Phagocytosis

Johan Nilsson didn't have much warmth for me in our email exchange. Still, he agreed to share his story — and I've left his grievances untouched.

"Honestly, I don't even know why you're writing this. We've already been through this shit. People are reminded of it every damn day — whether it's the endless delays in clearing the leftover explosives, the ones farmers hit with their tractors or kids accidentally pick up and blow their hands off with, or the millions still suffering from all the biological crap left in our bodies because of the crabs. You think a book's gonna change anything? They've already written hundreds. What's one more? Oh yeah right yours is about the pain of the every day man, find some grunts who peeked in life during the war and secretly miss it. Kids are losing limbs from leftover ordnance. Crops are poisoned. Entire regions of Europe still inaccessible be it from the ordonnance or those infected ticks that kill you in less than 48 hours after they bite you. We live in fallout zones, and they still call it 'recovery.'. No point in talking in the past sense, everything still fucked, you don't leave it all behind. Don't forget to add about my small house, Labrador, beautiful wife and three great looking kids while you're at it.

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Don't know why I wasn't killed outright. An entire company, wiped out. The lieutenant to my right, his whole upper body just exploded. Blaster hit the commander's port and set off the shaped charge early. Only reason I'm still breathing.

Driver slammed the brakes just as I opened the hatch to bail. That armored lid hit the back of my head and everything went black. I collapsed back into the turret.

Woke up later — no idea how long it had been. First thing I noticed was the smell: burning gasoline, ammo cooking off, charred bodies. It was pitch black inside, only the firelight from outside reflecting faintly into the turret. Felt something wet on the back of my head. Looked at my hands — blood. No idea how my helmet didn't take the full hit. If I hadn't been wearing it, I'd be dead. Or worse — a cripple.

Tried to gather my thoughts, piece together what had happened. The radio was dead. So were the lieutenant and the drivers. That stench? It was the four guys in the back of the CV90. The impact had torn through the hull. The fires outside barely lit the rear compartment — just enough to see what was left of them.

Good luck forgetting what a jaw looks like when it's hanging from a face by one bone, a few tendons, and some skin. They never stood a chance. Didn't even get the hatch open.

I grabbed my rifle and whatever courage I had left, cracked the hatch, and peeked out. Other than one burning Leopard tank, every vehicle in our column had been taken out. The Leopard's turret was just… gone, clean off. Everything else — fire and silence. The ammo had long stopped cooking off. All I could hear was the wind and the crackle of flames.

Dead bodies scattered around, but I don't think most even had time to disembark.

We were an hour from Hamburg. We knew there were pockets of crabs we'd missed. We'd heard the stories, whole units getting ambushed, crabs crawling out of forests and caves, hitting from behind. But hearing about it is nothing like lving it.

Just me, my rifle, my chest rig with the sidearm — and that was it. No radio. Sounds stupid, I know. There had to be one somewhere, probably covered in blood and brain matter. But good luck thinking straight in a moment like that.

All I wanted was to get the hell out of Dodge. The crabs had to still be around.

And wouldn't you know it — I heard something hit metal, a few vehicles up ahead.

Made my way past a line of burning CV90s. Smoke thick as tar. The air was full of ash, metal, and that sickly-sweet smell of cooked flesh.

One of them — turret gone, whole side blackened — still had its rear hatch half-open. I glanced inside without thinking.

That's when I saw it.

Something moved in the back.

Just a shape at first. Curled up in the shadows. Could've been a trick of the firelight, but then it shifted. Slow. Twisting.

Too smooth to be a survivor. Too quiet to be human.

I froze. Heart kicking in my chest. Grip tightening around the rifle.

Didn't breathe. Didn't blink.

Just stared.

It moved again — clearer this time. A small figure, hunched and twitching.

Then it stepped into the firelight, and I realized: it wasn't a crab.

It was a kid. One of those engineers, probably hadn't routed with the rest of its species.

me in after battles to scavenge what was left. Kids, sometimes. Locals. Orphans. Survivors.

He climbed into the wreck, grabbed one of the corpses by the vest, and started dragging it out of the rear hatch — dead weight scraping metal. The body's rifle hung from its strap and slammed into the side of the hull with a sharp clang.

That was the noise that gave him away.

Those things were smart. When they came out of the hatcheries, they'd be "adopted" by an older one — shown the ropes, taught everything. And when they came of age, they'd keep the cycle going.

Must've heard my boots hit the mud. It spun fast — fast like something born to survive — and turned to face me.

