Jonathan flashlight illuminated the broken vending machine, Jonathan carefully remove three packs of salted peanuts from it.
“Leave it, probably expired” said Oscar, kneeling in the shadow behind the entrance his eyes stared outside through the parking lot, across the motorway towards the Mcdonalds.
"Look, smell, taste—don't waste," Jonathan replied, tearing open one of the small packs and emptying it into his mouth.
"Haven't eaten in a day," he added, glancing outside.
“There they are” Oscar said pointing towards the menu board at the entrance of the drive in.
“You ready?” Oscar told Jonathan as he put his back of nuts in his pocket.
“Let’s just hope Nikolaj doesn’t shoot us.” Jonathan said before starting his sprint across the parking lot.
Jonathan, Anton, Lars, and Oscar moved silently through the main hall of the abandoned shopping mall, their rifles held firmly as they navigated the darkness. Without the aid of flashlights, they relied on the faint, ghostly light filtering in through shattered skylights and cracked windows, casting eerie shadows across the wreckage.
Jonathan led the group, his movements slow and deliberate. His eyes were accustomed to the dim light, scanning the debris-strewn floor for any signs of movement or hidden traps. The mall had been looted long ago, but the mess left behind still bore the scars of that chaos—overturned benches, broken glass, and the remnants of what was once a thriving marketplace.
Anton was just behind him, his senses heightened. He scanned every darkened storefront, the broken display windows now gaping mouths that could be hiding anything—or anyone. The air was thick with the smell of dust and decay, and the oppressive silence made every tiny sound—a distant drip of water, the rustle of debris—feel like a potential threat.
Lars moved cautiously to the right, his rifle angled upward as he checked the upper levels. The escalators, long since frozen in place, were now rusting relics of a bygone era. Pieces of shattered ceiling hung precariously, and the occasional creak from above kept him on edge. He could almost feel the weight of the empty space pressing down on them, a reminder that they were exposed, vulnerable.
Oscar took up the rear, his back nearly brushing the wall as he guarded their six. His gaze flickered between the entrance they had come through and the shadowy depths ahead. The place was a minefield of potential danger—bullet holes pocked the walls, and here and there, old bloodstains marked where previous skirmishes had taken place. Though they were simply supposed to do a superficial recce of the place, all could feel the tension in the air, a sense that they were being watched, that at any moment, something could emerge from the darkness.
Lars, probably the youngest in the group, didn’t share the same grim focus as the others. He walked almost casually, cradling his rifle with a loose grip and occasionally nudging bits of debris with his boot. As he accidentally hit an empty can down the mall’s hallway, the metallic clang echoed far too loudly in the oppressive silence. Jonathan and Anton both shot him stern looks, their eyes flashing with irritation. Wondering why he didn’t share the same seriousness as them despite the cut throat battle of earlier.
Jonathan was already on edge, his patience worn thin by hunger, thirst, and exhaustion. The oppressive heat wasn’t helping—he could feel the sweat pooling under his plate carrier, soaking through the thin t-shirt he wore underneath. His helmet felt like a weight on his head, pressing down as the sweat trickled down his neck. The mall, with its greenhouse-like atmosphere, was suffocating. The shattered roof ceiling let in too much light, illuminating the halls in a harsh, unfiltered glare that made the heat even more unbearable.
"Yo, stop," Oscar's voice sliced through the silence, causing Jonathan and Lars, who were on point, to halt and turn around.
Oscar knelt down, his gaze fixed on the floor as if scrutinizing something the others had missed.
"Now you'll see why we call him Pointer," Lars whispered to Jonathan with a smirk.
Oscar didn’t bother responding to the jab. "Don’t need to smell this shit, there’s a trail of blood," he muttered, flashing his flashlight briefly over the ground to confirm it. The thin beam revealed a dark, dried stain on the floor. He touched the blood, feeling its tacky texture between his gloves. It was dry, but not completely.
"Guy didn’t bleed a long time ago," Oscar said, slipping his glove back on. He raised his rifle, his posture tense, as he followed the trail of blood down the corridor. The trail led towards a service door, its dull metal surface barely visible in the dim light.
The mood shifted instantly. What had been a tense but controlled sweep now had an added layer of urgency. The blood meant someone had been here recently—perhaps they still were. Oscar moved forward, the others falling into formation behind him and on either side of the door. Jonathan and Oscar stood poised at the door, every muscle taut, adrenaline coursing through their veins. Lars and Anton held their positions, their eyes scanning the rear, alert for any threats creeping up behind them. The tension was palpable, a heavy weight pressing down on them all.
