A potential future story

The photo on the wall stared back at him, just like it had done every other time he’d stared at it. It was the only picture he had kept when he fled America and rushed back to his home land.

The picture itself was old and tattered, but the scene embedded in it still shined as if it was taken yesterday. In it stood nine men, all of different shapes, sizes, ages and nationalities. They were all cheering and waving and holding bottles of beer. He couldn’t remember who took the picture, but he remembered how much of a pain it had been to get everyone to cooperate. All that lager and silliness. The joy he shared with those men. It was gone now.

Behind him, the TV groaned. The static lessened, and he could actually hear what was being said. The Gray Army had crossed the Russian borders. They hadn’t got too far, but he knew that they would eventually reach the small town he was now in.

Ah, the small town of Elovo. A small fishing town in the middle of nowhere. Everyone entered and left the village via the old stone bridge, or by the river itself. Everyone was friendly. Everyone knew everyone. It stank of tradition and loyalty. When he fled from America, they welcomed him with open arms, as if they’d known him all his life. They asked no questions. They demanded no answers. But when he’d asked them about a place to stay, a place to work, they gave him just what he wanted. They hadn’t had a dedicated law enforcer for decades. They hadn’t needed it for a long time. But since he was a big, strong man and he needed a job, they happily gave it to him. Things had been great. Well, until the threat of the Gray Army appeared on their old, black and white tvs.

Their unasked questions had suddenly been answered by the posh, all-believing voices on their screens. He was a failure. He was part of the series of events that had caused world-wide destruction.

He had been a mercenary. A good one. No, a great one. His team of men and, well, the other one, had been victorious during the Gravel Wars. Victory after victory. No one expected that a third player would come in and destroy everything. Someone who didn’t want to control the world via gravel, paper-pushing and secret handshakes, but by force. And suddenly, the two teams of mercenaries, protected by their powerful SPAWN technology, had to fight together, against a common enemy.

Him and his team of men had been unable to stop the Gray Army. While his enemies-turned-allies had been able to successfully destroy several of the huge, machine-making factories that powered the Gray Army, his team had failed to protect their own artillery factories. There was no way that they could have been in two places at once. And no one knew what would happen should the SPAWN generators be destroyed. It should have been obvious.

Two groups of nine men against an army. An army that could be in several locations at any one time. A victory seemed almost impossible. But the governments and media did not see that. All they saw was a failure and an invasion. They didn’t see the loss of men, the forgotten heroics, the tattered lives or the broken friendships. They just saw someone they could blame.

They didn’t see him die.

The TV fell silent. The power had gone off. Peering out of the window, past the broken pickets and death threats, past the small houses, past the old, tired bridge, there was a storm coming. It must have caused a short circuit somewhere. The storm was familiar. He’d seen it countless times before. The Gray Army was on its way. Or, at least, part of it.

That was when he spotted the small, carefully wrapped box. Wrapped in blue and red paper. Curious, he nudged the door open and picked it up. It was damp from the weather. It must have been sitting there for longer than he thought.

He closed the door with a sigh, and placed it on the table by the silenced TV. It could have been something nasty. The second everyone realised who he was, he’d had stones thrown at him, mess left on his porch, envelopes full of nails and boxes of dead animals. This could have been just another chunk of hatred thrown at him. But it might not have been.

The paper came off with ease. The box opened even easier. The dampness helped.

Inside was a pair of torn, red, rubber gloves.

The memories hit him like a barrage of rockets. He was back there, defending the artillery factory. He was there…

They were struggling and had called for reinforcements. The other mercenary team was heading towards them, but they never made it. There was nothing they could do except try to get out of there. That’s when they lost their most crucial technology. That’s when their SPAWN generator exploded.

Shards of glass and metal rained down on them. Rockets and grenades exploded behind them. And someone was missing. Their scout. He was just a little kid. And he’d fallen behind. No one knew what to do. They wanted to go back and save him. The voice in their ears screamed for them to leave him behind. That’s when their medic stood up. The most noble man on his team. His best friend. He didn’t get the chance to tell the doctor that it was incredibly risky. He’d disappeared into the fallen building before anyone could stop him.

And it wasn’t long before he reappeared, the scout running in tow. They wanted to cheer. But then they saw what was behind them.

Hundreds of them. The rain of glass and metal was replaced by a torrent of bullets. They fired back, hoping to give their comrades some cover as they too tried to make it back to safety. The scout made it, leaping behind a large piece of debris that shielded him from the flood of bullets.

Suddenly, the sound of bullets was replaced by a scream.

All he could do was watch as his best friend was ripped to shreds…

A sharp pain in reality brought him back from his nightmare. He’d bashed his hands on the table in anger, knocking the TV off the table and onto the floor. A small note settled on the table, bearing neat, tidy writing. He hadn’t noticed it earlier.

“The Bridge. Sunset.”

Surely this was just some horrible trick? Surely… He had to go. He could not leave it like this. The sun was already starting to drop down beneath the clouds. He threw on his coat, grabbed his shotgun, one of the few other things he’d brought with him, and left, slamming the door shut.

The streets were empty. Everyone had seen what was coming, and had hidden themselves away or had fled the day before. The wind felt lonely as it blew down the streets, following him towards the bridge. Someone was waiting for him.

“Nyet…” It can’t have been…

“Nein…” The stranger removed his hat, then took off his glasses to remove the condensation on them. “Not quite. You’re not zhe only one who lost friends…”

It wasn’t. His eyes scanned the stranger. He’d forgotten how they’d all been so alike. The thick accent. The broad shoulders. The over-sized hands. The small glasses. The retreating hair, slowly turning grey.

“I know vhat you are zhinking. Nein. I’m not your deceased komrade. Your team lost one member. My team lost, vell…” The stranger paused. He wasn’t really s stranger any more. “I alvays vondered if I vould get on as vell vith my RED counterparts as I did vith my old friends and komrades…”

He wanted to turn away. Specks of rain started to gather around his collar. The wind was picking up.

“Zhey are coming. And zhey won’t stop. Someone needs to fight zhem. Ve vere doing vell until our loses. Zhe world gave up on us and ve gave up too. Ve ran away…” He replaced his now dry glasses. “But ve vill all die some day. Why not die as a hero? Or, better yet, why not fight together and live as a hero?”

His ears pricked up. “My… My friend said that…”

“I know… Heavy… Vill you fight vith me?”

“I do not have weapons…” Heavy’s eyes dropped to the floor. “I left all behind…”

The doctor grinned as lightning flickered through the sky. He pointed towards an old vehicle. Strapped to the roof was a familiar-looking gun.

Heavy smiled, nodding his head. It was first time he’d smiled in a long time. “We fight together, Doktor…”