Like a cat puffing itself up for a predator, it raised its side arms, flared them wide. The limb from its torso stretched forward, six fingers fanned out like a web.

A warning. A bluff. Or maybe just instinct.

It was trying to scare me off. I hadn't even pulled my knife yet, so I grabbed it by the neck with one arm and swept it off its feet with my leg. Its head slammed against the metal ramp. I took a knee on its neck as I reached for my knife.

It clawed at my pants. I gripped the blade in a reverse hold and stabbed once, twice, then a third time into its chest. I shifted my knee from its neck and finished it off with two more stabs to the face.

The knife stuck in its eye socket as I looked around, heart pounding, to see if anyone had heard us.

The one good thing about the crabs? They were a silent bunch.

I ripped the knife out, wiped it on my jacket, and made my way off the road. A ditch ran along the opposite side from the forest where the crabs had ambushed us. The orphan being around meant the crabs had left long ago — they didn't like exiles like that hanging around. Don't know why.

The drainage ditch led straight to a village about half a kilometer away. My best bet to find survivors, or maybe the crabs had fucked off there.

As if on cue, rain started falling. I had my cap on, but I felt the mix of blood from the back of my head run down my neck, mixing with the water.

The village was in darkness. The rain had eased to a cold drizzle as if it had just poured only to get me wet and cold, the damp seeping through my jacket, chilling me to the bone. I moved slow, boots sinking into mud and cement from the drainage, the scent of wet earth mixing with smoke and something rotten.

Streetlamps were dead abnd broken, their glass shattered like the windows of half the houses lining the cracked, uneven road. Roofs sagged under the weight of neglect, and shutters hung crooked, some nailed shut, others swinging in the cold wind like ghostly fingers. The distant rumble of artillery rolled low. Heard something buzz overhead, don't know what it was, until I saw the fighter jets wingmen fly behind it a few seconds later.

Just empty houses. Me and a body that had been lying there for years, chest crushed flat by a tank tread. Its skull stared up at me from the rubble, like it had been waiting for someone to notice.

A few jets screamed overhead — flying low, way too low. Never a good sign. Probably trying to stay below the Banshees. All of it sucked. The rain hit in waves, sideways now. Hunger gnawed at me, exhaustion worse. Migraine behind my eyes like a spike, the blow to the back of my head still throbbing. The cold ate through everything.

Everything fucking sucked.

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I thought I could only rely on me — my rifle, and the four meager magazines I had left.

Until I saw something move.

Clock tower. Church. A hundred meters down the street.

Fifty-fifty chance I'd find another human being in there. If not — well, then my suffering would be over. That's what ran through my mind. Real "abandon all hope" shit.

I made a big show of it, booted the front door open with one loud thud that echoed through the empty street. Then I bolted around the side toward the back of the church, hoping the bait worked — and that whatever was watching was dumb or curious enough to take it.

The church kitchen looked like it hadn't been used in years. Faded tiles cracked like a dry riverbed. Pots and pans hung limp on rusted hooks, their surfaces streaked with dust and soot. A large industrial sink sat full of stagnant rainwater collected from a hole in the ceiling, with a rust-stained ladle floating dead-center like a shipwreck.

Empty cans and ration wrappers littered the corners, signs someone had passed through. A dented field kettle sat cold on the stove, lid askew, mold beginning to form around the edges. Smelled like rot, wet wood, and old gas.

I moved slow, listening for anything over the sound of the rain tapping the roof like fingers on a coffin lid.

At the far end of the kitchen was a narrow door, crooked on its hinges. It led into a hallway — long, dim, lined with peeling plaster and faded murals of saints whose eyes looked like they'd wept all the color away.

And there, about halfway down, I saw her.

Back turned to me. Shoulders squared. Same torn Swedish uniform as mine — soaked, dirt-streaked, real. A rifle slung across her back. Her hair was pulled into a rough ponytail, dripping rainwater down the back of her jacket.

My voice came out hoarse, cracked from the cold and dried blood in my throat.

"Sänk vapnet."
Lower your weapon.

She froze.

Didn't turn, didn't flinch, just froze, like an animal caught between instinct and orders. For a second I thought maybe she hadn't heard me. Or maybe she wasn't even alive.

"Jag är från sjunde brigaden. Sänk vapnet, långsamt."
I'm with Seventh Brigade. Lower the weapon — slowly.

She did as she was told. Lowered her weapon. Of course I wasn't going to shoot her. Simply with the edge I imagined her being in, didn't want to risk taking a bullet by ticking her on the back.

