“EVERYONE’S OUT!”

It was impossible to tell who was giving orders. Jax and Dakota dove out into the middle of the street and scrambled for cover behind a pile of broken concrete. On the other side, Derek and Noah ducked into a wrecked shop.

The empty scout car continued backwards to smash into the ruins of the Warthog. The IFV lay on its side and Noah was easily able to see a gaping hole in the bottom that was not there when they went out on patrol a few hours earlier. Pieces of twisted metal lay scattered and patches of flame denoted where splashes of burning fuel had landed.

Four were never going to see Orb's sparkling oceans again.

Noah kneeled behind a pillar and shouldered his rifle. Across the street, a dark figure leaned out a window and he placed the aiming reticle squarely on the target. He squeezed gently on the trigger and was rewarded with a pink mist where the man's head had been. Beside him, Derek had finally gotten the MG36 in position and opened fire on the second floor. Noah took the opportunity to signal Jax and Dakota.

Dakota barely took notice of Noah's shot, but Derek's long bursts of fire certainly caught his attention. He turned to his left to see Noah waving them over. The Coordinator nodded and tapped Jax's helmet, signalling that he was going ahead.

He fired a few more shots and rose to a crouch, only to be thrown to the ground moments later. The impact knocked the wind out of him, leaving him on his back staring at the sky. Noah heard flames off to his left and saw the enemies in flames. Two dark figures appeared on either side.

“Get moving, Jax!”

The smoke from the burning Warthog choked the air, mixing with the plaster dust that rattled down with every heavy thud of enemy fire.

“Jax! Get up!” Dakota roared, the wind finally returning to his lungs.

Through the haze, he saw Jax pinned against the concrete rubble, his legs tangled in twisted rebar, a dark stain rapidly blooming across his chest rig. Jax wasn't moving. His eyes were wide, blinking up at the ash-choked sky in shock. “Fall back! Everyone out of the street, now!” A voice crackled violently over the comms, distorted by static and panic. “The ridge is compromised! Fall back to the bunker!”

The ambush was escalating. Mortar rounds began to chew up the pavement, tossing chunks of asphalt into the air like lethal confetti. Dakota didn’t think. He scrambled forward on his hands and knees, the gravel tearing through his uniform. He reached Jax.

“I’ve got you, buddy.” Dakota grunted, hauling Jax’s deadweight up by his tactical vest. Jax let out a ragged, agonized groan, confirming he was still breathing, but his boots just dragged uselessly on the ground.

“Back off! Back off to the bunker! Get inside!” The voice screamed again over the radio, drowned out by the deafening rattle of Derek’s MG36 trying to provide suppressive cover.

The world went completely white and gray. A mortar struck a nearby storefront, detonating a wall of blinding dust that swallowed the street whole. Dakota couldn't see his own hand in front of his face, let alone the bunker entrance. His eyes burned; his throat felt like sandpaper.

He slung Jax’s arm over his shoulder, dug his heels into the dirt, and began backward-dragging the wounded soldier through the fog, using the deafening echoes of the return fire to guide him.

Suddenly, hands reached out from the gloom. Strong arms grabbed Dakota’s collar and hauled both him and Jax through a heavy steel bulkhead. They tumbled onto the cool, gritty concrete floor of the bunker. The heavy door slammed shut behind them, cutting off the sharpest cracks of the gunfire, though the walls still shuddered from the explosions outside. Dakota gasped for air, immediately rolling over to his knees.

“Medic, we nees a medic over here!” A voice shouted from the dim interior. The bunker was already a chaotic triage center. Even as Dakota dragged Jax toward a clear patch of floor to rip open his medical kit, the heavy doors cracked open again. A flood of dust spilled inside, followed by more wounded soldiers scrambling, limping, and dragging one another into the safety of the dark concrete shelter.

The rescue never came. Hours bled into days, and days into weeks. The bunker became a tomb.

One by one, the wounded soldiers succumbed. Some died of their injuries; others withered away as the water ran dry and the rations vanished. In the end, only Dakota remained, trapped in the dark with the rotting harvest of the ambush. The stench was a physical weight, thick and suffocating, and the gruesome sight of his decaying comrades pushed his mind to the absolute brink.