The landing zone refused to fall silent. The echoes of the initial assault, the screams of the dying, and the sharp cracks of gunfire clung to the air like a suffocating shroud, a constant reminder of the brutal cost of this war.
Even after the first enemy machine gun nest was silenced, even after the initial surge into the tree line shattered the enemy's opening ambush, the noise persisted. The air thrummed with the chaotic symphony of battle: rifles spitting out panicked bursts, grenades exploding in fiery blossoms of destruction, and the agonizing screams of men and women cut short by death. The cries of pain morphed into haunting echoes, forever etched into the landscape of my mind.
A thick, acrid smoke blanketed the ground, mingling with the pervasive fog that seeped from the poisoned wetlands. The air tasted bitter, heavy with the stench of burned propellant and a more sinister odor – the musty smell of old rot, disturbed earth, and the sickly-sweet tang of radiation-scorched vegetation. It felt as if the land itself was breathing, exhaling a miasma of decay with every chilling gust of wind.
The first five minutes were a blur of carnage. More people died than I could process, their lives extinguished in an instant. The open field, once a promising landing zone, transformed into a horrifying slaughterhouse. Bodies lay grotesquely twisted, casualties of malfunctioning thrusters, armor-piercing rounds finding their mark, and fatal hesitations born of panic. Some figures writhed in agony, their hands clawing feebly at the mud, HUDs flashing critical warnings in a desperate plea for help. Others lay unnaturally still, faces obscured by cracked visors, their skin already taking on the pallid hue of death in the cold, unforgiving light.
There was no time to offer aid, no opportunity for compassion. "Push! Don't stop moving!" Vargas's voice crackled over squad comms, sharp and edged with urgency. We moved because stopping meant certain death.
Wave One surged into the tree line in disorganized clusters, the cohesive force envisioned in training dissolving under the relentless pressure of real combat. Soldiers stumbled over gnarled roots and fallen logs, slammed shoulder-first into rough bark, firing blindly into shadows that may or may not have concealed enemies. The forest responded with disciplined bursts of fire from well-prepared positions: old Soviet-era trenches reinforced with logs and scrap metal, hidden fighting pits camouflaged beneath decades of accumulated leaves and decay.
Yellow icons flickered erratically across my HUD, a constant reminder of the enemy presence. These weren't panicked conscripts; they were disciplined soldiers executing a well-rehearsed plan. I dropped behind a fallen tree, its bark shredded by incoming rounds, and focused on the immediate threat. The DMR felt solid against my shoulder, a familiar weight that was both comforting and terrifying. I worked the rifle slowly, deliberately, adhering to the precise techniques drilled into me.
Breathe. Settle. Fire.
Each trigger pull was a commitment, each shot a deliberate act aimed at ending motion somewhere downrange. I refused to let myself think beyond that simple equation, to dwell on the consequences of my actions.
"Deadshot," Vargas called out, already using the call-sign as if it were my given name. "Eyes up. We're getting hit from north-northeast. Can you see it?"
I leaned out just enough to activate my HUD's enhanced filters. Smoke, dense foliage, and pervasive radiation interference obscured the image, but the thermal overlay cut through the obscuring noise. Three distinct heat signatures shifted behind a collapsed concrete culvert, half-buried and slick with moss.
"Three hostiles," I replied, my voice surprisingly steady despite the frantic pounding in my chest. "Culvert, bearing zero-two-five. One light machine gun, two rifles."
A brief pause, then: "Take it."
I exhaled halfway and squeezed the trigger.
The first round punched through the machine gunner's throat, silencing him instantly. He slumped backward, the machine gun clattering uselessly against the unforgiving concrete. The second shot shattered the shoulder of the man lunging for the weapon, his scream abruptly cut short as he fell. The third shot missed wide as the last enemy soldier bolted for cover, but the fourth caught him mid-stride, driving him face-first into the mud.
The culvert went dark, its threat neutralized. "Good," Vargas said, relief evident in his voice. "Keep it up."