Oscar lifted his hand, signaling Jonathan to hold. The world seemed to shrink to the space between that door and their nerves, the silence so thick it felt like a physical barrier. Oscar’s hand hovered over the doorknob, his breath steady as he tested it, making sure it was unlocked without giving away their presence. The subtle click as he pressed the latch down sent a jolt through them, the air electric with anticipation.
With a slow, deliberate motion, Oscar pushed the door open just enough to slip inside. The darkness swallowed him, and for a long, agonizing moment, there was nothing—no sound, no movement, just the oppressive silence of the unknown. Jonathan’s grip tightened on his rifle, every instinct screaming at him to be ready.
Then, Oscar’s flashlight flickered on inside the room, illuminating the shadows with a cold, harsh light. Jonathan held his breath, waiting for the all-clear. But instead of a signal, Oscar reappeared as quickly as he had gone in, shutting the door with a quiet but decisive click. His face was pale, his expression haunted, as if he had just seen something unspeakable.
Jonathan's heart pounded in his chest. Whatever Oscar had found in that room, it was bad. And the fear in Oscar’s eyes told him that whatever it was, it was far worse than they had imagined.
Oscar tried to speak, his face still pale, but Anton suddenly raised his rifle, aiming at the upper level of the shopping center across from them. He fired a shot, and almost immediately, a bullet from the opposite direction struck him in the vest, slamming him against the wall with a thud.
The three other men reacted instantly, firing towards the source of the attack. Jonathan squeezed off a few rounds at a dark figure he briefly spotted above, then sprinted to the pillar on his right for better cover. Oscar and Lars moved to the left, both firing in the same direction. Jonathan felt the tension thick in the air, every sound amplified by the adrenaline coursing through him.
Oscar kept his rifle trained on the door, refusing to take his eyes off it. The danger pressed in from all sides, and the mall had turned into a deadly trap.
More gunfire erupted upstairs, as more men seemed to gain that position. The large pillars they were standing behind was hit by round after round. Sending ricochet and cement debris all over the hallway.
Anton struggled to regain his composure, his back still pressed against the wall. He raised his rifle again, firing rapidly until a searing pain stopped him—he’d been hit again.
Lars, reeling from the shock, fumbled for a grenade from his belt. His hands were shaky as he loaded it into the under-barrel launcher of his AK5C. Jonathan, covering from the other side, gave him a quick nod before resuming his fire.
Lars edged out from behind the pillar, exposing just enough to line up his shot. He squeezed the trigger, sending the grenade hurtling toward the hallway. The explosion was deafening, the shockwave crashing back against them as the grenade detonated against the upper wall.
In those precious seconds, Jonathan sprinted to Anton, dragging him back into cover. But as the dust began to settle, Jonathan realized with horror that the men upstairs were only slightly disoriented, they had nerves of steel. They quickly recovered and opened fire. Bullets whizzed past Jonathan, but Anton wasn’t so fortunate—he was hit in the upper leg, chest, and shoulder in rapid succession.
Jonathan quickly tried to figure out the extent of his injuries while bullets kept hitting the pillar he was behind. He saw Anton wiggle around, trying to put his hands on his injuries.
Oscar shot Jonathan a look—sharp, questioning, as if trying to understand why the hell Anton was still down.
"His artery! Anton’s done!" Jonathan yelled over the deafening gunfire. Suddenly, the hiss of static filled his ears—his headset’s battery was dead. The world around him roared back to life, the gunfire and chaos no longer muted. He ripped the headset off, his senses now overwhelmed. Anton lay still, blood gushing from his wounds and pooling beneath him, soaking into the floor and onto Jonathan.
"Jonathan, get the hell out of here! North point, now! We'll meet you there!" Oscar’s voice cracked through the air as he grabbed his radio, barking orders Jonathan couldn’t make out. The rendezvous point—always a contingency plan—was a few kilometers north, a fallback position if they couldn’t reach the motorway. The plan was simple: survive and regroup.
Jonathan knew he had to move, fast. He ripped the magazines from Oscar’s vest, loading up for the inevitable fight. Every bullet would count now. He grabbed Anton’s rifle, feeling the weight of it, and peeked it out from behind a crumbling pillar. The mall was a warzone—abandoned, desolate, and now drenched in blood. He waited for the hail of bullets to get close to it before he flung the rifle aside and sprinted to the other side of the pillar, adrenaline pumping through him.
He spotted movement—a head smeared with black face paint, just visible through the gloom. Without thinking, he raised his rifle, the C79 scope zeroing in. He squeezed the trigger. The figure crumpled, a pink mist lingering where it once stood.
