“Damn it! That has to be the worst name for a squad that’s ever existed,” one of the soldiers barked, drawing his ear away from his companion’s mouth.
His companion leaned closer and hissed, “Lower your voice—the general will hear you.”
They sat among a ring of men and women ithefhe briefing tent. The shelterhf fhad been raised only a few hours earlier. In front of them an older man wore a uniform decorated with medals; he held a laser pointer in his right hand while two younger officers fussed with the projection board and a third fussed with the projector at the back of the tent.
The camouflaged soldiers shifted uneasily under the weight of the impending presentation; some whispered, others held their silence. An impatience hung in the air—the meeting had been abrupt. They’d been told to keep ready for immediate deployment, but it was not normal to be shown slides before a mission. Mobilization planning was supposed to happen around a table and a map, not under a projector’s glow.
The war between the nations had already dragged on for years with no end in sight. Many here had lost friends and family, as had the citizens of Nation U. The conflict only intensified, and the world had split into camps—R or U—fueling a media circus that fanned the flames.
“Listen up!” one of the general’s subordinates called, forcing everyone to sit up straight and turn toward the man at the front. He stood with a hard expression. “You’re going to receive a briefing on current events and how this mission will proceed. This is vital—pay attention. Hold your questions until the end and do not get distracted.”
The general inclined his head in thanks, then stepped forward; behind him the board bore Nation R’s crest, projected large.
“I’ll skip the formalities—we’re pressed for time. I’ll start with what matters. How many of you are familiar with the phenomenon called 'inentropy'?” the uniformed man asked.
The question drew a several-second dead silence.
“That’s what I thought.” The general motioned to the man behind the projector to display a specific image on the board. “'Inentropy' is the term given to a phenomenon that causes peculiar environmental disruptions: electronic devices fail—communicators, vehicles, even radios. One of its stranger effects renders propellants like gunpowder and other fuels incapable of igniting, so firearms and many explosives become useless. Unfortunately for us, the area within the border where this mission will operate is almost entirely covered by the phenomenon.”
Murmurs rippled through the ranks as the images illustrating his explanation flickered across the screen. The general picked out zones on the map with his laser pointer.
“Because this is a new phenomenon for us, we cannot advance into the area we intended to seize now. We lack the means and the knowledge to deploy a unit without risking this camp and many of you. Therefore, we have decided to take unconventional measures.”
At that, a hand shot up from among the soldiers. The subordinate began to move toward him, reminding the man that questions would be answered at the end, but the general waved him on and invited the soldier to speak.
“Aren’t the people on that border territory worse off than we are? If they can’t use firearms either, why don’t we attack them?”
“Excellent question,” the decorated officer replied. “That’s because Nation U has at its disposal a band of mercenaries specialized in unarmed combat. From what we know, their methods are crude but devastatingly effective. Intelligence reports indicate that any attempt to advance across the territory has been utterly neutralized by these operatives.”
Another soldier raised his hand, and the general gave him the floor.
“If that’s the case, then why are we here? If we can’t advance and it’s not safe to confront the U forces, what’s the point of deploying into that territory?”
The general pointed at the slide and said, “Because we plan to fight that enemy group. Once we neutralize them, we can move forward; until then we’ll hold position.”
“How do we plan to face them?” another soldier asked.
“We’ll fight fire with fire. I don’t know if you’ve heard, but the Americans have a mercenary group that—curiously—operates much like the ones the Nation U employs now.” The senior officer looked the crowd square in the eye.
“The apple-munchers…” a soldier behind them snorted, laughing.
“As funny as that sounds, yes—them. They don’t call themselves the apple-munchers; they call themselves ‘the Apple Eaters’ in their tongue. Don’t let the name fool you; every one of them has high-level military training and combat records. Where they’ve been deployed as a unit, they’ve consistently completed missions to the letter, no matter how difficult.”
