An hour later, at around 11pm. Przemek was hopelessly lost.
The situation was dire. The rain had evolved into a full-blown thunderstorm, making it nearly impossible for Przemek to orient himself on the map amidst the downpour and darkness. Ironically, while he struggled through his boy scout ordeal, Jonathan, just a few hundred meters away, was enduring one of the worst nights of his life.
The streets were eerily similar, shrouded in shadows as the streetlights flickered intermittently. Though Przemek was familiar with Polish and German neighborhoods, which often shared a resemblance, the Danish suburbia was disorientingly uniform. Every single-story house looked the same, with identical designs and layouts. He dared not use his flashlight for fear of drawing attention, and the outdated paper map he carried—devoid of street names and fragile in the rain—offered little help. Fearing it might disintegrate in the wet, Przemek decided to abandon navigation altogether and walk in a single direction, hoping to stumble upon a landmark. Worst-case scenario, he thought grimly, he could break into a house and wait out the storm.
But rain wasn’t a deterrent—it was a challenge. He reminded himself of its tactical advantages: it hid tracks, quenched thirst, and kept enemies confined indoors while he moved freely. The cold was his ally, sharpening his senses and keeping him alert. “Rain is good,” Przemek murmured to himself, trying to muster confidence. As he lowered his compass, a sudden flash of light from a nearby house caught his attention, followed almost immediately by a gunshot. Had it not been for the flash, the gunfire might have been mistaken for thunder.
Przemek froze. Was that really a gunshot? Cautiously, he moved toward the house, flipping the safety off his rifle. As he approached, another gunshot rang out, startling him. He stumbled into a hole in the grass, crashing to the muddy ground. Stress weighed heavily on him now, testing the limits of his training and experience. “Kurwa,” he muttered under his breath. “At least I didn’t break my ankle,” he thought, dragging himself to his feet, his backpack heavy on his shoulders and rifle clutched tightly. He edged closer to the house, moving toward the window where the light had flashed.
Another gunshot erupted from inside, louder this time—likely a shotgun. Every instinct screamed at him to turn back, but he couldn’t resist a glance through the window. Peering cautiously from the side, he saw two bodies on the floor, both lying in puddles of blood. One of them was still writhing, clutching at his neck, while the other lay motionless. A third man, dressed in a uniform, sat slumped against a wall with his hands duct-taped. His face was a mess of bruises and blood, and his defeated eyes locked onto Przemek’s through the glass. It was a look of terror and confusion that mirrored Przemek’s own.
Meanwhile, Jonathan, unconscious for a few minutes, regained consciousness. Adrenaline surged through him as the sound of gunfire jolted him awake. His body ached, and blood oozed from his injuries, but the chaos in the room ignited his survival instincts. He realized that Andreas, the sadistic ringleader of his captors, was now lying in a pool of his own blood. Another man struggled over a shotgun with an unseen assailant before the weapon discharged, ending his life. The scene was chaotic and surreal, like trying to recall the details of a drunken brawl through the haze of a hangover.
Jonathan knew his captors wouldn’t hesitate to kill him now. Andreas had been the only reason he was still alive, and with him gone, their restraint was likely to vanish. But just as despair set in, Jonathan spotted something—or someone—outside the window. A man in a military-style boonie hat, armed with a rifle, was watching the room. Their eyes met, and a spark of hope ignited in Jonathan’s chest. This man wasn’t one of his captors—he had to be here to rescue him.
Jonathan acted on impulse. With every ounce of strength he could muster, he lunged at the man holding the shotgun, attempting to body-slam him with his duct-taped hands. But the effort was futile. Jonathan hurt himself more than his target, collapsing onto the blood-soaked floor. His captors stared at him in confusion, their expressions a mix of disbelief and pity. The man he had charged pointed the shotgun at Jonathan, pumping it with a menacing click.
Outside, Przemek panicked as he realized the boy in the room had seen him. Shit. Whatever this was, he was involved now. He saw the boy look from him to someone else in the room, his expression pleading. “Don’t do it,” Przemek thought. “Don’t get me involved.” But as the boy attempted a reckless charge, Przemek’s attention was suddenly drawn elsewhere.
A figure stood in the distance, watching him from down the street. At first, he hadn’t noticed it—it stood unnaturally still, blending with the rain and darkness. But now, it was unmistakable. The figure stared at him, unbothered by the storm. Then he noticed another one, behind him, standing in the field he had just crossed. A chill colder than the rain ran down Przemek’s spine. And then, as if on cue, another figure joined the first.