But there was no time to relish the kill. A grenade from lars underbarrel grenade launched detonated upstairs, the shockwave rattling the walls. Jonathan seized the moment, bolting down the hallway, leaping over a rusted shopping cart, his heart hammering in his chest as bullets hit the wall where he just sprinted in front of a second or two ago.. The food court was his only way out. He vaulted over a counter, breathing hard, and slapped a fresh magazine into his rifle, the empty one clattering to the floor, forgotten. No time to waste. He had to keep moving, or he’d end up like Anton—just another lifeless body in this godforsaken mall.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
Jonathan peered into the food court, finding it eerily empty. He moved quickly, slipping into the back of the kitchen, his heart pounding in his chest. The gunfire outside had quieted—hopefully, Oscar and Lars had made it out. But before he could dwell on that, the sudden slam of a kitchen door snapped him back to the present. His instincts screamed that it wasn’t the wind or a rat. With his rifle trained on the door, he scanned for a service exit that could lead him outside.
As he edged toward the exit, his eyes never leaving the door, a figure suddenly emerged from behind a kitchen heater. It was a girl, her face smeared with black paint, a strange mix of civilian clothes and military gear clinging to her frame. Her red eyes looking through her rifle scope that was aimed towards him. She fired—metal clanged as the bullet struck a pipe inches from his head. Jonathan returned fire, his shot catching her in the arm. Her rifle flew from her grasp, her arm jerking back violently. Relief was short-lived as his rifle jammed, the round failing to cycle properly.
This was the worst possible moment for a malfunction. Jonathan tried to reach for his pistol, only to realize it wasn’t there—he’d had secured his belt after evacuating Skadi and left his pistol in his jacket that he layed on top of her to keep her warm. Panic surged as the girl, undeterred by her wound, lunged at him. Her eyes, cold but red, sent a chill down his spine. These weren’t the men from Lysekil—they were something far worse.
Before he could use his jammed rifle as a weapon, she was already on him. She grabbed his collar with one hand, her other clawing at his face. Her thumb jabbed toward his eye, and then she kicked his legs out from under him. He crashed to the floor, the back of his helmet barely saving him from a deadly blow against the stove’s corner.
Pinned beneath her, Jonathan struggled desperately. She was surprisingly strong, or maybe just crazed—he could feel the feral energy coursing through her. His rifle was caught awkwardly against his face, the sling tangled around his neck, choking him as he wrestled for control. Her nails dug into his skin as she tried to gouge his eyes. He let go of her collar to grab at her hands, pushing them away just enough to lift his legs.
She fought like a rabid dog, her earlier calm giving way to animalistic fury. She tried to bite him, foam dribbling from her mouth, her teeth snapping inches from his face. With a final burst of strength, Jonathan wrapped his legs around her neck and slammed her head against the tile floor. He held her there, trying to clear the jam in his rifle with trembling hands.
Amid her screams and the distant echoes of gunfire, he finally heard the telltale clink of the jammed round hitting the floor as he had cleared the malfunction. He slammed the magazine back in and pulled the bolt back, but before he could fire, she bit down hard on his thigh. The pain shot through him like a bolt of lightning, tearing a scream from his throat. Desperation fueled him as he kicked her off, sending her flying back.
Still on his back, he raised the rifle, aiming as she came at him again. He squeezed the trigger, the double shots hitting her square in the chest. She collapsed on top of him, blood pouring from the wound and soaking into his clothes. He shoved her body off and staggered to his feet, his leg throbbing where she had bitten him. She was still alive, gasping for breath.
Jonathan didn't hesitate. He squeezed the trigger again, and again, until the last bit of life drained from her eyes. Only then did he let himself breathe, standing over her lifeless body, every muscle in his body trembling with adrenaline and pain.
He felt small bleeding on his arm and face from her scratching before jolting back to attention. There were still more of them in the shopping mall.
A few minutes later, Jonathan kicked the fire exit door open, the sudden blast of sunlight he thought he’d never see again searing into his eyes. He stumbled forward, half-blinded, into the deserted service parking lot. The usual hustle of delivery men and logistical workers was replaced by an eerie silence and distant gunfire, the only movement coming from rats scurrying across discarded cardboard boxes. The gunfire had ceased as the last rat made its way under a large heap of boxes, replaced by the howl of a rising wind, carrying with it the ominous promise of dark clouds gathering in the distance.