The general signaled the projector operator, and a string of videos began to roll across the screen: battlefields, close-quarters fights, and individuals locked in combat across various conflict zones. Some threw knives, some fought with bare fists, and one was even filmed wielding two chained axes, spinning them in his hands. One thing stood out in every clip: their fighting style, their movements, the aura around them—nothing about them looked ordinary. They weren’t soldiers so much as action-movie protagonists.
When the reel ended, the general scanned the assembled troops and asked, “Any questions?”
“With all due respect, General, is this some kind of joke?” a soldier near the front asked, her tone full of doubt.
“No,” the general replied. “This isn’t a joke or a test. We’ll have an expert come explain inentropy in more detail than I can. As for the group we contracted—they’re real, and their reputation precedes them. They’re essential for this mission.”
“This isn’t Hollywood; wars are fought with firearms, troop movements in vehicles, strategy, and order. These people are just barbarians who’ve been lucky not to have been killed so far.”
Murmurs rose through the tent. The general and his aides had to raise their voices to restore order. After a few seconds of quiet, the general told the projector operator to move on.
“There are a couple more things you need to know,” he continued. “First: treaties between nations prevent us from attacking forces that are not officially of Nation U. Since they hired mercenaries for defensive purposes, they remain within the letter of those agreements. But if we were to strike them directly, that would be a different story. If we pay a third-party group from another country to go in and ‘clean the area,’ we wouldn’t be violating the treaty.”
“And the second thing?” another timid soldier asked.
“That they’re already here—they arrived this morning and are moving toward the camp; we estimate they should reach us in just over—”
The general’s words were cut off by a shrill voice from the tent flap: “Is this the place?”
A young woman stood in the entrance, hazel hair pulled into a messy ponytail, one hand gripping the folded canvas that formed the doorway. Everyone stared, silent and curious, until one of the general’s men stepped forward and said, thumb jabbing at her shoulder, “You’re interrupting an official briefing. You’d better tell me which squad you belong to and step away if you don’t want to—”
Before he could finish, the woman seized his arm, twisted cleanly, and sent him crashing to the ground with a single, efficient motion. The seated soldiers sprang up; the other officers moved into combat stance, hands hovering for their holsters.
“Sorry, queridito, I don’t like being touched without my permission,” the woman said, holding his arm fast.
“Queridito? Is that really her—Queen of Blades?”
“You mean the one from the Double T app?”
“I’ve followed her since the beginning.”
“No way—that’s actually her?”
The soldiers began whispering among themselves, stunned by the woman standing before them.
“Oh! I almost forgot to introduce myself,” the woman said, releasing the man’s arm and straightening her posture. Her voice shifted, cheerful now. “That’s right—I’m Queen of Blades. A pleasure to meet you all. My team and I were summoned to help with your little problem; I hope we get along.” She finished with a playful pose, hands gesturing brightly.
“You were summoned? Are you one of the apple-munchers?” asked one of the men near the general, his hand resting inside his jacket where a weapon waited.
“It’s pronounced Apple Eaters—and yes, I’m one of them. In fact, my team should be around here somewhere… no idea where they wandered off.”
Almost before she finished, the woman spun toward the entrance—only to crash flat on her back. A tall man with a grim face stepped through the flap, glaring down at her with contained anger.
“I told you not to wander off,” he barked. His voice was rough, heavy with frustration. “We barely get jobs like this anymore, and you just make it harder with your damn lack of attention.”
“Fuck you!” the woman shot back, scrambling to her feet. “I was just exploring while the captain dealt with that stuck-up guard who wouldn’t leave us alone.”
“I don’t give a damn if you were exploring, eating, or shitting. Getting hired for this job wasn’t easy—it pays well, and we need it after that fiasco of a last mission. So, you stay put for two seconds, or I’ll make sure you don’t move—by force.” The white-haired man’s hand tightened around the hilt of what looked like a machete at his belt.
Everyone in the tent froze at the scene. The woman stood toe-to-toe with him, his hand locked on his weapon.
Tension prickled the air; soldiers with firearms shifted uneasily, readying themselves in case the standoff broke.
