Erwin had been on the alert since the warning klaxons went out and security was ordered to organize. He was running on almost no sleep (everyone was these days), but it was an unfortunately familiar feeling. At least it wasn't freezing. He'd grabbed his rifle and some of his other gear and he was looking for another member of security to team up with when the inky blackness rolled down the hallway towards him. He opened his mouth to yell and then staggered as all of his senses were assaulted by a flicker of things which should not be. Then the sound of pipes, high-pitched and fluting off in the darkness.

Tikeli-li! Tikeli-li!

And then everything was horrifically wrong again. A fine mist and light rain were tip-tapping off of his helmet and running off of the zelt he wore as a rain poncho. He shouldn't be here. He should be aboard the ship. He rubbed at his eyes, trying to shake the sense of dread that began to flow through him. All around him were the battered, broken shells of buildings and craters. Upturned automobiles and burned out tanks (some still smoldering, the sickly scent of burnt flesh making its way through the damp air). Twisted corpses wearing German and Russian uniforms and far away the dull thud of artillery, the sharper crack of small-arms and now and then the long, buzz-saw rip of a machine gun.

He ran a tongue over suddenly dry lips as he gripped his rifle and took a cautious step forward. Ahead through the mist and rain he could see shadowy figures and half-hear shouted commands in some language he couldn't quite make out. He knew what he had to do now. He had to find all of them and kill them all before they killed him. It was the only way out. He wasn't going to die here. He couldn't die here.

Kill them.

Rifle raised, he advanced into the cracked and twisted ruins, his heart in his throat.