Przemek’s instincts took over. He raised his rifle and backed away from the window, but inside, the situation was escalating. The boy’s captor swung his shotgun toward the window after hearing his comrades yell something in Danish. As the barrel swung in his direction, Przemek fired. Two shots. The glass shattered, and the man fell to his knees, blood pouring from his chest. There was no dramatic fall—just the abrupt, final collapse of a body rendered lifeless.
Chaos erupted in the house. Jonathan flinched as the man he’d charged fell dead onto him, choking on his own blood. Przemek didn’t hesitate. He broke the remaining glass with his rifle and climbed through the window, his weapon trained on the open doorway.
“Gud ske tak og lov for at du kom!” Jonathan cried out in Danish. “Wstań, kretyn!” Przemek barked back in Polish, before switching to English. “UP NOW!”
Jonathan scrambled to obey, adrenaline fueling his battered body. “Who are you, and who are they?” Przemek demanded, covering the hallway with his rifle.
Przemek walked cautiously toward the door and peeked down the hallway. Whoever was inside seemed to be hiding for now, giving him precious seconds—maybe minutes. But chaos lingered in every shadow. The rain lashed against the broken window, and at any moment, the figures outside could come charging in the same way he had. Slamming the door shut, Przemek shoved a nearby wardrobe against it, taking shelter behind it. His rifle stayed trained on the shattered window, his every nerve on edge.
“Jonathan Nygaard,” the battered soldier muttered suddenly, his voice raw but firm. “I’m just a soldier. They ambushed me and took me hostage.” His words gained momentum, driven by adrenaline. “Shit—they have my assault rifle. It was with my bag. They must have left it somewhere.” Despite the chaos, Jonathan felt a strange pride; that was the most coherent sentence he’d managed to string together in hours.
“They have ammo for your rifle?” Przemek asked sharply, his eyes flicking between the hallway and the window.
“Ja, but the gun wasn’t loaded. The mags—they were in my vest,” Jonathan replied, trying to steady his breathing.
Przemek grimaced. “Fuck. This is really, really bad,” he said, half to himself.
Jonathan shot him a look, confusion mingling with exhaustion. “Why? They’re terrified. You saw them—they were already shooting at each other before you arrived. We just fire a few rounds down the hallway, climb back out the window you came through, and—”
Jonathan’s sentence cut off mid-thought as he noticed the terrified look on Przemek’s face. His rifle was now pointed toward the pitch-black window, and his entire body was tense, like a cornered animal. It was clear: Przemek had walked straight into a dead end. There was danger both inside the house and waiting just outside in the rain.
Jonathan swallowed hard and broke the silence. “Yeah… this is not good. If we’re going to get out of here, I need my rifle back. Can you free my hands?”
Przemek didn’t look away from the window. “You try anything dumb, I’ll kill you where you stand,” he growled.
Jonathan sighed, exasperated. “Why the hell would I make this worse by trying to kill you? You need me as much as I need you.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Przemek slid a pocketknife toward Jonathan, never taking his eyes off the window. Jonathan freed himself quickly, sliding the knife back to Przemek before nodding toward the shotgun.
“Check if it’s loaded,” Przemek said. “Don’t blow my legs off.”
Jonathan opened the chamber and inspected it. “Two shells,” he confirmed.
Przemek nodded curtly. “Make them count. We don’t have time to waste.” He adjusted his grip on his rifle. “You go first. Check every spot. You check left; I’ll check right. We move fast, no hesitation. I’ll shoot down the hallway to keep them scared—don’t do the same. Conserve your ammo.”
Jonathan’s knees felt like they were going to give out, but he forced himself to move. He picked up the shotgun, feeling its weight in his hands. At least now he had a fighting chance, he thought. Without waiting for his uncertainty to grow, he opened the door slowly, peeking down the hallway.
At the far end was the front door, with a living room on the left and an open kitchen on the right. A single door stood on their immediate right in the hallway, locked tight. Jonathan spoke softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “There’s got to be three of them left.”
Przemek pushed him forward. “Szybki. Fast. Come on.”
Jonathan moved cautiously, with Przemek close behind, his rifle trained on the shadows. They approached the first door, which was locked. Without stopping, they continued down the hallway toward the living room. The walls were lined with unrecognizable family photos, the faces drawn over in red ink. A broken picture frame lay on the floor, showing a dog in happier times.
