of the men had left before us already. Jan, as he peeled off his plastic gloves, finally broke the silence with the kind of story you wish wasn't true.

"You ever heard of the Zjednoczeni Zwiastuni? 'United Heralds,' in English," Jan said as he stripped off his gloves.

I hesitated, then nodded. "Rumors. Fringe group. Religious, spam ads on facebook... something, something."

"That's what they said on paper. Fringe. Obscure. Not worth worrying about," Jan replied, his voice low, eyes scanning the hallway beyond. "But Mrs. Bajorek was more than a sympathizer. Even before the war started, before she vanished off the radar, there were whispers she was running the whole damn thing."

"As the Prime Minister's wife?" I said, barely believing it.

"Estranged wife," Jan corrected. "And yeah. She disappeared from the public eye two years ago. Everyone figured it was scandal, divorce, whatever. Maybe she was a lunie all along, maybe the divorce just fried her brains, she resurfaced behind closed doors, preaching about purification, about separating from the 'corrupted nations. Tried to poach some high level bureaucrats and generals."

"Who told you all this shit." Andrej asked as he checked his IR laser on his HK416 rifle.

"Friend of mine who's in the prime minister security staff, she refused any and all security team."

Andréj shifted uncomfortably, his rifle close to his chest. "So what—some cult? Doomsday types?"

"Definitely a cult," Jan said, "but no one's got a clear picture of what they actually believe. Most of their writings were online, then scrubbed once they had enough diciples or something. Some say they follow a kind of neo-Gnostic nationalism. Others claim it's just a personality cult wrapped in esoteric language. Either way, their structure's tight. Closed circles. No leaks. Those guys have two circles. The big one you know off, spam ads, people waiting outside of train station with leaflets promising salvation. Pretty much a money gathering scheme. The hard core, there since day one guys are sealed off. Our best guess whether they believe in all of that or they simply like the high life."

"And she's in there for sure?" Antoni asked, leaning against a wall cradling his minimi light machine gun.

Andrej slapped his chest mounted samsung galaxy smart phone after studying the map on it a last time.

"Watch the alleyways." he said before gripping the door handle.

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I didn't know where to look. Tracer rounds lit up the sky in every direction, streaking red and green across the black. Somewhere in the distance, a jet passed overhead, its engine howling like a banshee before vanishing into silence. Car alarms wailed pointlessly into the night, their cries echoing between high-rises riddled with shrapnel. Fires flickered from rooftops and broken windows, casting long shadows across ruined streets. A few buildings were half-collapsed, skeletal frames lit by the occasional muzzle flash.

We were supposed to be in a safe zone. At least, that's what the map said. This sector was clear of crab units for the next few hours, maybe less. But we knew how nimble the fuckers were. They didn't need time. They needed opportunity.

Nearly shat myself as those two APC's from earlier were driving full speed, they blared their horns as they dashed across the intersection as if they were expecting to be rear ended by a taxi for forcing a red light.

Andrej was hunched over the comms, updating high command as we approached the main avenue. The wide boulevard stretched ahead of us, flanked by the looming bulk of the Palace of Culture and Science, the half-gutted central mall, and at least six towers that scraped the burning clouds above.

I stared up at one of them. Two top floors were already on fire. I silently prayed it wasn't the one we were heading into.

No such luck.

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I lifted my rifle as Antoni moved forward, entering the lobby first. His panoramic night vision goggles glowed faint green, scanning every corner. Machine gun raised, he took point.

I followed behind, stepping through the glass door I had just shattered with my breaching shotgun. The building swallowed us in silence, the screams of the city fading behind as we slipped into whatever waited inside.

Emergency lights were on, elevators were off. We thanked the cardio we did three times a week as we made our way up the stairs, felt the building shake as something hit it.

We stacked up at the stairwell—standard diamond formation. Antoni took point with his minimi, I was right behind him as he "cut the pie", adrenaline stitching me upright while the Concerta kept the world locked into sharp corners and clean lines. Behind me, Andrej looked over our shoulders with his suppressed MP7 aimed at the ceiling, eyes calm, finger indexed. Silent hand signals only. No comms unless it went loud.

We moved up.

The cult's floor was halfway up the tower—one of the old elite complexes, glass-and-marble types. They'd gutted the walls between the penthouses, smashed through luxury like drywall. It was all one massive, open-plan sprawl now. You could still see the outlines of where individual apartments had been. French doors led nowhere. Chandeliers still hung from ornate ceilings. One was swinging gently—like someone had just brushed past it. The view was something, most of the electricty was out, only some places with generators on life support still illuminated buildings. But other than that, the only lights were off fires, explosions, tracer rounds.

Lights were on. All of them. Warm. Soft. Bastards had their own generators while our medics were operating on our guys using headlights.

Empty liquor bottles lined the counters. Dozens—top shelf stuff, the kind you only see behind bulletproof glass at airports. Cognac. Single malt. Polish vodka. All opened. Some spilled. As if we'd missed a party. A big one. The kind that ends with someone going off the grid for a while.

A low, humming speaker kicked in as we fanned into the room. Threw me off guard, thought at first someone was talking until I recognized the song.
"From Bissau to Palau, In the shade of Avalon, From Fiji to Tiree
And the Isles of Ebony"
Enya's voice floated overhead. Not the time nor the place, but ever since that night those lyrics haunt me.

Me and Antoni swept the left wing—found mattresses on the floor, bundles of sheets tossed over velvet sofas. They'd been living here. Or maybe squatting. No sign of bodies. Nothing.

"Anything?" Andrej whispered.

I gave a slow shake of the head. Nothing. Just the music. Just that dreamy, surreal synth pop and the distant echo of distant gunfire bouncing around outside as we moved in to the right wing.

