Dragør, south of Copenhagen.
Jonathan’s arms throbbed with pain from the awkward position he was forced to endure, each movement threatening to snap them under the slightest pressure. His captors had bound his legs and his arms behind his back with duct tape, leaving him exhausted after weeks of restless nights. Despite his overwhelming fatigue, the agony in his body kept him cruelly awake. A relentless pressure pounded in his skull, accompanied by a constant headache that refused to let up.
He had attempted to lie on his front, but the bruises and what he suspected was a broken rib made it impossible to breathe or find any relief. The effort to return to his original sitting position left him gasping, feeling as if he might die just trying. Throughout his entire captivity in the abandoned room, Jonathan felt like a trapped insect, writhing in a desperate search for comfort. His damp Danish army uniform clung to him from the rain, adding another layer of misery to his ordeal, though it was the least of his concerns.
The room was bare, save for an empty shelf and a few lit candles scattered around. But Jonathan mind was too preoccupied with the looming threat of death to care about his dismal surroundings. The voices of his captors echoed from the other room, growing louder and more heated with each passing minute. Outside, a rainstorm raged, but even its fury seemed like a distant solace compared to the hell he was trapped in.
They had captured him last night. He had been driving his truck with another conscript, shuttling supplies between Christiania, just south of Copenhagen’s old town, where the Danish army and Copenhagen police had established their last defensive line. The canals and bridges served as natural barriers against whatever horrors lay to the north. All afternoon, Jonathan had driven the same route, back and forth between the airport in the southern suburbs and Christianshavn, the artificial island that bisected the capital. That island housed the main supply point for the Danish army in the city.
The front line was only a few hundred meters away, and a few hundred men and women still held the island, protecting the southern part of the capital, its airport—where the last military supplies had been flown in from abroad—and the critical bridge to Sweden from the relentless hordes advancing from the north. The other bridges to the south had been destroyed; only this last one remained. For now, the hordes couldn’t cross the canals, despite their desperate attacks with everything from Cold War-era rifles to makeshift weapons like baseball bats.
Communication with the Swedish government and military across the Øresund bridge had been lost; they now relied on informal means, mostly word-of-mouth reports about the increasingly dire situation in Malmö. The last remnants of Denmark’s leadership, including members of the royal family, had been evacuated to Greenland just two days earlier. The remaining Danish forces in the capital had one goal: to hold the enemy at bay for as long as possible. If they ran out of ammunition, the plan was to retreat across the bridge to Sweden.
Only a few weeks ago, such a retreat would have been unthinkable to the troops who still had their sanity or hadn’t deserted. But as their ammunition dwindled and contact higher authorities had been severed, the thought of escaping to Sweden no longer seemed like a bad idea.
The looters had trapped the army truck he was in by blocking the road with a bus. Unlike the deranged madmen he and his colleague had encountered in recent weeks, these looters seemed more desperate than crazed. They still had some semblance of sanity left. Had they been lunatics, they would have shot him on the spot or bludgeoned him with their bats. Despite the dire situation, most Danes who still had their wits about them chose to barricade themselves at home. Yet gangs like these—roving bands of looters and attackers—had become a common, troublesome sight, enough to be a real headache for whatever authority remained.
Johannes had turned a corner, just as he had done several times that day, only to find a Copenhagen Municipality bus blocking the way. The other conscript with him had reacted instantly, bolting from the truck the moment it came to a halt. In his haste, he even abandoned his rifle, which Johannes thought was sheer madness. They were facing starving looters, after all. If the conscript had simply exited the truck and fired off a few rounds, they might have had a chance—perhaps even scared them away. Instead, the young soldier had fled into the maze of Danish suburbs, leaving Johannes frozen behind the wheel.
Within seconds, he was dragged from the truck. Despite offering no resistance, they beat him severely, their frustration only growing when they discovered the truck was empty. Still, they made off with two rifles, a few magazines, body armor, and a pistol—good finds for desperate looters. They dragged him into a one-story house and locked him in a room. Or did they? His memory kept slipping away, fragments of the incident floating in and out of his mind. How far was he from that half-baked ambush site? Why could he recall trivial details but forget the crucial ones?
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He couldn’t remember how many people it had taken to drag him in, despite his slight build of just 70 kilos. He couldn’t remember which way was north or when he had last eaten. What was the other conscript’s name? Kjell? It had to be—it started with a K, he was sure of that. Like Johannes, Kjell had been pressed back into service a few months ago when things started to go wrong. Jonathan had completed his conscription training a year earlier, but Kjell was barely halfway through his own before they handed him a rifle and sent him to the capital.
As his mind raced with questions, a shouting match erupted in the other room, jolting him back to the grim reality of his situation.
