THE IRON FIST

Five silhouettes in grey-black Frontier uniforms moved across the wasteland with the confidence that leaves no doubt: they knew where they were going, and they knew what they were looking for. Their steps were unhurried but purposeful, heads bent to the ground, eyes scanning the sand, trampled grass, broken branches of rare bushes - every little thing that could betray the squad's presence. They were following the tracks Iris and her comrades had left on the dry, cracked clay: impressions of soles, fresh scratches on stones, disturbed pollen on stunted plants. The tracks were barely visible, but to a trained scout's eye, they read like an open book.

Iris felt a cold, sticky knot of anxiety form in her chest. They were being followed. The Frontier scouts hadn't just stumbled onto their trail - they were walking purposefully, methodically, like hounds on a scent. And now the distance between them was closing with every minute. She quickly assessed the situation: the scouts were about two hundred meters away, open terrain, almost no cover - only scatterings of large rocks and rare depressions in the terrain left by ancient bombardments. If the scouts continued at the same speed, they'd catch the squad in ten or fifteen minutes. If they ran, they'd raise dust and attract attention. If they tried to hide, they'd risk being discovered. There was no choice - they had to act.

Iris signaled with her hand, pointing to cover, and the squad instantly dispersed to positions. Kell, heavy and slow-looking, silently dropped behind a large boulder, his rifle already aimed at the enemy. Ren slid into a crevice between rock fragments, becoming a shadow invisible to the naked eye. Elias pressed to the ground behind a stunted bush, his breathing becoming shallow and silent, his hand gripping a knife hilt. Iris herself lay low behind a weathered stone block, feeling her heart pound against her ribs, salty sweat run down her temples and sting her eyes. She watched the approaching scouts, counting their steps, noting their positions, their weapons, their stances. They didn't notice the danger - their attention was fixed on the tracks on the ground, not on the rocks where death lay in wait.

They were talking - snippets of phrases reached her, distorted by the wind, but she heard laughter, casual comments about the weather, about hoping to finish the chase before dark. One of them, a stocky man with a sergeant's patch on his sleeve, bent to examine a fresh boot print on dry clay and grunted with satisfaction, pointing it out to his companions. Two others came closer, and for a moment they grouped together, losing visual on the flanks. Iris held her breath. They weren't expecting an attack. They were expecting prey they could take with their bare hands. And that was their main mistake.

She turned her head to Elias, her lips barely moving as she whispered, almost inaudibly:

We have to take them out quietly. Not a single shot. Silent knives, throats, no noise. If they raise the alarm, we won't make it to the border.

Elias nodded, short and sharp, and in his eyes was neither doubt nor fear - only cold, focused readiness. He silently circled the rocks, moving along the scouts' line of sight, using every shadow, every unevenness of the terrain as cover. His body moved as a single mechanism - he was a shadow sliding across the ground, silent and invisible. He took a flank position, hiding behind a tall block, and waited for the signal. Kell and Ren also prepared, their knives ready. The squad lay low, grown into the earth, and the wasteland fell silent in anticipation of the strike, broken only by the whistling wind and the distant cry of a lone bird.

Iris waited. She felt each second stretch into eternity, adrenaline filling her body, making her muscles springy, her perception heightened to the limit. The scouts approached, their steps becoming more distinct, their faces clearer. She heard their voices, saw their faces - weathered, hard, eyes narrowed against the sun, shaved heads with short, bristly nape hair. They were ten meters away. Eight. Five. When the sergeant drew level with her cover, she gripped the knife handle and waited for the perfect moment. One more moment. One more step. And then she would give the signal.

She waited, ready for the fight, feeling the world shrink to the size of this rock, this knife, this breath. She knew - they had one chance. One second that would decide everything.

Iris gave the signal.

She sprang from behind the block silently, like a shadow, her knife describing a short arc and plunging into the sergeant's throat with surgical precision. He only managed an exhale - a hoarse, gurgling sound - and his body collapsed to its knees, hands grasping at the air. At the same moment, Elias emerged from the shadows like a ghost, his hands wrapping around the second scout's head - a sharp, dry crack, and the body went limp, crumpling to the sand without a sound. Kell, without rising, threw his knife - the steel entered the third scout's back between the shoulder blades; he took a step forward, stumbled, and fell face-first into the dust, not making a sound.

The fourth, the youngest of the group, with frightened eyes, began to turn, his hand jerking towards his rifle, but Ren was already there - a blow to the base of the skull, and the body collapsed, never even touching the weapon. The fifth, a tall, skinny marksman, stood apart; his gaze managed to slide over his falling comrades, he opened his mouth to scream, but Iris was already before him, her palm clamping his jaw, her knife entering under his ribs with a short, wet sound, muffled by a gust of wind. He gasped, his eyes widening in disbelief, and he crumpled to the ground, clutching the knife handle in a final spasm.

It was over. Five bodies lay on the sand, their blood slowly soaking into the dry, cracked earth.

Iris wiped the blade on the dead sergeant's jacket, her breathing even, but inside everything trembled from overexertion. She was about to signal to continue the march when she noticed Elias, putting away his knife, step on a round, unstable stone. His foot slipped on the fine gravel, he lost his balance for a fraction of a second, and at that same moment, one of the scouts - the one lying at his feet, still alive in his death throes - jerked, his finger convulsively pressing the trigger. The wild shot passed tangentially, tearing through the jacket and skin on Elias's left shoulder. He jerked from the sudden, searing pain, his face twisting in a grimace, and he pressed his palm to the wound, feeling his fingers instantly become wet and sticky with blood. The jacket fabric quickly darkened, soaking crimson, and a thin stream ran down his sleeve.

