Peter blinked hard, trying to shake off the heavy fog of exhaustion clinging to his mind. The last piece of chewing gum had long since lost its battle against the relentless pull of sleep, leaving him with nothing but the bitter aftertaste of artificial mint and the dull ache of fatigue. Fifty meters above the ground, perched on the cold, unyielding edge of the wall, he tilted his head back and gazed at the stars. They were one of the few silver linings to the collapse of society—the night sky, unobscured by the glare of city lights, stretched out above him in a breathtaking tapestry of light. Here, in this remote corner of Sweden, the heavens were alive with a brilliance that felt almost otherworldly.

  He wondered how many of those pinpricks of light were already gone, their fiery lives extinguished eons ago, their final breaths of light only now reaching him. How many of those stars were already dead, their glow a ghostly echo of something long vanished? The thought was both haunting and beautiful, a reminder of how small and fleeting his own existence was in the grand, indifferent cosmos.

  With a sigh, Peter dropped his head and pressed the light button on his Casio. 3:09. Two more hours of watch duty stretched ahead of him, each minute dragging like an eternity. He glanced to his left, where Ackermann stood, alert and steady as ever. To his right, Franz seemed to be struggling, his posture slouched, his eyes glazed over. For a moment, Franz too seemed captivated by the stars, his gaze drifting upward before snapping back to the present. Their eyes met briefly in the darkness, a silent acknowledgment of shared exhaustion and duty.

  He turned the scope off, careful not to waste the precious batteries. The darkness returned, and with it, his thoughts drifted to Katherine. Their relationship had become a tangled web of push and pull, a relentless game of emotional tug-of-war that left them both exhausted. It had cost them nights of restless sleep, and for Katherine, it had cost more than that. A few weeks ago, she’d gotten into a fight with some girl—someone who had nothing to do with their story but had somehow become collateral damage in the chaos of their dynamic. Katherine had lost a tooth and gained a few bruises, and Peter had carried the weight of guilt ever since.

  He was trying to find a way to make it up to her, though he wasn’t sure where to start. His father and her mother, along with the councilors in Oksjo, had arranged a meeting between them for tomorrow. A chance to talk, to clear the air, to maybe—just maybe—find a way forward. Peter knew he couldn’t afford to mess it up. The stakes were too high, and the thought of losing Katherine for good was a weight he wasn’t ready to bear.

  Peter’s thoughts were abruptly shattered by a sudden string of barks echoing from the village below. The sound cut through the stillness of the night like a knife, sharp and urgent. His head snapped up, instincts kicking in as he scanned the darkness. The dogs rarely barked like this—not in unison, not with such intensity. Something was wrong.

  He turned on the thermal scope and looked at the village. For a brief moment he saw a small pack run towards the other side of the village, he couldn't see what was there but the dog seemed to mass out there, their barks increasing as more dogs joined in.

  Peter glanced toward Ackerman, who had already set up the MAG machine gun on the wall, his focus razor-sharp on the unfolding scene. In contrast, Franz appeared more bewildered than tense.

  The barking intensified, rising to a fever pitch—then suddenly, a dog's sharp cry cut through the air. A moment later, the pack scattered, their retreating footsteps fading into the night.

  "Franz," Peter called out, his voice urgent but restrained, as loud as the situation allowed.

  Franz moved swiftly toward him, keeping his back hunched low to avoid exposing himself over the wall.

  "Just like you were told—wake the barracks, silent alarm. Then get to the new housings and alert everyone with a red triangle on their door. After that, head to the mansion and wake the brass." Peter recited the instructions exactly as Amir had briefed them, his voice steady despite the tension in the air.

  Peter held his breath, eyes flicking to his watch. His finger hovered near the safety of his AK4 rifle. Three minutes. If reinforcements didn’t arrive by then, he’d have to go himself and sound the alarm.

  He cursed under his breath. The planned alarm button—meant to link an electric cable straight to the Homeguard barracks—had never been built. Too much slacking off these days.

  The barking had changed. Now it was scattered, broken up by sharp cries and the sounds of a struggle somewhere in the village. Yet, to his frustration, the thermal sight showed nothing.

  He jumped as Jonathan suddenly hit the wall beside him. Damn it. How had he not heard him coming up the wooden stairs? If he’d missed that—what else had he missed?

  "Homeguard is taking positions along the walls. A squad’s heading here too. What did you see?" Jonathan whispered. His helmet-mounted night vision goggles flickered as he scanned the darkness, waiting for Peter’s answer.

  "Something’s taking out the dogs in the village," Peter muttered. "They were barking like all hell broke loose—now they’re crying and running."

  A flutter of wings. Skadi landed beside him.

  "Heard," she confirmed. "You brief the rest, Jonathan?"

  "Yeah. Amir should be here soon," Jonathan replied, chambering his rifle before disappearing back downstairs.

  5:05 AM. The first hints of dawn were creeping across the sky. Peter’s thoughts momentarily drifted to the comfort of his bed, imagining what it would feel like to be there right now, asleep—if he hadn’t sounded the alarm. If he hadn’t stayed awake. But that was a luxury he couldn’t afford. Not with the tension that had thickened the night.