Then another figure ducked through the tent flap. Massive, broad-shouldered, and well over six feet tall, he had to stoop to fit inside. His gaze was cold and steady. Without a word, he grabbed both quarrelers by the scruff of their collars, lifted them with ease, and lowered them until they knelt on the ground.
“My apologies if my comrades caused trouble,” the giant rumbled. “We’re part of the group you contracted for this mission. You know us as the Apple Eaters. It’ll be a pleasure working with you.” He inclined his head, forcing the two in his grip to bow as well.
It was an unusual sight—mercenaries were not known for their manners with employers. Yet in seconds, this man had not only broken up a fight about to erupt in front of the troops but also compelled respect from the offenders.
“Please, there’s no need for such formality,” the general said as he approached. “No one was hurt. My aide was a bit harsh with you, miss—I apologize. Truth is, we’re glad to have you with us. After all, it was we who asked for your help.”
The quarrelsome pair exchanged a glance with the hulking man still gripping their collars. Then, almost in unison, all three replied, “The pleasure’s ours.”
“It’s good to know we can count on you,” the general continued. “Although… I heard you were a group of six. I only see three.”
“My apologies,” the giant answered. “The others are outside. They sent me to handle these two.”
“They sent you? Then you’re not the leader?”
“I’m afraid not. Our leader—”
“—is already here!” A lively voice cut in. “Sorry for the delay—bureaucracy these days is hell. They made me sign so many papers I thought they’d ask for my firstborn as collateral.”
Heads turned. Soldiers, aides, and the general himself looked toward the newcomer: a man in his mid-twenties, broad-shouldered, with his blond mane tied back at the nape of his neck. He strode straight to the general, hand outstretched, and said,
“Pleased to meet you—I answer to ‘Karl.’ I’m captain of the Apple Eaters. A real pleasure…rather, to meet all of you. Looks like we’ve got company back there.” Karl finished with a slightly nervous laugh.
“You…—you’re the captain?” the general asked, taking Karl’s hand slowly, confusion creasing his face. “From the reports I’d read about your battlefield tactics, I expected someone a bit more…sober.”
“Don’t worry—this morning I didn’t drink…much.” Karl said, then let out a booming laugh that made everyone except his crew shift awkwardly. “Just kidding. Honestly, I’m the one who keeps these little rascals in line, but our strategist draws up the plans—that’s his title.” “Hey, Rune!” Karl called toward the tent flap. “Do you mind coming over for a sec?”
A gloved hand lifted the white canvas and revealed a thin figure dressed head-to-toe in black. A young man’s dark hair fell over his brow, nearly hiding his eyes; a matching face mask covered the lower half of his face. His clothing was a blend of military gear and loose black fabric.
“I told you not to shout at me,” Rune said, sliding his gloved hands into the front pocket of his hood. “Excuse me—name’s Rune, pleased to meet you.” He gave a small bow.
“Your strategist is rather…young,” the general observed, eyeing him up and down. Confusion, edged with skepticism, showed on the faces of the men behind him.
“He’s a bit younger than the rest, but I assure you he’s got three times the brains of all of us combined,” Karl said, looping an arm around Rune’s neck in an affectionate, half-crushing grip. “He pulls all the intel and organizes the plan; we follow it. If something needs improvising on the ground, that’s my job—right, Rune?”
“Don’t hold me like that.” Rune peeled one hand free from Karl’s grip. “But yes—I’m the intelligence and strategy. The walking sun beside me is our leader—he organizes and leads when we have to improvise. The brown-haired social media addict is our quick striker—more of an assassin type, just less stealthy. Call her Hjørdis.”
“Excuse me—addict to the social media?” Hjørdis snapped, whipping her head so her brown ponytail swayed behind her. “I haven’t even posted a single clip since we got here.”
“Because I took your phone.” Rune said through his fringe, deadpan. “As I said—the white-haired sourpuss next to her is Sigurd, our second-in-command. We call him lieutenant because there’s no better title. The giant behind those two is Holger—our primary brawler and tank, the one who soaks up the damage.”