"How long you've been here?" I asked.

"Two hours," she said. "I was in the lead vehicle when it took a blaster. Only one who made it across the field to here."

Same battalion as me. Just a replacement they'd stuck in the driver's seat of a CV90 the day before. Anne. Talk about bad luck.

"I was going to find another place to hide. Can't stand it with them in here," she added.

You should've seen me. Even after all these years, Anne still brings up the way I lifted my rifle — the look on my face.

I didn't say anything. Just flicked on my flashlight and stepped past her into the main hall.

The beam cut through the dark like a scalpel, slicing across rows of pews — and what filled them.

Bodies. Dozens of them.

Civilians. Some slumped together like they'd died holding each other. Others collapsed mid-run, faces frozen in whatever they'd felt when the gas hit — panic, confusion, resignation. A few sat on the wooden benches as if they had been listening to a last sermon. A few still wore backpacks, jackets, a few inside of sleeping bags between the church . Their skin had gone waxy, sunken. The ones closer to the doors were worse — blackened lips, blistered eyes, the CBRN agent having done its work years ago. They'd come here for safety. At the beginning of the war, maybe. Before the evacuations had been called. Before command had decided this part of the region wasn't worth the resources.

They'd come here for safety. At the beginning of the war, maybe. Before the evacuations had been called. Before command had decided this part of the region wasn't worth the resources.

Didn't need to see any more of it. Turned off my flashlight.

"Do you have a map?" I asked.

"No." she said, gripping her rifle as if it was her life line.

We were up in the clock tower afterward. Me and her.
Looking at everything — and nothing — all at once.

Down below, the column was just ash and silence. The fires had finally gone out.

For a while, we thought Hamburg was catching the sunrise.
Took us a moment to realize the light didn't set from the south.

Hamburg was burning.

No alarms. No sirens. Just smoke and that orange, roiling glow eating its way through the skyline. A slow, hungry fire, the kind that doesn't rush. The kind that knows no one's coming to stop it.

Maybe it had started with a bombing run. One fuel depot hit, or a chemical plant torn open, and that was it. A spark in a hollowed-out city with no fire brigades left to call, no infrastructure left to save. The blaze moved block by block — feeding on wood, plastics, and whatever else hadn't already rotted or drowned in mold.

From up in the tower, it looked like the sun had decided to rise in the wrong place.

There was nothing to do but sit this one out. My head felt like it was on fire. I took first watch. We'd wait for the sun to rise, then try to link up with any homo sapiens left.

We were in for a long walk.

She'd jump awake every time a bomber flew overhead. Poor kid. Kid. She was only a year younger than me — eighteen. Same shade of blonde hair as me. Part of that generation sacrificed by this war. Not many left with 2007 or 2008 stamped on their IDs anymore.

When it was her turn to keep watch, I felt like I might have to take away her ammunition — just in case she freaked out in the middle of the night. Her hand had been bleeding all night, but she was so focused she hadn't even cared to clean it.

I noticed blood seeping through her fingers and said,
"Your arm's bleeding."

"It's fine," she said, still gripping her rifle tightly.

"No, it's not. Put the rifle down and relax," I told her as I pulled out the first aid kit attached to her vest.

She obeyed but looked at me like I was about to put a bone back in place.

"Why did the Danish man bring a ladder to the bar?" I asked, readying the Israeli bandage on her forearm.

"I don't know," she answered softly, clearly scared of the moment I'd apply pressure to the long cut.

"Because he heard the drinks were on the house," I said. She chuckled, and I wrapped the bandage around her arm, did a few turns, and made sure it was secure.

"If you feel like you're going to fall asleep, sit on your knees—the more uncomfortable, the better. But we have to walk tomorrow, and I'm counting on you to carry my backpack!" I told her.

She barely nodded, her eyes fixed on her arm. Then I laid down on the cold bricks, my head resting against one of the blankets I found downstairs. Even with the bombers droning overhead, I barely had time to count to fifty before dozing off.

I felt someone shaking me, not the calm, "Your watch starts now" kind of shake. This was panic.

I opened my eyes, blinking as she shook me harder.

Sitting up, I followed her gaze down to the street below. There were eight crabs walking down the street, blasters in hand—four on each side, moving away from the church. They headed toward the outskirts of the village, in the direction of the column of destroyed vehicles. Slow, calm. They weren't just patrolling, those bastards were looking for something. You saw it the way they held their blasters high. With the muscles, they could lift them high ready to fire without tiring up.