  He scanned the line of soldiers to his left and right. Dozens of pairs of eyes were locked onto the village below, and the surrounding hills and valleys—rifles and machine guns at the ready. No one spoke. The silence hung heavy.

  Behind him, the mortar team was still in place, led by Ming and Nikolaj. The two of them had been waiting for hours, focused and prepared for whatever came next. Above them, atop the manor, he could just make out the faint silhouette of their marksman, positioned behind a high-powered rifle. He had the best eyes on the village—Peter knew that much.

  The marksman’s gaze was steady, his focus unwavering. And Peter saw it: the faint motion of figures down in the village. Something was moving.

  Was it Mads or Berend? Peter couldn’t tell, but he saw the figure adjust his position ever so slightly before freezing completely. Immobile. Peter’s instincts kicked in. He knew what would happen next.

  He watched as the .50 cal rifle trembled slightly, and almost instantly, the sharp crack of the bullet cut through the air, flying above him towards the village.

  Amir was on his feet in an instant, binoculars already in hand. How Peter hadn’t spotted him sooner, he couldn’t say. Amir muttered something to the shooter, and a second shot rang out, louder this time.

  The unmistakable crack of a .50 cal bullet echoed in the air, sending a wave of tension through the group. Everyone around Peter ducked instinctively, eyes wide, silently praying that the shooter’s rifle had been properly zeroed in.

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  Peter didn’t check his watch as they moved in formation towards the village. Mads had hit something—though the conversation about whether it had been his shot to take had been swiftly shut down. Both Mads and Amir had confirmed that they’d seen the man finish off a dog, stabbing it several more times to be sure. The .50 cal had struck him, but neither Mads nor Amir could say for certain if the target had been neutralized.

  Peter fell in behind Przemek, matching his stride, boots in sync with Przemek’s sneakers as they moved quickly over the ground. The group of roughly ten men—volunteers or those specifically chosen for this reconnaissance mission—was taut with nervous energy. Comfort had been entirely left behind; the only supplies they carried were ammunition and grenades.

  As they neared the village, Peter heard Nikolaj rush past him. The distinct jangle of his chainmail betrayed his position. Przemek glanced over his shoulder just as Jonathan signaled—they’d clear the house to their left first.

  Nikolaj was clad in chainmail beneath his plate carrier, topped with a riot helmet. It was a new strategy he’d suggested for house clearing. The lunatics, relying on sharp or blunt weapons, had made room clearing a dangerous task more often than not. Peter couldn’t help but wonder how Nikolaj managed to bear the weight of the chainmail, the heavy helmet, the plate carrier, and everything else—his Glock on his belt, shotgun strapped to his back, and, last but not least, the poleaxe in hands.

  The wax seal on the door had been broken. This was the fifth house Nikolaj had to clear. He handed his shotgun off to Przemek, taking his place behind him, waiting for Nikolaj to make his move.

  With a swift motion, the door to the small countryside house burst open.

  Nikolaj stood at the threshold of the house, the poleaxe gripped tightly in both hands, its long shaft resting against the floor. His chainmail and plate carrier felt heavy, but his movements were sharp and practiced. The house in front of him was still—too still—and the air hung thick with the faint smell of mildew and dust.

  He didn’t rush. His eyes flicked to the corners of the room, scanning every shadow, every potential hiding spot. The floor creaked underfoot as he nudged the door open, inching it just wide enough to slip through.

  Behind him, Przemek stood ready, shotgun at the ready, waiting for the signal.

  With a silent nod, Nikolaj stepped inside, low and fluid, his back against the wall. The poleaxe in his hands felt like an extension of himself, the weight of its blade reassuring as he moved forward. He cleared the immediate area to the left with a quick glance, then turned his focus to the right—nothing. Just empty furniture and the dull light filtering through the cracks in the walls.

  He took a breath, allowing the tension in his shoulders to ease for a fraction of a second. The house felt abandoned—no movement, no sounds of life. But he didn’t trust that feeling.

  Nikolaj moved deeper, each step deliberate. The sound of his boots on the wooden floor was muted, drowned out by the distant hum of the wind outside. He glanced over his shoulder to Przemek, who was following closely, his steps in sync with Nikolaj’s.

  They passed through the small living room, the only disturbance the faint dust motes drifting lazily in the air. Nikolaj’s eyes never stopped scanning, his mind already calculating the next move, anticipating a threat that might be waiting just beyond the next doorway.

  They reached the kitchen—a mess of half-empty shelves and cracked crockery—but still, no signs of life. He moved through it quickly, his poleaxe held low, ready to swing if needed. No one.

  He turned, giving Przemek a silent signal to move forward. As they advanced through the narrow hallway that led to the rear of the house, Nikolaj’s gaze flicked to the small windows, checking the outside world one more time.

  Nothing.

  The house seemed almost too quiet—like the calm before the storm.

  Still, Nikolaj didn’t lower his guard. He took another step, positioning himself for any threat, but the house held no surprises. It was clear for now.

  “Clear,” he muttered softly, but he knew better than to relax. Every corner could hide something else.