We advanced slowly, painstakingly, measuring progress in meters rather than yards. Every step forward demanded a price in blood and sacrifice. By the end of the first hour, we controlled the tree line – or what remained of it.
The landing zone was unrecognizable, transformed into a desolate wasteland. The earth was churned into a muddy slurry, trees reduced to jagged splinters, and the wreckage of failed insertion thrusters burned fiercely. Bodies lay scattered across the landscape, so densely packed that my HUD could no longer tag them all, overwhelmed by the sheer volume of dead. Too much interference. Too many dead.
The enemy forces retreated, but not far enough. Harassing fire snapped from deeper within the forest, probing shots designed to keep us pinned down and bleeding. We returned fire when we had a clear target, but ammo discipline was already crumbling under the weight of fear. Soldiers squeezed triggers too long, burning through magazines too quickly in desperate attempts to stay alive.
But it never seemed to be enough. "Status check!" Vargas shouted over open comms. "Sound off if you're alive!"
Voices responded, but fewer than there should have been.
"Torres—hit but mobile."
"Nguyen—primary dry, sidearm only."
"Bishop—still green."
There were supposed to be nine of us. Only five answered the call. Vargas remained silent, but his silence spoke volumes.
Across the landing zone, the situation was even more dire. Entire platoons vanished from the network, their icons blinking red before disappearing entirely. Of the five thousand soldiers dropped into the zone, hundreds were already dead. Thousands more were wounded, scattered, leaderless, or bleeding out alone in the smoke-filled landscape.
And the enemy had yet to commit their main force.
"Command is down!" someone screamed over open comms. "Wave HQ isn't responding—repeat, no response from—"
The transmission was abruptly cut off by a burst of static, followed by a single, sharp cry of agony.
That was when the mortars started.
Not a saturation barrage that would violate the Accord, but precise, surgical strikes. Smart shells walked across the landing zone in methodical steps, forcing movement, denying cover, and herding the survivors like animals.
"Move!" Vargas yelled. "Warehouse! Grid Delta-3! Old maintenance structure—move now!"
Through the swirling smoke, I spotted the warehouse: a massive concrete building half-swallowed by vines and rust, its walls thick and largely windowless. A relic of the original reactor complex's logistics network. Defensible. If we could reach it.
We ran, adrenaline coursing through our veins.
A shell landed behind us, lifting me off my feet and slamming me back down into the mud. My HUD flared red with a concussion warning, but the suit absorbed most of the impact. I rolled, came up firing at shapes moving through the smoke. Something collapsed. I didn't stop to confirm, driven by the primal instinct to survive.
We reached the warehouse with perhaps thirty soldiers still standing.
Thirty... Out of five thousand.
The warehouse doors had been blown inward long ago, leaving a gaping opening. Inside, the space was cavernous and dark, the air thick with dust and the musty smell of decay. Old rail tracks crisscrossed the concrete floor, disappearing beneath piles of rubble. Faded Cyrillic warning signs peeled from the walls, their messages lost to the passage of time and neglect.
We barricaded the entrances with wreckage, overturned vehicles, and portable shields scavenged from the dead. Someone – anyone – established a triage area, using ration crates as makeshift tables. The wounded moaned softly, the sounds echoing off the concrete walls like the whispers of ghosts.
"Perimeter teams!" Vargas ordered, his voice steady despite the unimaginable pressure. "Set firing lanes. Eyes on every approach."
I spotted a stairwell leading upwards.
"Deadshot," Vargas called as I started towards it. "You good for overwatch?"
"Yes," I said, already climbing.
"Roof's yours. Call everything."
The stairs echoed under my boots, each step resonating with the weight of the situation. When I pushed through the roof hatch, a blast of cold wind slapped me in the face, carrying with it ash and the metallic tang of radioactive dust. The view stole my breath.
