The sudden jolt of the van braking snapped Przemek out of a deep sleep. “We’re here, wake up the Pole,” the passenger in the front seat muttered. Przemek, crammed in the back of the cargo hold, felt a surge of anxiety. His employer, a Turk named Emre, and the driver sat up front, while another car trailed behind them, carrying three more of Emre’s men. If something were going to go wrong, it would happen now.
Przemek’s nerves sharpened as he loaded a round into his pistol, checking the Glock he had acquired courtesy of the Hamburg police. He flicked on his headlamp, ensuring it worked, and double-checked his gear before slinging on his backpack. The van turned into what looked like the parking lot of a large warehouse, its pace slowing. “Just stop here,” Emre ordered.
Despite being closer to this group of gunrunners than a a few days ago, Przemek’s distrust hadn’t waned. He wasn’t a fool, he reminded himself, over and over.
“We’re here,” Emre repeated, and before the van had fully stopped, he was out the door. The suddenness of his exit startled Przemek. He watched as Emre walked a few meters ahead, where two shadowy figures awaited.
Przemek slid the side door open in one smooth motion, peering cautiously outside. He spotted Emre embracing the two men, while another figure stood nearby, rifle in hand, waving to the trailing vehicle. Emre’s conversation seemed easy, the men greeting him with warm hugs and a cigarette, but Przemek’s instincts were still on high alert.
Finally, he allowed himself to relax just a little and stepped out of the van, stretching his stiff legs. The two-day journey had been grueling, with only three brief stops—once to help refuel, a second time for a quick break at an abandoned gas station, and a third when they had to deal with a group of wannabe thugs blocking a regional road near the Danish-German border. As he stood there, Przemek couldn’t shake the feeling that the real test was about to begin.
A dozen men and women had blocked the road, their faces hardened, with an old Volkswagen parked haphazardly in the center. Most clutched metal rods, but one older man stood out, cradling a hunting shotgun. The moment Przemek and the other caravan members emerged from their vehicles, assault rifles at the ready and expressions cold as steel, panic swept through the makeshift blockade.
Emre, leading the charge with a German G36 rifle, wasted no time. He fired two quick shots, hitting the older man in the upper chest and lower throat, sending him crumpling to the ground. Another man, gripping an axe, was felled just as swiftly. The rest of the marauders scattered in terror, their comrades dropping to their knees in mere seconds.
“Don’t shoot!” Emre commanded, his voice cold. “Don’t waste the bullets. Let them run.”
With the threat temporarily dispersed, Emre and Przemek advanced cautiously down the road, scouting ahead to ensure it was clear. They walked for about five minutes, the only sounds being their footfalls and the distant rustle of wind through the trees. Everything seemed quiet, but Przemek couldn’t help noticing Emre’s labored breathing. The older man was no longer fit for this kind of rugged trek, especially not through muddy, backcountry roads with a rifle in hand.
Emre caught Przemek’s concerned glance and laughed, the sound rough and humorless. Switching to German, he said, “This is nothing. You should’ve seen me fighting up those Turkish mountains against the Kurdish guerrillas. I’d take a hike in the Danish countryside any day over those freezing mountains, where the wind cuts to the bone and your best friends are dying all around you, grenades and Kalashnikovs raining hell.”
As they waited for the convoy to catch up, Emre pulled out a cigarette, lighting it with the calm of a man who had seen too much. He offered one to Przemek, who accepted, surprised by the gesture. Just ten minutes earlier, this same man had killed two people with calculated precision, yet now he stood quietly, staring into the distance, smoke curling up into the night. The other guys had laughed when Emre refused them cigarettes, yet here he was, sharing one with a Polish mercenary he had only met a few days before.
For some reason, that moment stuck with Przemek. Emre, despite the blood on his hands, seemed lost in thought, perhaps revisiting painful memories from decades ago. The juxtaposition between his recent act of violence and the quiet, reflective moment struck Przemek deeply, making him realize there was more to the man than met the eye.
Przemek had met Emre and his crew of gunrunners just a week ago in what could generously be called a refugee camp near Hamburg. The word "camp" barely applied anymore; the place had devolved into a sprawling, chaotic marketplace where desperation was the only currency. Food and supplies from the government, the Red Cross, and anyone else who cared had stopped coming months ago. Now, the camp was a shantytown where people scraped by, trading whatever they had for whatever they could get. Even businesses had to pay a "tax" to the German soldiers who were supposed to be protecting them.