“Cross the bridge and go where? You barely camped a day in your life, and you think we will be able to survive winter in some Swedish forest? Or magically find some cozy cottage?” a woman shouted “Andreas told us to wait for him and we’ll all talk about it together. I’m not surprised a coward like you decides to act like he's a man with a plan once the actual adults leave the house!”
"Andreas can't make up his mind. How many insane ideas has he come up with just this week?" a man’s voice snapped. "I'm done with him. Remember yesterday? He said he was going to check out the Netto down the road with the group, promised he'd be back in an hour or two. Were you surprised when he rolled in ten hours later with a beat-up conscript, and Sebastian and Søren dead? They just dumped that poor guy here and went off on another reckless adventure, while what's left of the army is probably hunting us down for what they did. If I didn’t know him from before all this, I'd swear he’s turning into one of those lunatics who’ve lost their minds. If he keeps this up, we'll all be dead by the end of the month. His lapdogs—and you—won't say a word, but I’m not sticking around. I’d rather take my chances foraging for berries in some godforsaken forest in Sweden.”
The man and the woman continued to argue, their voices rising and falling with frustration. Jonathan realized they were the only ones in the house. This could be his chance. He began struggling in earnest to free his hands, every ounce of energy focused on loosening the duct tape. It was now or never. He fought against the bindings, searching for any weakness, but then his heart skipped a beat as he noticed the argument had stopped. Silence. He couldn’t hear them anymore. Panic washed over him, and he froze, straining to catch any sound. The only noise was the steady patter of rain against the window, the kind of silence that feels endless.
In the dim light, Jonathan noticed a candle flickering on the ground nearby. A plan formed in his mind. He carefully lowered himself toward it, his hands still bound, and maneuvered his wrists close to the flame. The heat was intense, and the flame licked at the edge of the tape, the smell of burning plastic filling the room. He winced as the heat scorched his skin, but he held steady, using the candle to weaken the tape’s adhesive.
After what felt like an eternity, and with a final burst of effort, his hands came free. The tape around his legs followed quickly, and for the first time, a flicker of hope sparked within him. He might just survive this. If he could find a way out, he’d either break the window and make a run for it or try sneaking to the front door, praying it wasn’t locked. He’d find his way back to the truck, or to his unit—maybe even both. Surely, they would understand why he was MIA. Despite all the issues he had with his unit, the last thing he wanted was for them to think he was a deserter.
But just as he was halfway through these thoughts, he heard a car pull up in front of the house. His blood ran cold as footsteps approached the door. Terror gripped him, so intense it felt like his heart and guts were being crushed. He froze, just like he had the day before when he was ambushed, but this fear was far worse, paralyzing him completely. Memories of sleepless nights as a child flooded back—hiding in his room from his mother, his pants soaked with urine, cigarette burns searing his arms. The position he was in now felt eerily similar.
Despite having freed his legs, he was unable to move, cursing himself for not acting sooner. Then the door creaked open.
“Hvad helvede...?” the man who entered the room muttered, his eyes narrowing as he saw Jonathan. Jonathan tried to play it cool, hoping his captor had forgotten that they had duct-taped him before leaving. But he had no time to react as the man lunged forward, slamming a fist into his face and following up with a brutal kick to the gut. The impact left Jonathan gasping, his breath stolen by the overwhelming pain. He tried to inhale, but the agony was too intense. Another punch followed, each blow delivered by someone who must have been twice his weight.
“Get in here!” the man shouted, and within seconds, the rest of the captors stormed into the room. “Think you can leave us that soon?” the first man yelled. Two others joined in, pummeling Jonathan with a relentless barrage of blows. “We leave for an hour, and he’s already trying to make a run for it! What the hell were the two of you doing?” he snapped at the couple, who stood silently in the corner.
The beating stopped just long enough for them to forcefully bind his hands with duct tape again. This had to be Andreas, Jonathan thought, as he tried to process what was happening. Before he could fully grasp the situation, Andreas pulled a long knife from his belt. Without hesitation, he slashed Jonathan across the face, the blade carving a deep line from his upper left temple down to his cheek. Jonathan screamed, instinctively curling up to protect himself as best he could.
“Try anything again, and I’ll cut your throat,” Andreas snarled. Another voice, rough and impatient, asked, “What are we even keeping him alive for?” Andreas whipped around, hurling a string of obscenities at the two, calling them incompetent.
Meanwhile, Jonathan lay on the floor, sobbing and screaming in pain. Blood poured from the wound, blurring his vision in his left eye and soaking his face. He felt as if he were bleeding to death, the agony unrelenting. Time lost all meaning as he slipped in and out of consciousness, the room spinning around him while the others continued to argue and shout.
Finally, his strength gave out, and he sank into darkness. The last thing he distinctly heard before everything faded was the sharp crack of a gunshot. Then, silence.