“Pleasure to meet you again,” Holger said, scratching the back of his head.
“And we’re only missing—damn it, that guy is outside again,” Rune muttered, annoyed. “Get in here, or we’ll carry you five across the sand to the tent—you know we will.”
Rune stepped aside, and a shorter figure ducked in. The newcomer was shrouded in a trench coat and hood, with only the shoes and the lower part of the face visible—a pale chin and a mouth set in a permanent scowl.
“This person is…our most experienced marksman,” Karl said, resting a rough hand on the shorter person’s head. “You can call it by the name Alpha. This guy hardly speaks, but when shoots the weapon, that’s usually the last thing our enemies hear—if they’re close enough.”
“Weapon—you mean a firearm?” the general asked, voice tight with concern as he took in the six standing before him. “Do you not know the Inentropy phenomenon affects the enemy zone? That firearms won’t work?”
“Don’t worry, General.” Karl spread his arms as if arranging the group for a photograph. “We did our homework and took precautions—we always do. You just tell us when to start and have our pay ready. Trust me—you hit the jackpot.” Karl winked one pale blue eye at the general.
***
The general introduced the Apple Eaters to his troops and outlined when and how the operation would run, though many kept their doubts. As the troops listened—closer now—to the places these mercenaries had fought, the situations they’d been dropped into, and the kinds of missions they’d completed, it became clear these were no ordinary hired hands—not even by mercenary standards.
The way they fought, the kind of enemies they had faced and beaten, and above all, the confidence they carried—regardless of each one’s personality—was almost tangible. They moved like professionals with a lifetime of experience, though none of them, from what was known, had yet reached thirty.
When the explanation ended, the mercenaries stepped out of the tent with the general and his men. On the way, the general discussed with Karl how payment would be transferred once the mission was fully completed. Karl brushed him off, telling him he’d have to bring it up with Rune—he was the one who ensured the money always reached them safely.
Then Karl raised a hand to the right side of the general’s face. The general froze, startled, as Karl’s smile hardened. His gaze drifted past him, toward the tent’s entrance, where a soldier stood, palm open, grin brimming with smug confidence.
“Pardon. I dropped that coin you’re holding. Keep it if you like—think of it as an advance payment.” The soldier’s voice was lazy and taunting. His grin sharpened. “Though I’ll admit, I’m impressed. I figured you for lucky braggarts. But if you caught that in your hand, maybe you’ve got a few skills that matter on a battlefield.”
“Soldier, this is insubordination!” The general slapped Karl’s hand away from his face, bristling with anger. “You’ll return to your captain at once and await discipline. I give you my word, this won’t be forgotten.”
“What are you talking about? You’re not hurt, and it was just an accident. Nothing to worry over. We’re in very good hands, aren’t we? Apple eater?” The soldier tilted his head mockingly, eyes locked on Karl, who answered only with a small, calm smile.
A silver flash darted near the soldier’s left eye. A heartbeat later, just behind his ear, the tent canvas split with a sharp thunk, as if pierced by a projectile. He stiffened, instincts snapping into place, and spun to see the fresh hole torn in the fabric. For an instant he thought it had been a shot. But when he turned back, Karl hadn’t drawn either of the pistols strapped to his belt. Instead, Karl’s thumb still jutted upward, his smile wider now, confidence radiating like heat from a forge. A muffled chuckle rumbled behind his closed lips.
“Returned it to you. Not the coin we use back in America.” Karl’s eyes closed, his grin almost gentle.
“They call you Karl, don’t they? My name’s Yury. You know, we’ve been restless lately, stuck here thanks to that odd little phenomenon with the strange name. How about we make it interesting? Give everyone something to watch.” Yury started toward him.
“What do you have in mind?” Karl’s gaze didn’t waver.
“A friendly match. Bare hands. The first to put the other down three times wins. Sound fair? Don’t worry—those curious fur-trimmed leathers of yours won’t get too stained… not much, anyway.”