From above, the landing zone looked surreal, a scene from a nightmare. Columns of smoke twisted towards the gray sky. Fires burned unchecked, consuming what remained of the natural world. The ground was littered with bodies and shattered gear, a testament to the brutal cost of the battle. In the distance, the skeletal silhouette of Reactor 4 loomed over everything, a silent and imposing witness to yet another human disaster.
Yellow icons flickered at the edge of the forest. They were regrouping. I went prone, locked the bipod, and began marking targets, my focus narrowing to the immediate threat. The next six hours blurred into a continuous fight, a relentless cycle of violence. Enemy probing attacks came in disciplined waves – small squads testing angles, retreating when repelled, then hitting again from a different direction only minutes later. They were professionals, well-coordinated and patient.
We were survivors, clinging to life by sheer force of will. Every time they pressed us, someone didn't get back up. Torres took a round through the chest when he leaned too far out of a firing slit. Bishop lost his leg to a grenade tossed through a broken window. Nguyen bled out quietly in a corner, clutching an empty pistol as if it might somehow save him.
I watched it all from above, helpless to prevent most of it. I killed where I could, each shot a deliberate act aimed at preserving what remained of our dwindling force. My ammo count ticked downward, each number falling like a second hand measuring the limited time I had to keep this up.
At some point, I realized something that chilled me more than the cold wind. I was calm. Not numb, but utterly focused. Sharper than I had ever been. Every sense was heightened, every decision calculated and efficient. I was good at this. The realization scared me more than the gunfire ever could.
Night fell without ceremony, the darkness descending like a shroud.
The forest became a black wall, broken only by the faint glow of thermal signatures and the occasional muzzle flash. Radiation interference worsened as temperatures dropped, making HUD targeting erratic. False positives flickered and vanished, obscuring real threats.
Enemy fire intensified, a relentless barrage that hammered against our defenses. They knew what we were holding, and they wanted the warehouse. We held it anyway, fueled by a desperate determination to survive.
By dawn, there were eight of us left.
Eight.
Vargas. Me. And six others – none civilians, all wounded, all exhausted beyond words.
"Wave status?" someone asked quietly, the question hanging in the air.
Vargas didn't answer immediately. He cycled through frequencies, his hands shaking slightly as he desperately tried to find anyone, any command presence at all.
Static.
Then, finally, a voice, faint but unmistakable: "This is Joint Command… Wave One… respond…"
Vargas sagged against the wall, relief washing over his face. "This is Wave One LZ Command. We're holding Delta-3. Casualties extreme."
A pause. "...Say again, Wave One?"
"Of five thousand," Vargas said evenly, "we have eight combat-effective survivors."
Silence stretched, heavy with the weight of the losses.
Then: "...Understood." No apology, no acknowledgment of the immense cost. Just confirmation.
Supply drops arrived two hours later.
Crates slammed into the landing zone on retro-thrusters, kicking up clouds of radioactive dust. Humvees followed, then mobile command modules. Medics poured out, efficient and detached, already cataloging the dead as if they were inventory.
Wave Two arrived under heavy escort, fresh soldiers in clean armor, their eyes wide with horror. They stared at us as if we were something between ghosts and warnings, a stark reminder of the price of war.
The warehouse became headquarters by default. Antennas sprouted from the roof, generators hummed to life, maps were updated, and orders flowed again. The war machine resumed its relentless rhythm.
I stayed on the roof, my rifle steady, my eyes scanning the tree line. Below me, thousands of new soldiers fortified positions atop the bones of Wave One, oblivious to the sacrifices made to secure this small patch of ground.
Vargas climbed up beside me. "You're the only civilian who made it," he said quietly.
I didn't respond, my gaze fixed on the forest.
"You didn't just survive," he continued. "You held. That matters."
I watched the forest, dark and waiting. Somewhere out there, the enemy was regrouping, preparing for their next assault. Somewhere else, my father was to drop soon into his own battle, facing his own set of impossible odds. I tightened my grip on the DMR, the cold steel a reassurance in a world gone mad.
Don't plan to die today.
The landing zone was secured, but the price had been everything. And The Last War was only just beginning.