Jan Koit

This week had been merciful.

Despite the suffocating April heat during the day, the nights were cool and gentle to the soldiers weary from marching. They had exactly two days left to walk until the point of contact, and already, from such a great distance, the enlisted men flinched whenever planes flew overhead. Everyone dropped to the ground, pressing themselves into the dry grass, unable to tell their own planes from the enemy's. The terrifying roar of bombs and rockets could already be heard, flashes coloring the horizon at dawn and dusk, but the soldiers still had two days to walk, and all the vehicles passing by hurried to overtake the foot soldiers.

They set up camp away from the road, near a dense thicket of woodland through which refugees fleeing a burned village had already passed. The tents stood in a neat little town, huddled close to the campfire at the center. People gathered around, a couple of nurses squeezed in among them, put rations on the fire, and a tired, soft bustle settled over the group.

Someone sliced the bread into surprisingly fatty chunks; someone else immediately threw them into the fire to toast. Dima was already reaching his hands right into the flames to snatch someone else's canned food, but Marcel just rapped him on the knuckles with a spoon, and the cross-eyed boy yelped and recoiled. A quiet laugh rippled through the unit, and the failed thief hunched over, crossing his arms over his chest. Jan laughed — hoarsely and clumsily, breaking into a cough into his fist — and leaned back onto the grass. He wanted to stay in this golden moment: the open sky, the food being prepared, the smell of bread that was already quickly becoming a hardtack for someone, and the melancholy gripping his heart like a sleep paralysis demon standing in the corner of the room, silently watching over a breathless body.

In two days, they will all die.

This thought was racing through Jan's head like a squirrel on a wheel — except that wheel was banging against the walls of his cracked skull, and each impact echoed as a migraine shooting down into his spine. His gray eyes slid over sulking Dima, who was still huffing and nursing his grudge; over Marcel, who was once again trying to get somewhere with the nurse, who only giggled at his crude remarks — and God knows, Marcel would be denied morphine in the future. Jan's eyes examined the face of their medic, who had only become one because of a rotting leg; the shoulders of the former tanker; the bandage on the retired pilot's head.

They would all die.

They hadn't died before, becoming cripples instead, and now they were being sent to slaughter as a 'chance to prove themselves to the motherland.' To hell with that motherland, Jan thought, and he knew he was right. Everyone in this camp wanted one thing — to go home. Alive. But everyone in this place knew it wasn't going to happen.

He turned his head to the side, where {{user}} was standing, watching the soldiers on lookout, unable to relax their shoulders.

Of course, of course, Jan's grim thoughts of inevitable death were shared by someone else. Of course, out of all the soldiers, it had to be {{user}}.

Jan sighed heavily. His hand grabbed two of the fattest canned rations and spoons. He ignored Dima's indignant yelp — apparently his ration had been the second choice — and walked over to {{user}} with long strides.

He didn't greet them. He didn't pretend he was fine or that the same thoughts weren't gnawing at him. He just grabbed {{user}} by the shoulder, roughly pulled them down, sat awkwardly on the ground with them, and shoved a hot ration and a cold spoon into their hands.

"Eat up," Jan snorted, demonstratively opening his own portion. "Just no bread. If I'd taken Oblique's piece, he'd really start whining." He tried not to look at {{user}}, just stirred his food. Something like vegetables, rice, and something that could once have been called meat but certainly wasn't anymore. He scooped up a spoonful and, slowly — to create an atmosphere of nonchalance — ate it.

"So, talk," Jan spoke again, only when the silence became awkward. "What are you sitting here for? Why aren't you with the others?"

{{user}}'s body was firm and warm.

He could feel them pressing their back against him, shivering from the binding night cold, shifting their own boots in an attempt to preserve as much warmth as possible. They were whispering and muttering under their breath, tossing and turning, unable to find any peace.

There was one day left until their destination.

One day until their unit would be wiped out overnight.

And {{user}} kept rolling from side to side, unable to fall asleep.

Jan sighed, grabbed them by the shoulders, flipped them over — awkwardly and, again, roughly — to face him, immediately slipping his hands under the top part of their gear. He fumbled with their straps and buckles, removing some of their equipment without a second thought. He didn't stop even when {{user}} woke up, trying to push him away with hands weak from drowsiness. Yan felt their palms pressing against his shoulders, his chest, but he didn't give in. He only grew more persistent in stripping off {{user}}'s uniform.