Karl glanced down at his outfit: a blend of military uniform and heavy pelts, reinforced with metallic trims, the sort you’d expect in bitter cold. They looked clumsy to walk in, but he wore them as though weight meant nothing.
“Ah. I mistook it for a winter set. My apologies,” he said with mocking politeness.
“You backing out?” Yury’s tone had an edge now, irritation beneath the words.
“Not at all. I’d be glad to take your challenge.” Karl brought his gloved hands together, knuckles cracking inside the brown leather as the wind caught the white fur trim and set it rippling. He rolled his neck side to side until the vertebrae popped with sharp cracks. “But let’s raise the stakes. If I win, you’ll haul and guard our gear until we march to battle. If you win, I’ll give you my cut of the general’s payment. Deal?”
Karl extended his open hand. Yury seized it without hesitation, gripping hard, while Karl’s blond hair caught the light and his smile turned wicked.
***
A few minutes later, a crowd gathered behind the camp. That area was usually reserved for morning drills, wide and open, with cold mud that would serve as a natural cushion once one of them inevitably hit the ground.
A ring had formed around the field—soldiers, officers, and even the Apple Eaters themselves stood shoulder to shoulder. In the center, Yury and Karl had stripped off some of their gear for comfort. Behind them, the soldiers’ voices rose in laughter and wagers—who would win, and how many falls each would take.
“If you want to add a few rules, blondie, I don’t mind,” Yury said, flexing his bare arms and bringing them close to his chest.
“That won’t be necessary. I doubt he’d care either way,” Karl replied, still holding the pieces of clothing he’d just taken off.
From within the crowd, a slender figure dressed in black stepped forward. They walked into the circle, stopping in front of Karl. The two clasped palms in a gesture of substitution—something borrowed from Western wrestling shows.
“Hey, hey. I thought you said you were going to fight. Don’t tell me you’re backing out now, blondie,” Yury taunted as Karl turned away, making his way toward the other mercenaries. He sat on a wooden crate, legs stretched out, calm as ever.
“I’m being merciful,” Karl said, smiling confidently at him. “I want to show you just how strong my team is—and why we were hired in the first place. Don’t worry, Rune’s more than enough. Maybe you should be the one setting a few extra rules.”
“Are we starting or what?” Rune asked, standing before Yury with both hands still tucked in the front pocket of his hoodie. “I’ve got some intel to review for the mission, so I’d appreciate it if you—”
Rune’s words were cut short by a sudden punch from Yury. It missed but came close enough to make Rune’s head jerk back sharply, his dark fringe whipping like a flag in a storm.
“I got tired of waiting… Not that you care,” Yury muttered, dropping into a fighting stance, both fists raised.
“As you wish.”
A heavy silence fell over the crowd. Every eye was fixed on the two figures in the circle, waiting to see who would move first. Yury did. He launched a flurry of punches aimed at Rune’s face. Rune slipped past each strike effortlessly, gaze distant, almost indifferent—while Yury’s eyes burned with a predatory grin. When the onslaught ended, Rune took a few steps back, watching him from a distance.
“So all you can do is dodge? How boring. They should’ve sent the girl—or that timid little guy back there,” Yury sneered, glancing toward Rune’s group at the edge of the circle.
“Don’t look at them. Your fight’s with me… Illr,” Rune shot back, irritation creeping into his tone.
Without a second thought, Yury charged again, throwing punch after punch, kick after kick—all missing. The two danced through the mud ring, Yury pressing forward with wild fury, Rune moving lightly on defense. Then, in the middle of the circle, Rune seemed to stumble backward. Yury lunged to strike, and for a few suspended seconds, the entire crowd held its breath.
“Check,” Rune murmured to himself, smiling beneath his mask.
Yury’s footing slipped. His right boot skidded in the mud despite the thick soles made for that terrain. Rune braced himself with both hands behind his body, pivoted, and drove a sharp, precise kick into Yury’s side.
