Part I – Into the Trees
The fog rolled in like breath from a dying beast — thick, wet, clinging to every uniform, every rifle barrel.
Over 2,000 soldiers stood in staggered rows outside the treeline. No birds. No wind. Just the squelch of boots in soft mud and the low mechanical growl of steam generators powering the field lamps that lit the staging grounds in a pale yellow wash.
Leon stood at the rear, helmet slung low over his eyes, cigarette burning between his fingers. He was in the last team—Team 40. His boots were already soaked through, but he didn't seem to care.
All around him, the teams were moving. 50-man groups, two at a time, stepping into the forest in half-hour intervals. The first few squads had gone just before sunrise. They disappeared into the green wall of vines and fog without a sound.
"Alright, load up!" one officer barked. His voice cracked through the field radio, followed by the thump of boots and distant chatter.
A few soldiers chuckled near Leon. One of them was wiping bug guts off his face with a rag.
"God, they bite like they got somethin' to prove," he muttered.
"They do," someone else said, voice flat. "This forest don't got birds. Just bugs and dead things."
Across the radio, voices crackled:
"Team 5 reporting in — no visual on any hostiles. Just webs. Big-ass webs, man. Like fishing nets."
"Team 3 to command — found some ruins out here. Old stone circle. Looks like a ritual site. Not touching it."
"Team 7 checking in. Bugs already in my ass crack. Send medics. Over."
"Shut the hell up, Harker," another voice replied. "Ain't no medic fixing your hygiene."
Laughter broke out on the line. Then silence again. Just the buzz of static and the occasional rustle of leaves.
Bruno stood near the command tent, arms crossed, watching each team disappear into the mist.
Corporal Weiss stood beside him, picking dirt from under his fingernails with a knife.
"Bet you ten Marks half of 'em get turned around by noon."
Bruno didn't smile. "If they don't learn the map by tonight, we'll be digging graves before lunch tomorrow."
Weiss sheathed the knife. "So cheerful this morning, little General."
Leon lit another cigarette. His team was waiting, most of them checking their repeaters or whispering jokes.
"You hear the one about the elf and the dog?" one kid said.
"Oh no," groaned another. "Shut the fuck up."
"Too late. Elf walks into a bar, sees a dog playing piano. Elf says, 'Who taught him that?' Bartender says, 'Dunno, but he only plays Reich anthems.'"
Silence.
"…That's it?"
"Yeah, that's the joke."
"You're gonna get us shot for morale collapse."
Over the next 36 hours, the staging area thinned. By the time Leon's boots hit the treeline, dusk had fallen on Day Two.
Only the final two teams remained.
The forest swallowed them whole.
The canopy was tight — tree branches like twisted fingers, light bleeding through in slits. The smell of rot and earth was strong. Every step kicked up damp leaves and something that smelled like old blood.
No birds. No squirrels. Just bugs. Thick ones, silent ones. Crawling. Watching.
Leon clicked his radio once.
"Team 40 entering AO. Visibility low. Spirits high. For now."
A voice came back, jokingly dry:
"Copy that. If you hear howling, don't be a hero."
Another voice jumped in:
"Don't listen to him. Be a hero. We need the promotions."
Someone else added:
"If you die, can I have your boots?"
Leon smiled faintly. Then the smile faded.
They were in.
And the forest was watching.