  Nikolaj exhaled sharply, the breath fogging up his visor as his body screamed for rest. Every muscle felt like it was on fire, but at the sight of the severed arm next to the massacred dog, something snapped. The blood trail led straight to one of the last houses. Przemek and Peter moved to the half-open door, and though fatigue dragged at Nikolaj’s limbs, he felt a renewed sense of urgency. He couldn’t stop now.

  The house smelled of blood—the thick, metallic scent suffocating the stale air. Nikolaj remembered this house from past trips through the village; it had always felt off. Now, with the trail of carnage leading them here, he prayed whatever was inside had bled out.

  The door swung open. Nikolaj stepped inside, poleaxe in hand, the pointed end aimed forward like he would with a rifle. His instincts were sharp, every movement calculated. But then he heard it—movement from deeper within the house. Something fast.

  The living room was quiet, but the noise was unmistakable. It came from one of the rooms down the hallway. His heart rate spiked. The rest of the squad were outside, just as ordered, and they knew not to engage unless absolutely necessary to avoid friendly fire. Nikolaj hoped they could see whatever it was.

  Przemek peeked outside, eyes scanning the yard and the folks of the homeguard positioned around the house, but the others hadn’t spotted anything. Nikolaj’s grip tightened on his poleaxe. If anything happened now, it was on him and the duo behind him.

  He whistled sharply, a signal. Then, to draw whatever was in the house toward him, he slammed the poleaxe against the nearest window, sending the glass shattering to the floor. The noise echoed, filling the room.

  For a moment, the movement stopped. Nikolaj’s eyes darted around, waiting for a response. He stepped forward cautiously, aware of the door to his left—he could feel something lurking.

  “Hey, friend,” Nikolaj called out, his voice calm, but with an edge. “Why don’t you come out so we can talk?”

  Another faint sound came from the room further down the hall. The figure was trying to mimic his movements, slowly creeping toward the door in silence, as if to match Nikolaj’s steps.

  “Don’t be shy,” he taunted. Nikolaj switched the poleaxe to his left arm, holding it in front of him, and with his right hand, he tapped his thigh—a quick signal for Przemek to cover the open door while Nikolaj took the closest room.

  Before Przemek could move into position, the door ahead swung open with a force that caught Nikolaj off guard. It hit him in the helmet with a heavy thud, but the helmet absorbed the blow with little damage. The real concern was the figure that burst from the room.

  A figure—wild-eyed, bloodstained—charged straight for him. Its red eyes gleamed with madness, and before Nikolaj could react, the figure hurled a chair at him. It was wild, frantic—an attack from someone who expected Nikolaj to be lightly armored and carrying a rifle, not the full gear of a modern-day knight.

  The chair came flying toward him, but Nikolaj was ready. With a swift motion, he used the point of his poleaxe to intercept the flying chair, sending it crashing into the floor at his feet. The woman charged at him next, like a rabid animal.

  Nikolaj shifted his weight, raising the poleaxe above his head, preparing for the close-quarters confrontation. The side of the pole axe was the best defense he had—he wasn’t going to let the lunatic get close but he didn't have the room to swing his weapon at it.

  The figure lunged, teeth bared, and Nikolaj met him with a heavy swing, his armor creaking with the force of the movement. The poleaxe was his shield and his weapon, and in that moment, it was the only thing that stood between him and the madness in front of him. A game of push and pull started, the woman about fifty years old, with both arms very much still attached to her body tried to grab a hold of the weapon. It tried to lash out at Nikolaj. She seemed to panick as no scratch, fist or anything seemed to affect Nikolaj. He couldn't let her find a way to find a weak spot, he knew he was vulnerable in the lower body and he couldn't let her try and kick him in the knee.

  "I got her don't worry" he yelled as her open mouth was centimeters away from his face. Thank god for the his helmet visor he thought. He kicked her with a head butt, she recoiled and Nikolaj lifted his rifle and hit her near the waist in a bid to win distance. She recoiled a few steps back, she let go of the weapon before Nikolaj also stepped back a few feet, this time he pointed the pole axe towards her and as she tried to close the distance he shoved the tip of its spear in to her. He didn't know if it penetrated but he saw her recoil. He pulled it back before stabbing her with the spear again. This time he felt it pierce the rags she called clothes and meet something soft and squishy. She seemed to collapse as she held the part of her stomach where Nikolaj had stabbed her. On one knee she was just about to stand up again before the hammer part of the pole axe met with her head, instantly killing her as he skull was fractured by the blow.

  Przemek grabbed her feet and dragged her back in the living room in a bid to make some space for Nikolaj.

  He struggled to find space for his pole axe as he moved into the room that looked like what was left of a bedroom with the mattress missing. He was surprised to see an improvised fire, it had been lit earlier and was struggling to stay on fire. He noticed them man sitting in the corner next to it. He was shocked to realize the man had a frying pan next to him. It took him a few seconds to realize he had used it to cauterize his wound below the shoulder where his arm had been severed. His red eyes met Nikolaj's as it struggled to stand up, in a desperate bid to stay alive, just before Nikolaj pole axe point found itself into his heart.