Alongside those who are sinful.

Chapter 1

I look out past the assembly area to the front lines a mere two kilometers away. The ground is flat and open. I can see the wide arcs of artillery shells and the tell tale lines of smoke from the terrible Katyusha rockets. Bombs explode and tracers travel over land, hitting targets I cannot see. Every once in a while, a tank fires its cannon or goes up in flames.

I walked around the area, attempting to see if I could get some more food, however bland it is. I've eaten nothing but cold beans, stale bread, and pieces of pork for so long that I cannot remember how fresh food tastes. Earlier in the war, it was possible that a deer or a wild boar would wander in front of my rifle, and my squad mates and I would enjoy fresh meat. But those days are gone, and so is my old squad.

I'm all that's left. After the Third Battle of the Halfaya Pass, we were all sent to the hell on Earth that is the Eastern Front. My former friends fell one by one, and so did their replacements. I soon found that it was easier to name everyone their rank.

It makes it easier to get over their eventual passing.

War makes one feel lonely in many ways. I miss my friends who I knew by their names and their faces. For others, they feel lonely in a more intimate nature. Those who are civilized deal with it by themselves.

Those who cannot sate their urges become restless and descend upon villages. War only brings out the brutality and insanity that is so carefully locked away inside us.

They rape.

Simple as. I never understood how you could do that and I do not want to. All I know is that it is surprisingly easy to blame their suddenly violent but quiet death on Soviet infiltrators.

Although I understand that I am not an example citizen by any means, there are some things you never do to another human being.

And so, I find myself at the kitchen. It isn't really a kitchen, more of a shell crater in the dirt that a few culinarily talented soldiers were able to use as a cooking pit. There are about six of them, all of average looks.

"Just more faces to replace by tomorrow morning." I think to myself. I walk to the nearest cook and ask him about extra food. He merely looks up at me with a raised brow, the orange glow of the fire dancing on his face.

"If we had extra food I would have eaten it myself." Says the man. He scoffs as he tosses me a packet of crackers. I accept the offer generously, and go on my way, heading back to my own shell crater to sleep through another night hoping I wake up in the morning.

XXX

The next day is the same as so many before, as far as how it begins. I stop by the munitions supply tent, refill what ammo I spent from the previous day, then head to the outskirts of the outpost. I attach pieces of foliage to my uniform and helmet in an attempt to break my human silhouette.

A clump of grass through a loop in my helmet here, a branch there. Another clump of grass on my shoulder under the strap. More leaves on my helmet. I rub dirt on my face to make sure that my skin doesn't give away my position.

I must be careful not to put too much foliage on my uniform. It has been a hot spring. I've ditched my wool tunic for the lighter material tunic, as have many other men. I stick my cap between my belt buckle and my body. My helmet might just overheat me today.

I look over my uniform through a set of ultrasin goggles, ensuring everything is where I need to be. The advancements in camouflage are impressive. While my upper body may be the standard field-gray, my pants are of the pattern titled "Splinter" and they blend well with my current terrain.

My cap and helmet cover are also of the same pattern. It is a much welcomed improvement to the dress style uniforms of the early parts of the war. I inspect my ammo pouches, counting a total of 60 rounds on clips I carry in them alone.

My sidearm, a P-38, rests just above my right hindquarter. I keep a few extra magazines for it in my tunic pockets. My bayonet sits opposite of my sidearm holster, across from the bottom clip of my load bearing Y-strap.

My canteen is filled with water, and hangs lazily next to my holster. I move on to my A-framed harness, which carries my mess kit, a rain-proof smock, and a small carry bag, filled entirely with more ammunition, weapon cleaning gear, and other useful necessities like a multi-tool, some strong string, and my most useful possession: deodorant.

My mess kit was no longer filled with food much these days. I stuff socks around a stash of crackers and dried meat to make sure they don't rattle around when I am trying to remain quiet. I settle my binoculars against my chest, held firmly by a strap to prevent them from swinging around. Then, I would begin to head down to my position on the front lines.

But the day is abnormal. The weather is the first thing I notice. The air is thick with humidity, my uniform already suffocating my body from fresh air. A breeze lightly rolls across the plains, but it does little to alleviate the oppressive humidity. Sweat begins to form all across my body and drips uncomfortably down my back. This day could not get any worse.

Or so I thought.

I creep my way along the plains, sneaking through the tall grass. The sun has just started to rise. I can see it's golden rays shine across the land as it begins the same journey through our sky as it has done for many, many years.

There is a storm on the horizon. Both literal and figurative. There are clouds in the far part of the sky. Thick, heavy, and dark rain bearing clouds threaten to blot the sun. That explains the humidity. I slip my helmet off my head and slip on a sweat catching piece of cloth. This is the literal storm. The figurative one is hidden behind a veil of leaves and branches.

Before I can even see them, I can smell them. The exhaust alone is enough to make me light headed. There are Soviet tanks. Hundreds of them, probably. I can hear their engines roaring, growing ever so close. I look back to our base and see that the flak cannons are no longer pointing towards the sky. They are pointing towards the forest.

That is never a good sign.

I look back towards the forest. The sound of creaking tank tracks grows louder and louder with each passing second, and the sound of brush being pushed aside joins it. Then, the Soviets howl. They cry out in anguish and in anger. It is their signature charging signal: URA!

I stand up, struggling to hear the sound of the wind and the tanks over thousands upon thousands of screaming men. Then, all hell breaks loose. I was right. Hundreds of tanks emerge from the tree line, surrounded by thousands of soldiers. Death never takes a vacation in this land.

"This is the end of the Reich." I mutter. I look up to the red tide as it cascades over the plains towards me. The end if so close. I am sad. Not because my death is imminent, but because I will never be able to hunt on this planet anymore. The flak cannons behind me start firing, attempting to halt the unstoppable steel mass.

I slowly lower to the ground, unable to do anything but sink to my knees and lower my helmeted head in defeat. I feel rain begin to drop, the cool precipitation allowing my heated body a brief moment to sigh in relief from the oppressive humidity. The storm has arrived. I look up, only to see blinding light in the form of lightning heading right for me.

~Excerpt from The Demons Tale. Sent from Spring's Bloom.