"We have to move," she said silently, but there was nothing calm about it.

"We have to fucking leave," she continued, teeth clenched.

"They're leaving the village, heading for our vehicles. If there's more of them, we'll meet them downstairs. We stay put and quiet," I told her, trying to steady her.

"No, we're leaving now!" she snapped, louder this time. She tried to get up, but I grabbed her by the back of the vest and held her down. I wasn't about to die because of her.

"Let. Go." she hissed, kicking to throw me off balance. I prayed she wouldn't make a sound as she fell back against me.

I tightened my grip, slipping my arm gently but firmly around her neck—not to choke her out harshly, but enough to slow the blood flow and steady her panic. Her body trembled against me, muscles tense, heart pounding beneath my palm. I could feel the warmth radiating from her skin, rapid breaths fogging the cold night air between us.

Her struggles weakened, fingers loosening their grip on my vest as her eyelids fluttered. The warmth of her body was both a comfort and a stark reminder of how fragile we were in this hell. Then, slowly, she went limp, fainting softly against me.

I barely had time to catch her weight before she slumped, her head resting against my chest. Her pulse was erratic but steadying, and despite the chaos outside, in that moment, all I could hear was the thud of my own heartbeat and the faint crackle of distant fires.

I let go, I wasn't about to kill her. But even with a third kid on the way I don't think she has entirely forgiven me for this.

She came back as I looked up. The crabs were leaving the village and were halfway to the first destroyed IFV.

She sat there. against that wall as I looked over it.

"They're leaving. Don't move," I whispered, she was too weak to say anything. Nor did she want to. Her eyes locked onto mine, burning with that familiar rage.

The sun rose slowly, burning off the low clouds overhead. Far in the distance, dark clouds hung heavy, pouring rain over fields kilometers away. I just watched—the sun, the clouds, the bombers flying toward Hamburg. Bombers. Must have seen hundreds of them in the past hour—American B-1B Lancers, B52's, Chinese H-6s, Tornados. Dozens upon dozens of formations cutting through the sky.

Learned later we lost thousands that night. Crabs had hit us from all sides, back and front. Dozens of companies like mine wiped out across the region. Thousands trapped, fighting their way back to friendly lines. And me and Anna? We just walked.

We steered clear of the forests for obvious reasons.

Through the farm roads, old hiking paths, all the way until we reached the highway heading north toward Denmark. An entire day of walking—feet blistered, legs screaming. The little water we had, we shared in silence. Past rows of burned-out cars, their frames warped and hollow. Some still smelled faintly of smoke and scorched rubber.

We passed packs of stray dogs—half-feral, ribs showing, eyes always watching. They followed at a distance, just far enough not to be a threat but close enough to remind you they'd be picking the bones clean when it was over. The trees that still stood were blackened at their trunks. Some fields hadn't been harvested in years, left fallow and grey with ash. Every once in a while, the wind would carry the scent of rot from a ditch we didn't look into.

No signs of life. No birds. No engines other than the bombers flying overhead trying to keep the crabs at bay. Just the sound of our boots on crumbling asphalt and the distant thunder of airstrikes echoing over the horizon.

It was as if hope had left this part of the world. No birds sang, only the walls were left standing, hollowed-out shells of what once were homes. Curtains fluttered in broken windows like they were waving us goodbye or 'Don't let the door hit you on the way out'. Children's toys lay sun-bleached and untouched in gardens no one had played in for years. Mail still stuck in rusted boxes. No footsteps but ours. No voices. Just the wind, and even that sounded like it was mourning something. Silence wasn't peace it was just the aftermath of everything.

Although we helped each other, sharing what little water or food we had, stretching the other's leg when a cramp hit and forced one of us down onto the asphalt—there were no words. Just the look in each other's eyes. Always scanning the distance, watching for any flicker of movement in the shadows, anything that looked out of place. Lips cracked, mouths dry, we never talked about home. We just stared ahead, tense, like we were ready to snap at anything that moved.

Even as we sat on the grass, past the rows of combat vehicles, soldiers running around, officers with clipboards, I only looked at the dead lying in rows. A helicopter had landed too close and had blown the plastic tarp away.

Thirty. That's how many I counted while some officer repeated back everything we told him—from where the ambush happened to the road that brought us here. The sun was setting. I counted the dead again. Just kids, no older than me or her. Back then, it never felt like we were winning. And even now, it still doesn't feel like we did.