The crowd gasped in unison as Yury crashed to the ground, clutching his torso and writhing in pain.
Rune rose slowly, eyes on his fallen opponent, who trembled on the ground in a fetal curl.
“I think one fall’s enough,” Rune said, turning away and sliding his hands back into his hoodie pocket.
The onlookers watched as Rune walked calmly toward his group. Their gaze shifted again when movement stirred behind him—the broken figure in the center began to tremble, rising unsteadily, growling low like a cornered animal.
Rune felt a sudden gust sweep through his hair, whipping the strands at his nape. He turned his head just in time to dodge a punch that nearly connected with the back of his skull. He sidestepped quickly, boots splashing mud, and faced Yury—who was clutching his abdomen with one arm, the other balled into a fist, his face twisted in rage and humiliation.
“A kick to the liver and you’re still standing. I’ve got to hand it to you.” Rune slipped both hands from his pockets and brought them together in two slow, deliberate claps for his opponent. “That should be enough.”
Yury didn’t answer. He lunged at Rune in fury. The latter returned to his previous strategy—dodging every punch and kick with effortless speed, unfazed. This time, though, Rune began to catch a few of the strikes with his gloved palms.
“He’s getting serious,” Holger muttered, fingers scratching at the square jaw hidden beneath a few strands of dark hair.
“He’s just toying with him. I wonder where he’ll hit him next,” Hjørdis said with a faint smile, glancing at her nails before looking back at the fight.
“I’m betting twenty bucks he goes for the balls,” Karl declared with conviction.
“Twenty on the balls!” Holger and Hjørdis echoed in unison—though their tones couldn’t have been more different.
“Thirty on the throat,” Sigurd said calmly.
Alpha didn’t join the betting. The figure simply sat atop a crate, watching as Rune dismantled Yury’s offense.
Then Rune began moving strangely, as if something in his clothes was bothering him. His face stayed unreadable—cold, measured. A few seconds later, he tore off his hood and hurled it straight at Yury’s face. The soldier fumbled to rip it away, and as soon as he did, Rune’s fist crashed into his jaw. Almost in the same breath, Rune’s other hand struck his throat with surgical precision. Yury clutched at his neck, wheezing, before collapsing into the mud, gasping for air.
“Pay up,” Sigurd said, stretching out his left hand. The others handed over a mess of green bills, grinning despite a touch of disappointment. “Rune’s got a little more decency than you lot seem to remember,” he added, counting the money one bill at a time, the cheerful expression on his face clashing with the feral look he’d worn since arriving at camp.
“A good kick to the balls never gets old,” Karl added, lifting his blond brows.
Inside the muddy circle, Rune stood over Yury, watching him struggle to breathe properly again. To everyone’s surprise, after a couple of minutes and no small amount of effort, the soldier managed to rise. One hand still clutched his throat; his red face fixed on Rune with a mixture of hatred and curiosity.
“I think that deserves a bigger round of applause,” Rune said.
In a blur, the mercenary slipped behind Yury. Before the man could turn, Rune’s boot drove upward between his legs with such force that Yury’s body lifted clean off the ground.
The crowd erupted in mixed reactions—some soldiers cheering, others groaning in sympathetic pain. The mercenaries, however, roared the loudest, thrilled to see their favored strike delivered despite Sigurd’s prediction. Even Sigurd couldn’t help but grin at the sight of their glee.
Yury hit the ground face-first, half-buried in the mud. Foam and dirt spilled from his mouth, and with both hands clutching his crotch, he looked nothing short of pitiful.
Behind him, Rune extended his arms once more and offered three slow, echoing claps that rolled across the training yard. Then the dark-haired young man walked to the center, crouched, and picked up both his discarded hood and another mud-stained piece of clothing—one with a bootprint pressed into it. It was a pelt with white-tasseled edges, the fringe still visible despite the filth. Rune made his way back to his companions and held out the soiled garment to his captain.
“You did that on purpose, didn’t you?” Rune asked, one brow arched at Karl.