Relative peace? That was a joke. By the time Przemek and Emre left, they were hanging rapists, thieves, and murderers in the streets. Crime was rampant, and Przemek shuddered to think how much worse it would get in a few months.
Emre had come to the camp looking for armed men willing to travel north. Przemek and about ten others volunteered. Fresh, relatively sane bodies were in no short supply. Emre interviewed each of them, grilling them on their backgrounds and their reasons for wanting to head north. Most of the others were taller, heavier, and probably stronger, but something about Przemek stood out. Maybe it was his military past, but it wasn’t just that. Przemek looked and acted like someone who knew how to survive, and Emre was smart enough to recognize that.
It reminded Emre of advice he’d once received: "There are bodyguards and there are bodyguards. If you’re a rapper trying to cut in line without anyone giving you trouble, or you need to push through a mob of fans, you want a 2-meter tall, 140-kilo ex-football player. But if you’re a CEO in a shithole country where kidnappers, disgruntled employees, or religious extremists are gunning for you, that ex-football player won’t be worth a damn. You need someone like a Ukrainian or Brazilian ex-grunt, half the size but twice as lethal."
Przemek fit that bill perfectly. He wouldn’t be where he was if he didn’t. About 6' feet tall, healthy with a good dose of farmer strength. Tattoos and scars all over the body. He wanted a ride north more than he wanted whatever meager reward Emre was offering. Emre had made it clear this was a one-way trip, and Przemek understood. He explained to Emre that he shared the same gut feeling—that whatever had happened, the worst was still to come. He felt his chances were better up north, where fewer people lived and where the wilderness might still offer some refuge.
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Before they set out, Emre invited Przemek for a last supper—two chickens shared among the four of them. Przemek barely ate, but Emre made sure the others saved him a wing. After the meal, Przemek was led through a series of service tunnels and streets to where the vehicles and supplies were stashed. They had loaded the van with everything they could scavenge: Belgian army rifles, ammunition, and—most valuable of all—crates of antibiotics. In these times, those drugs were worth their weight in gold. The bag of antibiotics on Emre’s lap was probably more valuable than all the bullets in the back combined.
They left under the cover of night, the van heavy with supplies and the weight of what lay ahead.
As they drove north, Przemek tried to erase the memory of the refugee camp in Hamburg. He had spent months there, and it had taken a heavy toll on him, both physically and mentally. The mold-infested room where he slept had likely given him a skin condition, but that was the least of his worries. The constant noise was unbearable—the ceaseless crying of the desperate, the endless arguments and fights over scraps of food or stolen belongings. It seemed everyone was convinced that someone had taken something from them, whether it was a pair of boots or a dented metal cup.
The camp was like something out of the Middle Ages, and though Przemek had seen a few in Germany, this one was by far the largest and the most wretched. It was a brutal testament to how far people could fall when stripped of everything. He had once thought the Germans were more civilized than the rest of Europe, but after seeing this, he couldn’t even imagine the horrors that must be unfolding in other places. The camp was a cesspool of humanity, where people were reduced to their most basic, animalistic instincts just to survive.
Przemek had found work as a bouncer in a brothel, a grim job in a place where girls as young as sixteen—and some who were clearly younger—worked during the day and night. The brothel was set up in an abandoned government tax office, a cruel irony that wasn’t lost on him. He spent his nights throwing out troublemakers, men who were too drunk or violent to be allowed near the girls. There were 20,000 to 30,000 souls crammed into that shantytown, and every day was a battle to keep the worst of them at bay.
But what Przemek hated most was the stench of alcohol. Whoever ran the camp had made the insane decision to give out beer for free, sourced from a nearby factory. The reek of it was everywhere, clinging to the air like a curse. Przemek, who could hold his liquor as well as any man from his part of the world, found the constant smell nauseating. It was as if the whole camp was drowning in beer, and he couldn’t escape it. That’s why he preferred the Turkish quarters; they smoked like chimneys but didn’t drink as much. The Turks eyed him with suspicion, partly because he was Polish and partly because of his job in the brothel, but at least he didn’t have to deal with the overwhelming stench of alcohol.