Antoni gestured forward—hallway ahead, the door cracked open just enough to let the music bleed through.
"Sail away, sail away, sail away..."

I checked the state of my weapon. Because of my nerves more than anything. I had seen combat before, against humans and crabs. But something up there rubbed me the wrong way. The idea that there was a fire some floors up didn't reassure me either.

Andrej made the call—breach fast, no slow clear. Maybe he didn't like the waiting either. Maybe none of us did.

Stacked tight, we pushed in.

The hallway opened like a throat. One side lined with photos—portraits of the so-called Inner Circle, each framed in gold, glass polished like a shrine. They stared out with that strange, faraway calm, eyes too bright, smiles just a little too wide. Come to think of it, the deco style of the entire floor was odd. Like some weird 'art deco'.

But it was the other side that stopped us cold.

Ten chairs lined the wall, evenly spaced. Upholstered. Expensive. Each occupied.

Bodies.
Male. Female. Old. Young.
Bound at the wrists and ankles, upright like they were still attending something important. But their heads were gone—necks blown open hours ago, judging by the pooling blood turned to sticky paste beneath them. The wounds were clean. Controlled. Execution style.

The air was thick. Warm. And it stank—metal and rot with a chemical twist, like something sprayed to cover it that had failed miserably. Flies clung to the walls near the blood spatters.

We didn't speak.

Andrej had rushed in first. Didn't cut the pie, didn't clear the near corners. None of us did. We were so focused on the room at the end, the promise of something, that we blew through textbook CQB and straight into shock. Andrej and Jan behind me had their rifles pointed at the bodies, as if they were expecting them to jump back alive.

Antoni swore under his breath, even as he pointed at the door on the other side of the hallway with his 950 rounds a minute, 8 kilos, 6000€ machine gun. I could hear him swearing silently, It cut through the music like glass.

The hallway ended in double doors. Reinforced, heavy. Oak, maybe, or something built to look like it belonged in a cathedral. No sign of forced entry. No booby traps we could see.

Antoni stepped up, didn't wait. He shifted his weight—
Boom—kicked the door in hard, hinges screaming as the lock snapped and the double doors flew inward, crashing open like a stage reveal.

We swept in fast—tight formation, barrels up, corners cleared. "Speed, aggression, control" was back in play now. No one wanted whoever might be on the other side to get time to collect their thoughts..

But there were no threats.

No movement.

Just silence—and that damned music.

The room was massive. Bigger than it had any right to be. One enormous open-plan space, stripped of furniture except for the center. That's where the candles were—dozens of them. Real wax, long burned down, pooling at the bases like melted bones. Statues surrounded them. Four of them. One at each cardinal point. Black stone, abstract shapes—humanoid, but stretched and wrong. No faces. Just suggestion. Like shadows trying to remember how to be people.

And then the bodies.

All around the perimeter, laid out like offerings. Maybe thirty. Maybe more. Each one in clean white robes, oddly formal, oddly clean. All laid under white sheets that barely covered their faces, like they were tucked in for the night.

They looked… peaceful.

No visible wounds. No blood. No struggle. Just stillness.

On the far wall, scrawled in thick black spray paint, were the words:
"OUR TRIAL IS OVER."

Big, uneven letters. Painted with urgency, maybe reverence. Like it was supposed to mean something to someone. As if we weren't on the joke.

Under it sat a man, some classic "sheraton" chair. Only know the name because I nearly vomited when I saw the same model in antique some months back.

His sheet had slipped from his face,
folded awkwardly beneath the sharp edge of his jaw,
and what was left of him looked almost peaceful—if you ignored the bruising at his lips, the pale wax of his skin, the slack mouth half-open like he'd been caught mid-sigh.

We pieced it together fast. Some poison. Lethal doses. Neat little white pills probably handed out like communion wafers before the final curtain call. Their so-called "ascension." The plan wasn't to fight. It was to die—to punch their tickets and join whatever alien god they thought was waiting on the other side of the stars.

I didn't care about the reason. I've seen worse. Way worse.

Violence has a thousand faces, and none of them surprise me anymore. I've watched so-called "freedom fighters" carve through villages—and the civilians trapped inside—just because their ancestors moved into someone else's turf. Maybe those kids should have read some anti-colonial theory. The girls they kept alive a little longer, to satisfy their urges, might have understood the material reality those men grew up in—and the brutal violence in the system that forced them to pass around a teenager among ten men.

I've seen eco-terrorists torch entire refineries with shift workers still inside, claiming it's all for the planet—as if carbon emissions give a damn who's screaming. I've seen leaders, comfortable in their palaces, decide their country's final act is a war they can't win, sending half a million men to die without once bothering to count the civilians crushed between the lines.

So a bunch of cultists swallowing poison to meet their cosmic pen pals?

Just part of the scenery.

We found Mrs. Bajorek, with vomit in her mouth and her two eye balls looking in different directions. Took a few pictures after Jan confirmed she was indeed dead. Not sure if our "boss" would mourn the death of his ex wife or not. Millions of families were mourning. What's one more to the mix, despite how extravagant she faced the curtain.

Her face—and the man's—stuck with me as we walked upstairs, past the smoky emergency stairs, the air easily fifty degrees hotter from the fire raging on the third floor or so. Yet those faces stayed with me.

Antoni wanted to stay and fight. Jan was up there too. We all were. But orders were orders. We knew better than to get involved. We were supposed to die some other day. Half a million euros in training expenses from the government had bought us just a little more time—pushed our survival odds up by a fraction. We left the city in the same helicopter we'd flown in on.

Still, that cursed music and those faces didn't leave me. As I watched the gunfire, the explosions, and the fires spiraling out of control, all inching closer to the city center by the hour, that damned tune kept playing in my head.