“Fuck,” Maksim mouths. The jacket scraping on the snow makes a rattling sound and I picture Donkey rolling on the floor and curling up like a fetus. That guy is obviously a faulty clone. If the plants were running under a functionable budget, ninety-five out of a hundred guy wouldn’t have been worthless wimps.

“Sir! Sir! There was an explosion outside!” Donkey yells.

“I have ears too, dumbass,” Maksim says. “Is there anybody behind that machine?”

My heart skips a beat. Are they still going to check on me?

Before I hear any answer from Donkey, another explosion erupts.

“Is there?” asks Maksim.

Donkey says the most comforting thing I’ve heard all day. “N—no. There isn’t.”

I stifle my sigh of relief. The conversation continues a few steps from me.

“Sir, Sir, we need to head back now! Alexandr is on guard duty today . . .” says Donkey.

“Who’s Alexandr?” Maksim asks.

“My friend! I need to come back and aid him under the trenches.”

I hear more swatting noises from where the two stand, one after another. Donkey must be frantically trying to get his cumbersome body upright.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Maksim grunts. “You’re gonna help me bring this to the Commander!”

“B—but, Sir.”

“If you want to go fight that badly, then go. I can bring this to him myself. It will even be less suspicious than having a behemoth in front of me shivering like a frightened dog.” He heaves a heavy sigh and says, “Get out of my sight.”

“Thank you, thank you, Sir!” Donkey exclaims. The crunch of his Kirza boots on snow soon becomes distant. After a short while, Maksim’s footsteps follow.

I wait until I am sure that both of them have left, then run up to the vault again. Great. The glowing thing isn’t there anymore. I look up and see a column of black smoke fluttering under the snowy sky. Well, I need to head out as well. None of this will matter if we let our enemy penetrate the walls and slaughter us all. I prefer not to get murdered.

I rush into the dining hall, which is conveniently also our assembly hall. I once dared Roman to find anywhere shabbier or more obnoxious to stay than this place: gray concrete walls that nobody could be bothered to paint, and debris lurking in the corners waiting to fall on our heads. Obviously, he couldn’t find one. Even the state’s flags on the wall aren’t hung properly. One has to tilt his or her head to read the name of the State of Tatarstan on the crest. The entire place reeks of human sweat and rotten food. We don’t even eat here most of the time; if we’re out of hardtack, the kitchen staff deliver food to the trenches and watchtowers while we’re on duty.

Major Smolov shouts into his hand speaker and his amplified voice perforates my eardrums. He’s not standing at an easily distinguishable spot, but he doesn’t need to. Even when the alarm begins to howl over our heads, the vice commander’s voice still drowns out everything else. Every soldier here can recognize his raucous voice from the dragged-out consonants. And his face is easy to pick out from the crowd with his rugged beard that looks like some sort of root. It’s funny, as soldiers aren’t supposed to grow their beards out. But he’s the vice commander. He’s the boss, so he does what he wants.

“Mealtime’s over, you walrus dicks*! Get your asses in position and glide down those fucking trenches! Go, go, go!” We usually have enough men down the trenches, but if we need more, that means the adversary comes in considerable numbers.

People scramble to find their weapons and join the sections they’re supposed to be in. Outcry after outcry coalesces into a cacophony of turbulence.

As I shuffle through the crowd, panic-stricken shouts penetrate my ears.

“Pavel! Pavel! Pavel Churlinov! Captain, he’s not here!” says a soldier whose face I don’t recognize.

“Seriously? Did the kid become a defector as well? But he’s such a good kid!” replies the captain.

I try to hide my smirk. Defectors. The same old story. There have never been more defectors than now. They fled when they were assigned to patrol, and there’s no way to monitor them if the supervisors also flee. Nobody knows if they’d survive out in the snow alone, and with that many enemies hovering around. Smolov, with his golden tongue, has managed to convince many to pledge loyalty to Tatarstan. He even opened fire at a Novgorod recon once to prevent a deserting soldier from certain death. Turns out saving your men while simultaneously proving the enemy is a bunch bloodthirsty murderer helps the cause quite a bit.

Despite that, those who remained behind still whisper that the defectors got away with it somehow, and that the enemy, in fact, showered them in benevolence.

A load of shit. If those guys were anywhere near as merciful as we like to assume, they wouldn’t have suddenly increased their numbers to besiege us all day and all night. We’ve been entrenched here for a few months, but I’ve never seen the enemy nearly as eager to engage in combat before. We no longer have a chance to retaliate. Stepping out of our fort is an act of suicide now.

Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

The message is obvious. They want us dead.

It takes a full minute for my section, the seven of us who still remain, to get to our designated spot near the apartment complex, between gray cement building blocks numbered 2 and 3. We’re supposed to protect the Western passage, but their tanks have already annihilated the watchtower and the walls surrounding the gate. The urban area with anti-tank artillery and secure high buildings for snipers is the best location to operate from despite being a fair distance from the trenches.

Our new section is formed by clustering all survivors from old ones together, but this one probably won’t exist for long either. Until a week ago, this section was under the command of Lieutenant Commander Bragin, but he got his upper body blasted away. So, the recently promoted Lieutenant Commander Petrov replaced him. Unfortunately, he actually has no clue what to do. That’s what happens when you hand out promotions like you do the daily bread.

“Uh, Vasiliev, Popov, down to the trench.” His face turns white as he steps over the pile of rubble next to building block 3. “Mikhailev, check with the fire-team. Well, as for you, Vronsky. You’ll—” The sound of artillery launching from the Eastern watchtower drowns his voice.