Now, in the back of the van, Przemek tried to focus on the road ahead instead of the memories behind. He was relieved to be leaving that hellhole, but he couldn’t shake the fear gnawing at him. The road north was uncertain, and he knew all too well that danger could strike at any moment. Whether it was a crazed mob or a betrayal from within the caravan, he had to stay sharp. Survival was the only thing that mattered now, and he was determined not to end up another victim of this brutal new world.
After a few minutes of mingling with the others, Emre approached Przemek with a warm smile. “Thank you again for your work,” he said sincerely. “It was a rather uneventful trip, but your help was invaluable. My group and I could always use someone like you. We’re planning to settle a few kilometers north with our families. An extra set of reliable hands is always welcome. If you’d like to stay with us, you’re more than welcome.”
Przemek paused for a moment, pretending to consider the offer. He had started to think that maybe this group wasn’t as bad as he had initially feared. Yet, he knew he couldn’t risk staying. “I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, and the offer to stay is generous. But I can’t. This isn’t far enough north for me,” he replied, though he was aware how clichéd his words sounded in his less-than-perfect German. He hoped Emre would understand.
Emre nodded, his expression thoughtful. “You want to cross the strait, then?” He turned to his cousin, speaking rapidly in Turkish. The cousin’s face grew more concerned as he listened. After a brief exchange, Emre turned back to Przemek. “My cousin thinks it’s a bad idea. He says the situation in Malmö is even worse than here. But if you can make it north and manage to sustain yourself, you might just find some calm.”
Przemek appreciated Emre’s honesty. Despite the risks, he felt a flicker of hope. The journey ahead was fraught with uncertainty, but he was determined to press on. The north beckoned with a promise of something better, or at least a chance to escape the chaos he had left behind.
“Do you have a map I can take a look at by any chance?” Przemek asked, Emre translated it to his cousin and his cousin disappeared into the warehouse. “You’ll have one, consider it part of the payment. Now for the rest of it.” Emre opened one of the crates and pulled out a pristine-looking assault rifle. “Here, courtesy of the Belgian government. This was made to survive a nuclear war, hopefully, it'll survive a few weeks in your Russian hands. Use it or trade it down the road if you want” Przemek cringed at the jab from Emre. Emre then handed the rifle to Przemek. Indeed, this was a pristine FN FNC rifle, the same one Al Pacino used in the movie HEAT. He smiled at the sight of it and at the memories of him younger watching it with his grandad. Same folding stock and all. He also received some 5.56 magazines which he filled up. About 6 filled magazines to be exact and then one case of 200 rounds. This was incredibly generous, but the truck and the jeep were filled to the brim with cases and boxes. He was still very curious as to where they found all of this but Przemek wasn’t the type to look a gifted horse in the mouth. For a moment he was wondering why he didn’t give it to him for the trip up. Nonetheless, he didn’t mind this as payment. He helped the guys unload the rest of the cases into the warehouse. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay or at least stay the night? My wife really wants you over for dinner” Emre asked him jokingly. “I would love a night somewhere dry but I really should cross now it’s still very early in the night and the rain can really help make my trip safer,” Przemek said leaning forward over his kit, he had just emptied his backpack on the floor and was putting it all back together and throwing away some unnecessary garbage. He had a long road ahead every kilo of his back counted. Emre handed him over the map his cousin brought back. It was a Shell map of the highways in Scandinavia. Even had a few variations like topography and all. “I trust you know where you’re going.”. “First to that huge lake northeast of Gothenburg. I plan on moving there through regional roads. From there I’m just going stick around if I find a cabin or whatever and wait winter out, then I’ll go further north." Przemek said as if he had recited his speech. Emre chimed in "Those madmen. A few months ago I thought they die from starvation or whatever but..” Emre was rambling. “My cousin tells me you are better off crossing with a boat or even through the train tunnel if you are mad enough. The bridge apparently there was a huge gunfight over there a few hours ago, and some huge explosions. The gunfight was shooting inland but also from Sweden to the bridge. They saw tracers for two hours before everything went silent. They all thought of doing this trip as well but the odds are not in their favour considering how many of us there are. You alone might make it.” Emre cut him off, and Przemek nodded. They shook hands when he was ready. Przemek pulled his anorak over his head before struggling to put on his heavy backpack. He gave the group a last look before he walked into the night.