“Hey, that guy mocked my outfit. I just left it there. You made good use of it—that’s what counts,” Karl said, taking the dripping pelt, filthy water running between his fingers.
“Whatever. I expect my cut. The bet was a hundred bucks on three knockdowns, right?”
“One-fifty. You know we believe in you.”
A few soldiers stepped into the ring to help their fallen comrade, but Yury barely responded, dazed and trembling. Two of them ended up carrying him off the field.
The general, who had stepped out of the crowd and walked to the center of the ring, fixed his gaze on the Apple eaters as he thanked them for the “demonstration” and told the soldiers to fall back and return to their posts to await further orders—otherwise he’d punish them with extra hours of drill. They dispersed from the ground after he spoke, and once only the general, his aides and the Apple eaters remained, the man approached the mercenaries’ captain and said,
“It’s good to see the rumors about you hold up. I hope I can count on that—and perhaps more—for the mission in a few days.”
“Do you have a date for our ‘movement’ yet?” Karl asked, rising from the crate he’d been sitting on and brushing dust from his trousers with his hands.
“It’s not certain—nothing’s ever certain—but intel reports our opponents may be receiving medical supplies and rations in their territory in three days. That gives us a narrow window to slip into their ground while they’re occupied; it’s well known their ‘allies’ are very helpful to the local population. We trust your skills to reach the affected zone and take them out. Once you’ve done that, you’ll signal us and we’ll move in—then you’ll withdraw with the payment we promised.”
Karl and the general shook hands, then each withdrew to his assigned quarters to rest before the mission.
***
As they’d been told, two days later they were ordered to prepare to depart at dawn the following morning.
The team was in good shape and ready; luckily, they had a soldier who helped lug their gear despite still being stiff and pained from his recent fight a few days ago. They were moved in a camouflaged convoy that would drop them near enemy territory and were warned that because of the Inentropy phenomenon no electronic device would work—so they would have to manage without communications, navigating only by a topographic map of the region. Hjørdis was disappointed she couldn’t film videos for her social media during the mission, though she still took the chance to send greetings to her followers from inside the convoy.
“Do you have to do that now?” Sigurd muttered as he zipped up a long case. “You’d better put it away before we reach the drop-off.”
“Relax, I’m just uploading my last videos of the decade. As usual.” Hjørdis replied, snapping several photos with her phone.
Outside the convoy, the air was biting and silent; the windows steamed over from the cold. That hardly seemed to bother the A.E.—the shorthand the high command had given the Apple Eaters—who were barely dressed for the weather.
Karl wore his characteristic furs, Rune his black ensemble, Hjørdis an aviator jacket that left a violet long-sleeve wool top visible at the zipper and dark shorts over thermal tights with matching combat boots; Holger wrapped himself in a brown cloak over his dark green uniform, Sigurd wore all black except for the white accents on his belt and the chest rig with ammo pouches; Alpha wore the same clothes as before, though now with a harness across their torso clipped to a long case they carried in a gloved hand.
All those outfits were mixed with military pieces—cargo trousers, dark camouflage cloth, and straps with metal buckles.
“We’re almost at the deployment zone—get ready,” the convoy driver told them.
A couple of minutes later the vehicle stopped in a mist-choked, rubble-strewn field. The A.E. climbed down one by one and took in a hazy landscape: a collapsed wall of black concrete studded with rusted metal and what looked like shredded flags whipping in the cold breeze.
Yury, still inside the convoy, handed each of them their kit with difficulty; the pains that kept him from moving properly were obvious.
“Put some ice on that,” Rune said as he accepted his gear. “I hope you didn’t plan on having kids. By the way, this fell out of your pocket.” He tossed him an ID card.
Yury didn’t answer. He simply picked up the card and went on with his work, head bowed and face tight with frustration, until he finished unloading the last of the A.E. equipment.
