Phagocytosis

Brussels, European Federation
I've received this footage from a source who wishes to remain anonymous.

The VAB, clearly having seen better days rolls through rough terrain, from the helmet camera we can see the soldiers preparing to dismount. Rounds are chambered, crab powder is snorted from a small spoon. The soldiers put on their helmets as the radio plays;

"Je te survivrai d'un amour vivant
Je te survivrai dans des yeux d'enfants
Je te survivrai comme un revenant
Je te survivrai
Je te survivrai et tu m'entendras
Je te survivrai quelque part en toi
Je te survivrai au-delà de moi
Je te survivrai"

The squad leader turns off the bluetooth speaker before uttering.

"Disembark."

The doors are swung open, mist from the ride still in the air forces the soldier recording this to lower his goggles as he disembark. A few dozen meters away, an officer with a man carrying a clip board counts the dead laying in row under toils, jackets and bachas.

"Still want to bet on seven?" one of his colleagues asks, cradling a MINIMI machine gun in the crook of his arm.

"Seven by the end of the week. This is village five. You'd be stupid not to back out of that bet," he replies.

"Point your gun somewhere safe, you moron," the sergeant barks, just as two LAVs roll past on the road. Dust billows into the air, making one of them cough. The soldier glances up, three Tiger helicopters thunder overhead.

What is left of the German village is packed with soldiers setting up shop. French, Spaniards, Americans, and Uruguayans move about, busy organizing where to park the vehicles amid craters and bombed-out houses.

"You're my cleaners?" an American asks the soldier as the squad walks past him.

The soldier looks at his sergeant, confused.

"Hey, congrats on the promotion! Always knew you were promotion material!" one of his colleagues says, prompting laughter from the rest.

"Good luck copying the LT's maps! Hope you brought your markers!" another adds.

"Yes, we're here. Where's the crib?" the sergeant says, cutting off the shit-talking.

"Follow me!" The American says, not understanding what the other said but understanding his mistake just enough to chuckle.

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November 2034, Warsaw – European Federation

Zofia Kowalska

"The crabs definitely operated in distinct castes. The 'engineers,' as we came to call them, weren't the ones wielding weapons. We believe they worked in tandem with the cannon fodder types. Better hands, better minds—possibly even a different species. But they coordinated closely, repairing the others and maintaining their gear. Manning V2s and Tripods alike.

The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

Their objective was the warm waters of the Mediterranean, but they couldn't wait forever. They typically set up shop around 100 kilometers behind the front lines. If the air force didn't bomb them to dust, we caught them off guard during the summer and autumn counteroffensives."

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"Why is it we always get these shit details, Sergeant?" one of the soldiers asked as they moved through the tight streets of what was once a mid-sized town in western Germany.

"Other platoon ran out of ammo. We were supposed to camp here and rest for the week, but command wants us to handle this first before we get to unroll our sleeping bags."

"So you're telling me I won my bet?" he asked.

"Stop talking," the sergeant replied, as the winners laughed and the losers cursed.

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November 2034, Warsaw – European Federation

Zofia Kowalska

"Nobody knew what to do with them. Sure, when the front lines collapsed and our guys first came face to face with them, there was a lot of panicked shooting— even as they tried to surrender. But when that started happening on every front, the generals, the ministers, everyone who mattered just threw up their hands.

'Not my problem.'

A few tree-huggers here and there tried to resist, urged the governments to come up with a real solution. But they were quickly shut down, smeared as Crab lovers, compared to those cultists—the ones who killed soldiers, assassinated ministers, blew up oil platforms. That kind of talk shut them up fast."

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The helmet camera captures the slide of the FN Five-seven snapping back with a sharp metallic click, ejecting the spent casing as it cycles. A fresh 5.7×28mm round feeds smoothly from the magazine into the chamber as the slide returns forward, locking into place. The soldier's gloved hand remainns firm on the back of the engineer's neck. A moment later, the lizard-like skin splits open like a banana peel as the round punches through the base of its skull.

"Fifteen," the soldier says calmly.

"Sorry, what did you say?" his colleague on the right asks after executing another one just a few meters away.

"Nothing important," he replies.

"Bring out the next five!" the sergeant yells from the far right. All of them face the side of the barn.

The group in front of the barn secure their weapons before moving toward the opening of the old cattle barn as the other five members of the squad come out, each holding an engineer by the back of the neck.

The cattle barn was old and worn, with wooden beams creaking from years of use. In the middle stood a VAB armored vehicle, covered in dust like it had been sitting there for a long time. Where cows used to rest, rows of "engineers" now sat quietly, still and strange, their lizard-like bodies with big heads and eyes blending into the shadows.

From atop the VAB, the same speaker that had crackled earlier plays its song.

"Oh Macumba, Macumba
Elle danse tous les soirs
Pour les dockers du port
Qui ne pensent qu'à boire."

The .50 cal gunner sat behind his weapon, watching the rows of quiet engineers. His eyes narrowed as the song played through the empty barn, mixed with the soft creak of wood and the distant sound of engines.

"Oh Macumba, Macumba
Elle danse tous les soirs
Pour des marins largués
Qui cherchent la bagarre"

The soldier and his buddy muttered quietly as they waited to be handed one of the engineers sitting in the middle of the pen.

A bigger, tougher-looking soldier walked down the rows of sitting engineers. Around his chest was a belt loaded with grenades. He grabbed two engineers at a time by the neck and dragged them to the soldiers waiting to take them out of the pen.

Gunfire broke out outside, just a few shots, calm and organized.

Without a word, they walked. Soldiers who looked more like kids than fighters dragged the dead bodies to a pit. Others were busy digging more as some pits already burned with flames.

One of the engineers being dragged started to panic at the sight of the bodies. It tried to struggle but was quickly stopped by a hard stomp to the knee. The cameraman shoved his engineer against the barn wall to keep it under control.

Once he was sure it wasn't struggling, he looked at his colleague, who was crouched over the engineer lying in the mud. He watched as the soldier jabbed the engineer's skull with his elbow. The sergeant walked over, slammed the heel of his boot into the back of the engineer's head, then pulled out his pistol to finish it off.

Dragging his own engineer to the designated spot like he was following a routine, the soldier caught it glancing back at him. Its big black eyes seemed to study him, searching for something.

He calmly turned its head around, his hand lingering just a second too long on the back of its skull. The engineer didn't resist.