Jonathan crept closer to the living room, peeking to his left while Przemek’s rifle stayed trained to the right. As Jonathan peered around the corner, he spotted a man crouched behind the sofa, pointing a rifle directly at him—the same rifle that had been taken from Jonathan earlier. The man pulled the trigger.
Click.
Jonathan flinched and instinctively jerked back, nearly smacking Przemek in the mouth with the back of his head. The man behind the sofa had made a fatal error: he’d inserted the magazine but failed to chamber a round. Jonathan realized this a split second later and leaned back out, firing the shotgun.
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The blast filled the room, the recoil slamming into Jonathan’s shoulder. The man’s head exploded in a pink mist, his lifeless body collapsing with the rifle still in his hands. Blood and fragments splattered the wall behind him.
Jonathan’s ears rang from the deafening sound, and he stood frozen in shock. Przemek grabbed him and pushed him forward. “Go!” he barked. Jonathan pressed on, checking left as they rounded the corner deeper into the living room.
Meanwhile, Przemek swept the kitchen. Two figures emerged from the shadows. One lunged at him, but Przemek reacted quickly, slamming his knee into the attacker’s waist and following with a brutal headbutt. The man crumpled, and Przemek grabbed him by the collar, throwing him into the second figure—a woman who had her arms raised in surrender.
“Anyone else in there, kurwa?! Anyone else in the house?!” Przemek shouted.
“N-no one!” the woman stammered.
Przemek scanned the room before returning to Jonathan, who stood near the lifeless body behind the sofa. “All clear in the kitchen,” Przemek reported.
The living room was small, centered around an L-shaped sofa. The corpse of Jonathan’s captor lay sprawled on the floor, his nose obliterated and a gaping hole between his eyes.
“Where’s my stuff?” Jonathan demanded, his voice sharp and strained. The two captors sat trembling on the floor, one of them bleeding from the nose. They stared at Jonathan in disbelief, realizing the man who had just killed their friend was the same person they had taken hostage.
“In the—in the locked room,” one of them stammered in Danish. “Andreas had the keys. That’s where we keep all the valuables. Please, just take whatever you want—don’t kill us. There’s been enough bloodshed.”
Przemek glanced at Jonathan, whose confusion mirrored his own exhaustion. “What are you all saying?” Przemek asked in English, his voice sharp.
Jonathan spoke up, his tone matter-of-fact despite the chaos. “My equipment is in the locked room, but the dead guy in the black jacket has the keys.”
“Do diaska! Fine. You go back, but be very fucking careful when you open that door. Make sure nothing got in there. Don’t turn your back to the window, you understand? And grab your rifle from that debil—make sure it works. Be fucking fast about it. Take anything worth the weight in that room. If someone’s waiting in there, yell, and I’ll shoot these two pigs.”
Jonathan didn’t hesitate. He hurried back to the living room and lowered himself next to the corpse. The sight was grotesque: half the man’s brains were smeared across the rifle. Jonathan grabbed the weapon by its buttstock and gave it a small wave to clear any remaining fragments of flesh. He paused for a moment, staring at the lifeless body beneath him. He was shocked by the lack of emotion he felt after taking this man’s life. He didn’t even know the guy’s name, yet here he was, a faceless victim of his desperation. Jonathan shook the thought away. The rifle was in decent condition, Danish army-issued—a C7, one of the finest rifles in existence.
Reunited with his weapon, Jonathan felt a fleeting sense of comfort. He just wished he’d had the resolve to use it during the ambush instead of freezing like a deer in headlights. That momentary thought was interrupted by the burning sensation from the wound on his head. Wincing, he checked the rifle’s safety and chambered a round, blood still trickling down his face.
Jonathan moved cautiously down the hallway toward the locked room where he’d been held. His pace slowed as he approached the door, his ears straining to detect any sound. Should he kick the door open, or peek inside and take it slow? He opted for the latter. Easing the door open, he scanned the room with his rifle raised, keeping it aimed toward the window. The room appeared empty.
He moved toward the body of Andreas, the sadistic captor who had taken so much from him. “Where could the keys be?” Jonathan muttered to himself. Dropping to one knee beside the body, he checked the right jacket pocket. Nothing—just a pack of unopened cigarettes, which Jonathan stuffed into his pocket without hesitation. As he leaned over to search the other side, a faint noise came from near the window. It was indistinct, fleeting—almost like the shuffling of feet.