“Isn’t Section C3 supposed to cover the building blocks?” protests Mikhailev, the man with a surgical needle mark along his cheek, one usually seen from clones with cosmetic birth defects. Lately, I’ve seen more soldiers with oddments of such marks on different parts of their faces in both the Tatarstan and Novgorod troops. A guy named Evgeniy used to be in our section, came fresh out of Kazan Production Plant with a missing index finger. Guess the uppers are so desperate for manpower now they approve even physically handicapped embryos.

“A fire-team is supposed to gather around the watchtower, but they’ve been eerily quiet. That’s why we’re here,” Petrov replies. Either they’re dead or they’ve deserted, and neither is desirable.

“Big Bog is dead. Who’s going to handle the Degtyaryov and the RPG**?” asks Popov. He’s referring to the ones positioned beside the small park next to building block 2, the ones nobody who isn’t MIA has a damn clue how to operate.

“Popov, can you do that?” asks Petrov.

Another explosion hushes Popov’s answer, and he shakes his head when he realizes we can’t hear a thing.

“We can have one less person under the trench . . .” Petrov exhales.

Why do we need to assign anyone down the trench at all? It’s too far away, and we’re sub-ins for the watchtower fire-team. I can’t waste any more time watching these buffoons juggling over responsibility like bouncing grenades.

I interpose, “Lieutenant Commander, Sir. If you would allow me, I have a proper setup.”

Petrov stares at me in skepticism for a while. I don’t think he, or anyone else here, is used to questioning authorities. Sprinter chimes in. “No disrespect, Lieutenant, but you have only been doing the sniper role this whole time.”

I sneer at him. “They’re breathing on our necks and we’re still arguing. Do you have a better idea?” I turn to Petrov. “Do you, Lieutenant Commander, Sir?”

“Well . . . let’s hear him out. He’s our Second Lieutenant after all,” he replies. I swear that the Lieutenant Commander will start to sweat any moment now.

“You’ll handle the Degtyaryov, Sir. You’ve gone through training with that, right?”

“Never operated one in battle, but I guess . . .”

“It’s settled. The Lieutenant Commander’s position will be targeted, so I need Mikhailev and Popov to cover him on the sides. Shoot anyone within three hundred meters from his position, and use the RPG if tanks approach. Sprinter and Vasiliev take the walkie-talkies and cover the abandoned warehouse in front of the complex; you’ll act upon my command. I’ll be on the fifth floor, block three. Sir, can you give me your central walkie-talkie?”

“F—for what reason?”

“I’ll be commanding.”

“A sniper doesn’t command.” Petrov seems utterly confused. At that instant, the sound of an explosion rings out right next to the gate, not far from where we’re standing. Gunshots from rifles shriek, then bristle, then burst. Next to me, Vasiliev shivers at the mere sound of the explosives. The dude’s terrified.

The enemy must’ve closed the distance to the gate, which serves as nothing more than decoration now with punctured walls and broken, blasted away concrete hunks to its sides. Judging by the gunshots and the muzzle flash, they’re most probably six hundred meters away. If we get to the warehouse nearest to the gate in time, we can ambush their infantry when they advance into the urban area.

Bless my superhuman senses.

I raise my voice at Petrov. “He does now. Get into position. Their infantry will charge into unguarded corners.”

With an abrupt movement, the Lieutenant Commander gives me his intercom. I shout as I jerk the device from his hand.

“Sprinter! Vasiliev! The gate’s smoked. Go.”

“Don’t shout at me!” Sprinter, as the name suggests, sprints away from our building block to the warehouse like a jaguar. The second he reveals his face, a bullet pierces through his brain. A crackling sound reverberates and the guy bounces backward, dropping dead on the spot. Blood sprays from his forehead, staining the ground with straight lines of liquid crimson dots. He didn’t sprint fast enough.

Vasiliev stops in his tracks, turns back, and looks at us. His shivers are so visible that I can see his rifle shaking.

“What are you waiting for? It’s just a stray bullet. Go!” I scream.

“B—but. . .”

“NOW!”

Vasiliev swallows his saliva, his eyes shut tight as he charges out.

It takes another second before he drops dead, legs sprawling over Sprinter’s corpse.

We’ve lost that position.

“What do we do?” the Lieutenant Commander asks me.

I rub my chin. “Proceed as planned. Hold our own. Hope other sections under the trench will be covering us. Remember my orders.”

I climb up the building that reeks of the readily identifiable musty, mildewy smell. With the windows already reinforced with wooden panels, I have to use my memory map to navigate in the darkness. The few holes between the panels give me just enough light to see where the stairs are. The rusty handrail creaks as I step on the concrete stairsteps.

The dread returns. No, not because I’m afraid of death. It would be a massive embarrassment if I die to mere humans.

You can do this, Alexei Vronsky. Just for another day. You just need to kill people for another day.

*'Khren morzhoviy' means 'walrus dick' is an insult in Russian.

** Degtyaryov-88 is the fictional upgrade to the PTRD-41 anti-tank rifle with an effective firing range of 250m and a maximum firing range of 800m. It can penetrate the frontal armor of light tanks, but the feed system only allows for single shot with no magazine. RPG-8D is the fictional upgrade to the anti-tank rocket launcher RPG-7D3, with an effective firing range of 600m and a maximum firing range of 1.2km.