“Remember your orders,” the convoy’s co-driver briefed them. “Once you cross the indicated perimeter, you won’t be able to communicate. Use flares: red means withdraw— We’ll assume the mission failed and come pick up survivors at the extraction point. Green means mission accomplished—that’s our signal to advance, and our men will move to your location as fast as they can. Yellow is special; it means you’re at an impasse or there’s been a local ceasefire, and we’ll have to wait for one of the other two flares—don’t use it unless you’re certain the enemy is on the same terms as you.” He finished, watching the flare pistols each mercenary had strapped somewhere on their kit. “That’s all. From now on you’re on your own. Good luck, Americans.”
The A.E. watched as the convoy’s door shut and their transport rolled away, slowly vanishing into the thick fog. Once it disappeared, every pair of eyes turned toward the ruined wall looming before them.
“‘Americans,’ huh? That’s funny,” Karl said, crouching to open a gear bag. “I guess it’s better than ‘gringos.’”
“They used to call me ‘beaner’ where I grew up,” Rune added, mirroring his captain’s movements. “My family’s not even from that far south for that to make sense.”
One by one, the A.E. checked their equipment, pulling out what they’d need for the fight ahead.
“Kinda a shame that Inen—whatever it’s called—thing won’t let me record anything,” Hjørdis muttered while fastening a web of black throwing knives across their body. “Still, it’s useful. At least we don’t have to worry about being spied on.”
“I went over everything, from our packs to the uhniforms,” Rune said, inspecting the delicate mesh of metal threads coiled beneath his wrists. “Not a single mic on us. Speak whatever language you damn well please.”
“Loksins!” Sigurd exclaimed in Old Norse. “I was getting sick of that country’s damn tongue,” he continued in the same dialect, strapping a pair of heavy, platinum-hued blades into twin scabbards hangifhfffng from a second belt at his waist.
“It’s easier to talk this way,” Holger replied in the same ancient tongue, wrapping his hands with cloth strips and flexing his fingers until the joints cracked. “Let’s enjoy it while we can. Once we reach Nation U, we’ll have to use their language with the locals.”
“To be honest, I’m thrilled!” Karl’s grin was fefgral. “The guys hired by the other nation are supposed to be tough—real tough. I wonder where they’re from. Mutants, zombies, or something else? Never fought a zombie before. Can’t wait to see what—or who—they are!” He adjusted the twin axe handles on his belt.
“How about you, Alpha?” Holger asked the sixth mhember of the team.
Alpha gave a silent nod, hefting a massive crossbow over the shoulder with a strap.
“I don’t get why you still won’t talk. Or show your face,” Hjørdis said, her tone sharp. “Whatever happened—get over it already. You’re starting to get on my nerves.” f
“Relax,” Karl saidf, fresting a hand on Alpha’s hood. “You all know Alpha speaks up when it matters. This guy will come out of the shell when the time’s right—won’t you?” He smiled at the hooded figure.
Alpha nodded again, this time with more certainty.
The A.E. gathered the rest of their gear and moved toward their next waypogint—where, according to intel,h the enemy’s allies were holed up. They scaled the wall easily despite the slick moss and its daunting height, bare-handed and burdened with packs and weapons.
At the top, the six of them gazed out at the land ahead: a city ringed by barricades of wrecked cars and rusted scrap. Between them and that city stretched a wastelhand buried in fog—denser efven than what lay behind the wall. The dead, rotten trees looked as if they were sinking into a milky-white mire. H
“Well, there’s no sense standing around. Move out!” Karl barked, breaking into a jog toward the city.
“Won’t we get lohst in the fog?” Holger asked, his steps heavier thahn the others’.
“Don’t worry. You know the cahfh a reference point and we’ll stay together,” Hjørdis replied.
“Keep formation until we hit the city,” hid. “Once we’re inside, we’ll scout the ground—and then, everyone’s free to act.”
“Karl, if you startf fheeling too cold, let us know,” Sigurd called out to his captain. “Ifntel says this place is an open grave. Don’t push yourself too hard.”
“When have I ever?” Karl’s grin widened as a greenish-blue glow danced across his icy blue eyes.