He ducked behind two roll-off containers, his heart pounding in his chest. Quickly, he checked his rifle—loaded, with six magazines left. But any brief spark of optimism evaporated as he heard the door he’d just exited creak open again, the sound slicing through the silence like a knife.
A cold dread gripped him. He felt like one of the rats he’d disturbed earlier, vulnerable and hunted. Heavy boots thudded against the pavement, growing louder, as if searching for him. His mind raced, but before he could decide his next move, the distant roar of engines echoed from the motorway on the other side of the mall.
The three sets of footsteps came to an abrupt stop, the sudden silence thick with tension. They were listening, just as he was. The distant rumble of engines was quickly overtaken by the harsh crack of machine gun fire. He could hear it clearly—his MAG mounted on top of the G wagon, unleashing a relentless barrage, joined by the sharp reports of other weapons from the convoy.
The footsteps burst into motion, racing along the side of the building toward the gunfire. Jonathan knew this was his chance—a fleeting moment to escape. He carefully peered out from behind the containers, scanning the area. Seeing no one, he didn’t hesitate.
He spun around and sprinted toward the forest, his heart pounding as he pushed himself to move faster, driven by the desperate need to reach safety.
“The convoy’s on its way,” Amir shouted over the din of the crowded radio room, his voice strained with urgency. “They lost three men—one during the second attack, one during recon, and they lost an ATGM launcher. One’s missing in action.”
The transmission room, along with the study next door, had been hastily converted into a makeshift operations center, the air thick with tension.
“Who’s dead and who’s missing?” Sven demanded, his tone grim.
“Kjell went down in the second ambush, Anton was shot and killed in a recon,” Amir replied, his voice heavy with the weight of the news. “Jonathan… He was part of the recon team but got separated. He knows where to go, but Oscar and Lars barely made it out and warned us not to get our hopes up. That shopping mall they scouted turned into Mogadishu apparently.”
“Jonathan?” Przemek asked, pausing as he pulled off his blood-soaked T-shirt, his face pale.
“How’s Skadi?” Sven cut in, his concern shifting momentarily.
“Bad,” Przemek said, his voice tight. “Didn’t think anyone could bleed that much. Her hemorrhaging started again while the doc was working on her. It’s under control for now, and she’s resting.”
Przemek turned back to Amir, a knot of worry tightening in his chest. “Where exactly is Jonathan headed?”
“Corner of a fire line, 6 kilometers from the mall, 20 kilometers from here. The plan is for him to stay put until we get to him. After 24 hours, he’s got to walk the rest of the way.”
“Fuck that,” Przemek snapped, a surge of determination flaring in his eyes. “The minute that convoy gets here, I’m going back for him.”
“Is there enough blood in the infirmary?” Sven asked, his concern palpable.
“Yes,” Przemek replied tersely. “Skadi wouldn’t be alive if it wasn’t the case. Everyone who wasn’t out there contributed? But honestly, that’s not what’s on my mind right now. The thought of Jonathan out there alone is eating me up.”
“What happened at the mall?” Przemek’s frustration was evident in his voice.
“Don’t have all the details,” Amir said, shaking his head. “The plan was to scout the mall because they’d heard there might be some Lysekil men holed up there. They didn’t want to risk the convoy going through. Turns out it was a nightmare. The mall was crawling with lunatics. They killed Anton, and Oscar and Lars barely made it back to the motorway. These guys were way more equipped than the usual crazies—assault rifles, machine guns, night vision scopes. Oscar will give us a full briefing when he’s back, but if it hadn’t been for the convoy’s firepower turning the mall into a fortress of bullet holes, they wouldn’t have made it.”
“And exactly whose brilliant idea was it to send just four men to clear an entire mall on their own?” Przemek demanded, his voice dripping with anger as he turned on his heel and stormed out of the room.
Jonathan struggled up the steep forest hill, each step a battle against the unforgiving terrain. The storm had finally caught up to him, the once distant rumble of thunder now a constant, oppressive roar. Rain lashed down in relentless sheets, drenching him through his thin T-shirt and plate carrier. Despite the weight of his rifle and the exhaustion that gnawed at his muscles, the physical exertion kept him from feeling the full bite of the cold—at least for now.
The hill was a slick mess of mud and loose gravel, and with every step, Jonathan's boots slid and squelched, fighting for purchase. The rain battered his face, making it difficult to see through the stinging droplets. His plate carrier felt like an anchor, pulling him down with every stride, the rifle slung across his back seeming to grow heavier with each passing minute.
