Under a mixture of fine, intermittent rain, dust, and drifting sand, Hector sat atop a dented ammunition can, half-buried in the shallow trench. The place was barely lit, only the shifting glow of a campfire lamp and the faint red pulses of battery chargers kept the darkness at bay but barely.
The radio at his side crackled now and then, never carrying words, just static. He sighed, slow and heavy, and tightened his grip on his centuries-old patent rifle, its stock polished by generations of hands.
"This fucking sucks," he muttered, just as one of his brothers-in-arms strolled over with a box of rations balanced on his shoulder, the Arxian flag patch hanging by a thread on his uniform's sleeve.
The man set the box down beside Hector and lowered himself to sit opposite. "No shit. You know, I kinda envy the Vektorians. Word is it's still possible to plant crops up there, outside the bunkers."
Hector barked a short laugh. "Ha! I'll believe it when I see it. Besides, we shouldn't be envying those bastards, Joseph."
Joseph smirked faintly, though his eyes were tired. "Who else is there to compare ourselves to, then? The mercs? Looters?"
Hector threw his hand up dismissively, but didn't answer. The two of them were now swallowed by the hiss of static from the radio and the soft hiss of rain against sand.
"In truth," Joseph followed, "sometimes I find the mercenaries and looters here in San Anghel to be lucky - at least they have their freedom- except for those times where they get sandwiched between skirmishes or natural disasters and no one can yank 'em out of the situation- those suck. Have you heard what happened to Ross? Guy got squashed by a Vektorian exosuit."
Hector looked up, eyebrows shot up, "Shit, they got Ross? No wonder I never got the beer I ordered from him."
Joseph gave a short, humorless chuckle. "Yeah. Crushed flat. Like a bug under a boot," He gestured his hand horizontally, bobbing it up and down, "Nothing left to send home except a dent in the ground- fucking giant robots apparently can't discern the difference between our exosuits and a walking jellybean."
Hector shook his head slowly, lips curling into a half-grin. "Damn shame. He owed me 200 credits, too."
The two men sat in silence for a beat, the trench around them feeling deeper, darker. The rain pattered harder for a moment, mixing with the faint hiss of sand skittering across the earth. Beyond the trench, the night was alive with distant echoes of artillery rumbles, fast and sharp shrieks of drones passing overhead- the war continues to breathe as it does every single second of every day.
Joseph tore open a ration pack and tossed a strip of dried protein toward Hector. "Here. Don't say I never did anything for you- that shit's premium. Grade A synthetic beef."
Catching it, Hector raised the strip as if in a toast. "To Ross-poor bastard. May the Vektorian bastard who stepped on him trip over his own suit."
"I wonder what it was like before all this- 'ya think they were living the dream?" Joseph pitched.
"Maybe?" Hector replied, his voice dry from swallowing his food, "The one calendar printed on my classroom wall when I was a kid said 2025 with a picture of a nice, sunny resort-- Infinitely better than what we have right now."
The two chewed in silence, staring into the wavering lamplight.
Then the radio crackled to life- sharper this time. For a fraction of a second, a human voice fought through the static. It was garbled, and barely audible.
Both men leaned in, shoulders tense.
"Joseph..." Hector muttered, squinting at the set. "Tell me you heard that."
Joseph nodded, "I did. Someone's finally figured out how to use the radio back at base," he jests, earning him a nudge to the arm.
They waited. The hiss filled the trench like a third presence, heavy and unyielding. Then, suddenly-
"...Brigade Com--...Copy?..." crack
Joseph leaned in to the radio, twisting the dials left and right, static shifting like a storm through the channels. "Hold on, hold on... Signal's shredded."
The speaker spat more fragments, each word like a lifeline cut short.
"...urgent... stormfront...- repeat, stormfront -..."
Hector's brow furrowed. "Stormfront? Out here?"
Joseph smacked the side of the unit, "Lil fucker," coaxing it back to life. "Not just a stormfront. Listen."
The radio flared again, this time carrying enough clarity to make their stomach drop.
"...All brigades in Sector Twelve- prepare for sandstorm avalanche, storm upfront, get into a safe zone immediately."
The voice dissolved back into static, leaving only the faint hum of interference.
For a moment, neither man spoke. The word hung there like a verdict. Avalanche.
Hector spat into the dirt, his throat dry. "Son of a bitch. Not another one. We've had a huge one last week and buried half the trench line."
Joseph's fingers lingered on the dials, desperate for another scrap of clarity. But the radio only hissed without another word.
Then the wasteland groaned. Not thunder, something deeper, heavier. The earth itself was shifting, concrete veins snapping, and the distant roar building as mountains of sand, dirt, and shattered stone were beginning to slide.
Joseph tore his gaze from the set and locked eyes with Hector. "We don't move, we're rubble."
Hector swung the rifle over his shoulder, rising just enough to crouch above the trench line, careful not to silhouette his head. Grit rained down around them, trickling like an hourglass already spent. "Then let's move. I'm not rotting in this shithole."
Joseph snatched up the radio set and yanked the nearest battery from its charger. Together they pushed down the trench, weaving left and right through its broken channels. Every few meters, shadows loomed - other soldiers scrambling, retreating with the same frantic urgency, faces pale in the half-light.
"There! Left!" Joseph barked from behind, pointing through the haze. "That's a hunker bunker!"
Ahead, half-swallowed by drifting sand and cracked concrete, a reinforced hatch glimmered under the weak red blink of an emergency beacon.
Hector lunged forward, grabbing the hatch's wheel with both hands. He twisted hard, the metal shrieking in protest as rusted gears fought against years of neglect and the grime wedged deep in its seams.
"Come on, come on..." His knuckles whitened, sweat mixing with grit on his palms. The wheel groaned, then gave a reluctant shudder, turning inch by inch.
Behind him, Joseph glanced back. The horizon wasn't a horizon anymore, It was moving, forward like a tidal wave made of earth and ruin. The avalanche was coming fast, swallowing trenches, towers, carcass of vehicles, and men alike with no signs of stopping.
"Let's go, let's go!" Joseph shouted, voice cracking as he slammed the butt of his rifle against the hatch to loosen the mechanism.
With one last push, the wheel spun free, and the hatch lurched open- inside was a dark interior only lit by red emergency lights, similar to what was atop the hatch outside.
With a final heave, Hector shoved the hatch open. Joseph wasted no time diving inside with the radio clutched tight in his chest. Hector followed, yanking the hatch back with all of his strength.
A roar like the sky itself collapsing thundered above them. The bunker walls shivered, dust trickling from the seams. Debris slammed into the hatch in rapid, violent succession- metallic clangs and bone-deep thuds that rattled their teeth. The sound was endless, like a thousand freight trains grinding over their heads.
Hector leaned against the hatch, chest heaving, sweat dripping down his brow. Joseph slumped to the floor beside him, setting the radio down gently, as though afraid even that small noise might provoke the storm outside.
For a moment, neither spoke...just the sound of their own ragged breathing, muffled by the deafening chaos overhead.
Then Joseph let out a low, shaky laugh. "Thought that was it. Thought we're dust."
Hector smirked faintly, wiping his sweat off his brow using his uniform's sleeve and putting down his rifle to the side gently. "If the Vektorians don't experience this shit every other day - maybe then I'd envy the bastards.."
The avalanche raged on above them, the bunker groaning under the weight, but the hatch held.
For now, they were alive.