Jonathan’s finger hovered over the trigger as his breathing slowed. For a few long seconds, he didn’t move, his senses attuned to every creak and gust of wind. He had to hurry. Reaching into the left pocket, he felt something sharp graze his finger. A key. “Thank God,” he thought, clutching it tightly. Rising to his feet, he backed out of the room, his rifle still trained on the window, and shut the door behind him in one swift motion. It felt like climbing out of a basement with the lights off—every second was heavy with dread.
Meanwhile, Przemek kept his rifle trained on the hallway as he ordered the two remaining captors to kneel against the wall with their hands on their heads. He scanned the room carefully. Though the curtains were closed, he could sense movement outside. His instincts told him they were surrounded, and time was running out. Jonathan had seemed like a decent guy at first glance, but trust was a luxury Przemek couldn’t afford. Still, in this moment, he was the only ally Przemek had. Two rifles were better than one, and if they were going to survive the night, they’d need each other.
When Jonathan returned, he moved quickly to the locked room. The first key didn’t fit. The second didn’t, either. Finally, on the third attempt, the lock clicked. Jonathan pushed the door open and entered cautiously. The overhead light was still on—Denmark’s energy grid was holding strong, at least for now.
Jonathan froze when he saw a figure near the window. Before he could react, it disappeared into the storm. Terror gripped him as he shut the blinds and backed away from the window. Only then did he scan the rest of the room.
The room was cluttered with piles of clothes and electronics—trophies from past victims. Jonathan forced himself not to think about who these items might have belonged to. He spotted two metal ammunition boxes and opened the first. It was half-filled with jewelry—necklaces, bracelets, trinkets of lives stolen. His stomach churned, but he pressed on, opening the second box. Relief washed over him when he found his magazines—five in total. Including the one in his rifle, he now had six.
He grabbed his plate carrier next, its ceramic plates untouched. Everything was intact: his medical pouch, empty magazine pouches, tourniquet, and even his nametag. He tossed it into the hallway along with the plate carrier belonging to another conscript. Rummaging further, he found his backpack, its contents disturbed but intact. Spare clothes, toiletries, his ID, military papers, and even a Starbucks card were all there. Doomsday or not, paperwork had to be in order. Jonathan pocketed his wallet and attached a rifle sling before slinging the bag over his shoulder.
Exiting the room, he locked the door behind him and returned to the front of the house, where Przemek was waiting. “The front door is locked,” Jonathan said. “There’s a spare vest if you want it.”
Przemek tried on the vest, then removed the back plate and set it on the counter. “Why?” Jonathan asked.
“Every kilo off my back is good,” Przemek replied. “I don’t plan on getting shot in the back.”
Only then did Przemek notice the extent of Jonathan’s injuries. His brown hair was matted with blood, his eye crusted shut. “Wait,” Przemek said, grabbing his headlamp. He shone it on Jonathan’s head, inspecting the wound with a frown. “Stay still. This might sting.”
He poured water over Jonathan’s eye, scraping away the dried blood. Jonathan winced but didn’t protest. Once his eye was open, Przemek applied a bandage, tying it tightly. “What do you plan on doing?” Przemek asked.
“I have to get back to my unit,” Jonathan replied.
“They’re dead,” one of the captors said suddenly, his voice trembling. “The Swedes blew them to pieces at the bridge a few hours ago.”
“What?” Jonathan demanded. “How do you know that?”
“We saw it,” the man stammered, his voice trembling. “They were fighting on the bridge some time ago. They blew up the vehicles from afar—it was like fireworks. Some of them might’ve survived, but nearly all their vehicles are still burning. When we got close, we saw from over a kilometer away that the Danish side of the bridge was crawling with madmen, scavengers tearing through the remains. Must have been hundreds of them.”
“Can we still cross the bridge? Don’t you think those beasts have fucked off by now?” Przemek asked as he disinfected Jonathan’s wound. Jonathan gritted his teeth, scratching the table to distract himself from the searing pain.
“Even if you manage to sneak past them, the Swedes are shooting at everyone trying to cross,” the man replied. “Sane or not, they don’t care. Those fools imported half of Africa before this all happened, but now they shoot at us Danes trying to flee to them.”
A sudden thunderstrike cut him off, shaking the windows and rattling their nerves.
“Stop talking,” Przemek snapped, turning to Jonathan. “Some guy I trust told me there was a huge scene on that bridge earlier. He has no reason to lie. He said it wasn’t safe to cross that way. What do you plan on doing?”