The forest around him was a blur of dark, dripping foliage. Trees loomed like shadowy giants, their branches swaying violently in the wind. The storm's fury was unrelenting, the wind howling like a banshee, driving the rain sideways and making it hard to breathe. Thunder crashed overhead, shaking the ground beneath his feet, and lightning flickered erratically through the dense canopy, casting brief, stark shadows.
Jonathan finally reached the corner of the fireline, his exhaustion palpable. He stumbled through the undergrowth, his every muscle screaming in protest. The relentless storm had turned the forest into a battleground, but he had managed to drag himself to this critical point. The fireline was a stark, barren strip cut through the dense forest, marked by a ragged edge of bare earth and charred stumps—an artificial scar in the natural landscape.
The wind howled louder here. Jonathan squinted through the torrential rain, trying to make out any recognizable landmarks, but everything looked the same—dark, rain-swept forest stretching endlessly in all directions. Doubt gnawed at him as he wondered if he was truly at the correct location. The adrenaline that had kept him going was fading, leaving him feeling more vulnerable.
With a groan of relief and exhaustion, he finally leaned against a nearby tree. The bark was slick and cold beneath his back, but it offered a momentary respite. As he rested, the storm's intensity seemed to increase, the rain now falling in near-horizontal sheets, soaking through every layer of his clothing.
The physical warmth from his exertion was quickly slipping away, replaced by a biting chill. His soaked T-shirt clung to his skin, and the damp plate carrier seemed to sap what little heat he had left. He shivered uncontrollably, his teeth chattering as the cold seeped through to his bones. The tree offered some shelter from the wind, but the rain continued to pound him relentlessly.
Jonathan pulled his arms tighter around himself, trying to conserve what little warmth he had left.
Do he didn’t regret giving his jacket to Skadi. He knew she was worse off than him.
Jonathan was drenched and shivering as he slogged through the forest, the rain relentless and unforgiving. His clothes were soaked through, and each step through the mud was a battle. He needed to find some kind of shelter, so he started gathering whatever materials he could find.
He came across a pile of fallen branches and logs, and he dragged the largest ones over to a spot where the trees offered some cover from the worst of the rain. Using the logs and longer branches, he fashioned a makeshift frame. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.
As he worked, Jonathan’s fingers were cold and numb. The duct tape and bandage he’d wrapped around his injured finger had given out in the storm. The bandage had come loose, and the cut on his finger was now exposed, stinging as the rain hit it. He tried to ignore the discomfort, focusing on the task at hand.
He grabbed large leaves and any dry bits of foliage he could find, layering them over the frame like a makeshift roof. The rain made it tricky to keep everything in place, but he did his best to cover every gap. Every so often, he’d have to brush away the water pooling on top and adjust the leaves to keep them from slipping off.
To reinforce the shelter, he used smaller twigs and branches, weaving them through the leaves to make the cover a bit more stable. The wind howled around him, making the task even more challenging. The cut on his finger was throbbing and getting colder as the rain pelted it, but he gritted his teeth and pressed on.
Once the basic structure was in place, Jonathan gathered some thick moss and scattered it on the ground inside. It wasn’t ideal, but it was better than lying directly on the cold, wet earth. He crawled into his makeshift refuge, shivering as he tried to find some comfort amidst the storm.
The shelter wasn’t perfect—rain still leaked in, and the wind found its way through—but it was a small barrier against the worst of the storm. Jonathan huddled inside, the exposed cut on his finger aching and stinging, but the shelter provided some relief from the relentless rain.
Jonathan finally settled into his makeshift shelter, the weight of his exhaustion crashing down on him. With a sigh, he opened his plate carrier and slid his arms inside, hoping to trap some warmth. The damp, heavy fabric clung to him, but it was better than nothing. He lay down on the bed of moss, curling up as best he could to conserve heat.
The storm outside was still roaring, but the worst of it seemed to be easing. The wind had softened to a steady murmur, and the torrential rain had turned into a more manageable downpour. As he lay there, he tried to focus on the sounds of the forest around him—the rhythmic patter of rain on the leaves, the occasional distant rumble of thunder, and the soft rustling of the wind through the trees.
The pain in his exposed finger was a constant sting, but he pushed it to the back of his mind. The shelter provided some respite from the elements, and he took comfort in the fact that the storm was finally winding down.
Jonathan closed his eyes, trying to shut out the discomfort and focus on the soothing sounds of the forest. Despite knowing this wasn’t the safest thing to do, he was far enough for him to finally rest after everything that happened. As he drifted into a fitful rest, he let the sounds of the storm gradually fade into a steady lullaby as he tried to ignore the pain of his fingers, his face and his aching joints by remembering how Skadi’s lips felt again his.