In the immediate aftermath of Fourth Platoon's defensive line collapsing, the silence seeping along the trench line grew heavier still.
The acid rain had let up, but a dense fog now hung low over the black sewage on the trench floor. Nothing could be heard from the vox set anymore. Since the final crack of Commissar Vorkov's pistol, all contact with higher command had been completely severed.
"Sergeant, I'm widening the watch angle toward Fourth Platoon by fifteen degrees."
I reported as I subtly turned my lasgun's muzzle toward the right-hand trench lip.
Sergeant Yakov sat against the trench wall, still clenching a crushed Lho-stick between his teeth. Instead of answering, he gave one dull nod. His eyes had gone distant, like those of a man who had already given up calculating.
I looked to the side.
Lazar was still pressed against the trench wall, breathing harshly. His face had gone pale with fever, and his blackened right arm was now continuously leaking foul fluid from beyond his sleeve.
His right hand had stiffened to the point that he could no longer pull a lasgun trigger.
I crouched close beside Lazar.
"Hand over your gun."
"Huh...?"
Lazar stared at me with vacant eyes.
Without waiting for an answer, I took the lasgun from his right hand. Then I grabbed his left hand, made him grip the weapon's body, and forcibly pushed the fingers of his left hand inside the trigger guard.
"Hold it with your left hand. Brace the weapon against your shoulder and watch only the right-hand trench lip."
"Ivan... my right arm..."
"I'll watch your arm. Don't fall over. I don't have the spare capacity to cover your position too."
My voice was cold and dry. There was no trace of sympathy in it, only a mechanical instruction meant to fill a gap in the defensive line. It was for the entirely rational reason that if Lazar went down, my firing angle would widen, increasing both power-cell consumption and fatigue.
"...All right..."
Lazar awkwardly readjusted his grip on the gun with his left hand and pressed his shoulder tightly against the trench wall.
I took out my canteen. Judging by its weight in my hand, barely a third of the water remained. When I opened the cap, the lukewarm stink of disinfectant rose from it.
I swallowed a mouthful of water, then, without replacing the cap, pushed the canteen under Lazar's chin.
"Drink. Exactly two mouthfuls."
Lazar looked down at me in surprise.
"That's your share..."
"If you know that, drink quickly. Hauling you away after you collapse from dehydration would be work too."
Lazar pressed his trembling lips to the canteen and swallowed. The instant he had taken exactly two mouthfuls, I pulled it away without hesitation and shoved it into my pocket.
It was the minimum hydration necessary to preserve combat effectiveness.
I settled it that way in my mind. It was not some useless sympathy like what I had felt while watching that terrified soldier before. This was Castigar, and Lazar keeping his eyes open and pulling the trigger for even one more hour was a way to raise my odds of survival by even 0.8 percent.
Tap.
Without realizing it, my right index finger lightly tapped the body of my lasgun.
Tap.
Once more.
Tap.
Only after the third tap did I stop my finger.
Feeling someone's gaze, I looked over. Lazar was staring blankly with swollen eyes at the fingers that had been tapping my weapon.
"What are you doing...?"
"...Nothing."
I casually lifted my finger away and raised the muzzle into the fog again.
"Watch the front."
Lazar did not ask again.
The fog was quiet. No shells were falling, and no enemy war cries came charging toward us. Yet beyond the fog, a dull scraping sound—sewage and mud being dragged aside—was slowly closing in on the trench lip.
Scrape...
A clump of dirt fell over the trench lip, followed by the heavy thud of an enemy figure in a dented steel helmet dropping into the trench.
It was the same kind as yesterday. It neither fired its weapon nor screamed. With its joints bent at grotesque angles, it simply began crawling toward Lazar, the closest target, a rusted dagger clutched in its hand.
"Too close."
I lowered my lasgun as though tossing it onto the ground.
The barrel had become horribly hot from the continuous firing, leaving no room to fire another beam. Indifferently, I reversed my grip on the weapon.
Then I brought the buttstock down hard on the crawling enemy's jaw.
Crunch!
Once.
Crunch!
Twice.
The heavy sensation of bone breaking and flesh being crushed ran up through my wrist. The enemy stopped moving completely.
Without even catching my breath, I picked up the lasgun from the ground and aimed it forward again. I did not even think to wipe the black blood from the buttstock.
"Situation resolved."
After saying it flatly, I checked Lazar's reaction again. Clutching his lasgun with his left hand, Lazar stared with trembling eyes at the corpse I had smashed apart.
"Ivan... you..."
"Keep your finger on the trigger."
I pushed Lazar's shoulder, pressing him back against the trench wall.
I was acting like a machine that had abandoned being human, yet my hand was still moving Lazar's body toward the safer angle inside the trench. Beneath the shell of calculations for survival, I was still enduring while clinging to the rhythm of being human.
The sewage on the trench floor slowly seeped through gaps in the corpse's crushed armour.
Black blood soaked the trench floor alongside a vile sulfur stench, but I gave it no attention. I merely checked the remaining charge in my power cells and sensed the temperature of the cooling barrel.
"It looks like the Fourth Platoon sector has been completely cleared."
When I reported quietly, Sergeant Yakov, leaning against the trench wall, raised his dull eyes toward me.
"Cleared... You mean they're all dead."
Yakov simply kept chewing the crushed Lho-stick between his teeth. Only the acrid smell of burning drifted from the completely spent stub in the heavy silence.
"Commissar Vorkov is gone. Fourth Platoon is gone. The supply transport is gone. Now there are only a few of us left on this front."
There was not even despair in the sergeant's voice. He was simply listing facts in the same flat tone one might use to read a weather report.
"Lazar, your condition?"
Rather than answer, Lazar gripped the body of his lasgun harder with his left hand. His feverish body was barely held upright against the trench wall, but at least he had not closed his eyes.
"I can pull the trigger, Sergeant."
Lazar's voice came out thin and cracked.
"Good. That's enough."
Yakov pulled a crumpled waterproof packet from inside his fatigues. It crackled when pressed by his fingers: the last packet of compressed biscuits remaining for the entire squad. Without opening it, Yakov shoved it back into his pocket.
"Save it. We eat it after we make it through tonight."
I turned my lasgun's muzzle back into the fog.
I swallowed the saliva in my mouth. The fishy artificial sulfur taste of the swollen protein biscuit still lingered on the tip of my tongue. More important than the phantom sound of bombardment in my head was the fact that my hands still held a lasgun, and Lazar on my right was still breathing.
"Sergeant."
"What."
"Will the enemy come again tonight?"
Yakov gave a short laugh. A rare, hollow smile passed over his worn-out face.
"They will. Those bastards don't sleep."
"I see."
I disengaged the lasgun's safety. The cold feel of its metal came through my glove into my palm.
"Then I should save one power cell."
"Why? For your final shot?"
"No. It's for Lazar. His left-handed firing is inefficient, so I'll need to change his cells for him right beside him."
Yakov watched me silently, then closed his eyes again.
"Do what you want."
The acid rain began falling faintly again. Raindrops slipping through gaps in the tarpaulin tapped coldly against the guardsmen's steel helmets.
I aimed my lasgun back into the fog.
Tap.
My finger tapped the weapon's body once.
Then I waited for the second beat.
Beside me, Lazar was breathing harshly.
I said nothing.
We were still alive.
That was enough.
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