Jonathan sighed, exhaustion and frustration etched on his face. “If they’re in Sweden, I’ve got no reason to stay here anymore. What about you?”
“I must go to Sweden as well,” Przemek said, “but crossing that bridge is suicide. That was my original plan, but not anymore. You’re the local—what do you think we should do?”
Jonathan hesitated. Part of him wanted to search the bridge for survivors, but he knew better. He and Przemek would be easy pickings for anyone with a scoped rifle—or for the mob of scavengers waiting on the other side.
“I need to state the obvious,” Jonathan said. “You want us to go outside. In this storm. With… you-know-what waiting for us?”
“Either we stay here,” Przemek said, “let their numbers grow outside, and wait for them to break in—because they will—or we use the rain and storm to escape. It’s the only hope we’ve got. If we stay, we die.”
Jonathan nodded reluctantly, wincing as Przemek tied a heavy bandage around his head. The pain was excruciating, but it was secondary to the terror clawing at the back of his mind. It didn’t matter how much his wounds healed if those things outside tore him limb from limb.
Turning to the couple against the wall, Jonathan asked, “Are either of you from here? This is Dragør, right?”
“I am,” the woman replied hesitantly.
“Do you have a map?” Jonathan asked. Przemek reached into his pouch, pulling out a worn map, and unfolded it on the table.
“Come here. Slowly,” Jonathan instructed in English so Przemek would understand.
The woman stood with her hands in the air, moving cautiously toward the table. Przemek stepped back a few meters, keeping his rifle trained, ready to act if she tried anything.
“Show me where we are,” Jonathan said.
She studied the map for a moment, her finger trembling as she pointed. “Here. That’s the field outside the house.”
“Is the beach still there? With the water sports?” Jonathan asked. She nodded.
“Go back to the wall. Slowly.” Jonathan motioned her away, and she obeyed.
Przemek stepped closer to Jonathan. “Did you think of anything?”
Jonathan pointed at the map, tracing a line with his finger. “We could run for the beach, grab a small boat, kayak, or paddleboard, and cross the channel. I’ve been there a few times—there’s always something you can use. Honestly, it’ll be hell, but it’s better than trying to cross that bridge and getting shot—or waiting here for those things to tear us apart. The waves aren’t bad in this weather, and the current would do half the job.”
Przemek considered the plan. It was risky—insane, even—but Jonathan was right. They wouldn’t survive the night here. The things outside were likely plotting as they were, searching for weaknesses. Every moment spent hesitating brought them closer to death. But what if they reached the beach and found no way across? Even making it out the front door seemed impossible.
Suddenly, footsteps echoed from the hallway, crunching on broken glass. “Kurwaaa,” Przemek muttered, his rifle snapping toward the sound. “You locked the doors behind you, right?”
“Yes,” Jonathan replied, “but not the room I entered through.”
Przemek motioned for Jonathan to take his position and cover the hallway. “Kurwa, listen. You two—stand up. This is your lucky day. We won’t kill you—despite what you did to my friend. But if you promise not to mess with anyone else, you can leave. When I tell you to, you’ll run. You’ll leave the house and head across the field. Don’t go near the beach. If I see you there, I’ll shoot you. If I see you again anywhere near here, you’re dead. Understand?”
The couple exchanged terrified glances before nodding.
“But only when I say. If you hesitate, I’ll shoot both of you. Got it?”
Przemek adjusted his backpack, checked his shoelaces, and pulled his neck gaiter over his nose. The word POLIZEI was printed on it. The captors glanced at him in confusion, but Przemek didn’t care. “I’ll make this simple. If you don’t walk out that door when I tell you to, I’ll shoot you. Is that clear?”
Jonathan, catching on to Przemek’s plan, slung his own backpack over his shoulders and whispered a silent prayer.
Przemek handed the keys to the woman. “When I say go, you unlock that door and run. Don’t stop running.” He turned to Jonathan and whispered, “Stay low.”
The woman fumbled with the keys as Przemek pulled Jonathan into the corner, positioning them out of sight. The lock clicked, and Przemek shouted, “NOW GO!”
The couple bolted into the storm. Moments later, the hallway door flew open, and three figures sprinted after them. Jonathan and Przemek saw their silhouettes briefly as they raced past, their backs turned.
Przemek waited ten agonizing seconds before nudging Jonathan forward. “Elohim shmor ala'i,” he whispered to himself.
They stepped cautiously into the doorway, the storm raging outside. The night wasn’t over—not by a long shot.