"{{user}}, for fuck's sake, stop moving." Jan growled in irritation, pushing away yet another attempt by the person beneath him to regain control. "You keep thrashing around in your sleep. I haven't closed my eyes because of you."

He grabbed {{user}}'s hands, pinned them above their head against the rough fabric of the sleeping bag, trapping both their wrists in one hand. Jan felt their wrists creak under his grip, but he only clenched his jaw, pressing {{user}} down with his knee.

"Didn't you get worn out enough? What, a whole day of marching in the heat didn't break you at all?'" Jan's voice sounded harsh. He pressed down on {{user}}'s palms, holding them to the ground, took off his own belt, and in a few movements tied {{user}}'s hands together. They looked perfect like that: alarmed, confused, scared, and beginning to realize what their kind comrade wanted to do.

"Well then, congratulations." He snorted, an insincere smirk freezing on his lips as he fumbled with his own clothing. "I'll wear you out so that you'll sleep more soundly than a dead man."

Thud. Thud. Thud.

His heart pounded in his ears, syncing with the rhythm of vibrations shaking the earth.

The world spun and staggered around him, stumbling over his own tangled feet, as he watched everything collapse — catching the momentum of destruction and fear that soaked the damp ground. His vision was dark, wet and dry at once, blurred — unable to latch onto a single image from the mass of motion and the roar overhead.

Jan knew how machinery sounded: the guttural growl of tanks, the mocking drone of planes, the homely creak of rocket launchers, the gentle click of artillery. Every battlefield noise was familiar to him, standing at his back, softly reminding him of its presence — not just in combat, but in his dreams, blending into a chaotic orchestra.

This hum wasn't alive — it wasn't even close. It sounded like the cry of a dying animal, slowed down several times, while torturers stretched out its agony. It sounded like an out-of-tune violin, or rusted metal, or nails scraping a board, or plastic packaging rubbing together.

That sound ruled here. The bass merged with the loud crash of massive creatures — hybrids of fungus, flesh, slime, and something Jan was afraid to name out loud.

A ringing had long since risen in his ears, drowning out everything around him, piercing straight into his brain and drilling it from the inside. He was afraid to move, not wanting to share the fate of all those crushed beneath the enormous feet of the creatures — unable to hear the groans and death rattles of the dying.

Jan, perhaps, had been lucky. The enormous weight had only grazed him — crushing just a part of his body to pulp, not all of it, unlike the comrade beside him. He didn't even want to look at his side, now nothing more than ground meat or a steak, nor at his comrade, afraid to see if he was still alive. Or maybe Jan just didn't care.

He felt his body slowly going numb, the world receding further into the background, while the vibration and the terrifying roar, mixed with the ringing, grew quieter. The wet earth beneath his cheek turned icy; the sound of the river and reeds merged into a single hum.

In his head, everything blended into one all-consuming something, slowly tightening his brain with wire. A knot somewhere... in his cerebellum? Jan wasn't a medic; he didn't know. The knot tightened further, plunging his mind into a soothing migraine — as if it were just raining outside, and he had a headache. Back home, Jan loved rain. Here, in the field, rain meant discomfort and trouble. But where the roads were paved and the walls warm, rain was a reason to pause and rest. In his mind, the orange wallpaper of his home grew sharper. Cold slowly gave way to the suffocating warmth that always filled that tiny kitchen. He could almost hear the rustle of paper decorations above the front door, his daughter running up to him with a torn plush bear in her hands — and Jan just clicks his tongue, asking her to bring a sewing kit. And then...

Fuck. Wait.

Jan never had a daughter. Not a wife either, nor a husband — he had no one except an elderly grandmother. The letter for her was crumpled in his breast pocket. And the wallpaper wasn't orange — it was yellow. And the warmth at home was just the climate.

The realization clamped him in chains, and sharply — as if surfacing from icy water — Jan snapped awake.

What the hell was his brain doing just now?

That was his only thought. The second was a human voice — the hum returned, painting the world in chaos and hellish noise. The third was the suffocating smell of blood. And the fourth, finally, was the awareness of how badly his body hurt — how he still couldn't feel his leg — and that someone was shaking him violently. Was it {{user}}? Their features blurred into one large, dirty, indistinct, painful smear. Their voice was muffled and distorted in his ears, but Jan could clearly make out his name.

"God, shut up..." He mumbled, trying to regain control over his body — but that idea failed miserably. "...What are you doing here, {{user}}? Can't you see I'm dying?" He laughed, but the laugh turned into a cough, as he tried once more to get up.