Iris rushed to him, dropping to her knees beside him, her hands already tearing the hem of his shirt to apply a bandage. She saw the wound - ragged, not deep, but bleeding; the bullet had passed tangentially, not hitting bone, but damaging muscle. Elias clenched his teeth until they cracked, his breathing ragged, but he didn't cry out, didn't groan, only exhaled heavily and looked at her:

Bandage it. Fast. And we move on.

She applied the bandage, pulling it tight, feeling him flinch with pain at each of her movements, but she didn't stop, not wanting to waste time. Her fingers were stained with his blood when she finished, and she paused for a moment, meeting his eyes, looking for signs he might lose consciousness. But his eyes were clear - tired, but clear, and in them burned that same unyielding will that had carried them across the wasteland.

He rose, leaning on his good arm, and without a word moved forward, leaving behind the bodies of the scouts and his own dried blood spot on the sand. Kell and Ren were already scanning the horizon, ready to cover. Iris clenched her fists, feeling adrenaline slowly fade, leaving behind cold, empty weariness. She looked at the bloodstained bandage on his shoulder, and something tightened in her chest. But she didn't allow herself to stop. She followed him, catching up in a few steps, and took his arm to support him, feeling him lean slightly on her, not allowing himself to slow.

They walked for about another hour before Iris made a decision. The sun was beginning to sink towards the horizon, painting the wasteland in rusty, crimson tones, and shadows grew longer, offering cover. Ahead appeared a small depression - the remains of an old bunker, half-sunk in sand, with broken concrete walls that could hide them from casual glances. She gave the signal to stop, and the squad instantly dispersed to positions: Kell took an observation post on the upper edge of the depression, his rifle aimed at where they'd come from; Ren slipped into the shadows, guarding the opposite flank. Iris led Elias to a surviving piece of concrete that could serve as a seat, and sat him down on the cold, rough stone, feeling him sink down heavily, his shoulders slumping with weariness and pain.

She knelt before him, ignoring the sharp gravel digging into her skin through her trousers. Her hands, still not fully cleaned of his blood, were already removing the old bandage, carefully unwinding the fabric soaked in dark, brownish fluid. The bandage had stuck to the wound, and as she peeled it off, Elias flinched, his breathing becoming more rapid and shallow, but he made no sound, only clenched his jaw so hard muscles stood out on his cheekbones. Iris saw the wound now in all its stark reality - a ragged edge, deep but, fortunately, clean, without debris, without infection; the muscle was damaged, but the bone was intact. Blood oozed slowly from the depth but didn't pulse, indicating major vessels were undamaged. She exhaled with relief she didn't show on her face, her hands already reaching for the first-aid kit on her belt.

She took out the canteen of clean water, the only one they'd saved for emergencies, and began to flush the wound, pouring a thin stream to wash away clotted blood and fine sand. Elias flinched as the cold water touched his hot, inflamed skin, his fingers digging into the edge of the concrete block, whitening with tension. His breathing faltered for a moment, but he didn't look away, didn't complain, just stared into the distance, teeth clenched, letting her work. Iris worked quickly but thoroughly - she took antiseptic, soaked a piece of clean gauze, and pressed it to the wound, feeling the muscles under her fingers tense, him swallowing a groan, swallowing it back, not allowing himself even a soft exhale. She applied a fresh bandage, pulling it tightly but not too tight to avoid restricting circulation, and secured the ends with a knot.

Finished, she looked up and met his gaze. His face was pale, covered in small beads of sweat, but there was no fear or weakness in his eyes - only that same steely, unyielding will she'd always seen in him. She looked directly into his eyes, her voice firm, without a shadow of doubt:

Don't move your arm now. At all. Don't tense it, don't try to carry the backpack, don't help us. We'll reach the city, and there you'll be examined. It'll be all right. You hear me?

Elias nodded, short and sharp, without unnecessary words. He didn't argue, didn't try to prove he could walk further - he knew she was right, and he trusted her judgment. That trust was silent but absolute, and it warmed her somewhere in her chest, giving her strength to continue when her own legs were beginning to tremble with exhaustion.

Iris stood up, feeling her knees stiff from kneeling for so long. She offered him her hand - palm up, open, without hesitation. Elias looked at her hand, then at her face, and the corners of his mouth twitched in a semblance of a smile, more weary than cheerful. He took her hand with his good one, and she felt the warmth of his fingers, their strength, despite the weakness in his body. She pulled him up, helping him stand, and he rose, swaying for a moment but steadying himself, straightening. His voice was hoarse, but carried the same steel as always:

I'm with you. To the end. Whatever happens.

Iris nodded. Just nodded, without unnecessary words, because words were unnecessary. They both knew it wasn't an empty phrase.

I know. Let's go.

She turned and moved forward, glancing out of the corner of her eye to see him walking beside her, leaning on his good side but not falling behind, not slowing. Kell and Ren silently broke from their positions and fell in behind, covering the flanks. The squad moved on across the wasteland, leaving behind the concrete ruins and the fresh smell of antiseptic mixed with blood and dust.

Iris felt strength draining from her with each new step. Her leg muscles ached, her back throbbed, her shoulders were pulled by the backpack straps, which seemed heavier with each hour. She felt her internal energy reservoir slowly emptying, her eyelids growing heavy, black spots sometimes dancing before her eyes, but she didn't stop. She couldn't stop, because if she stopped, everything would stop - the movement, the hope, themselves, lost in this endless grey emptiness. She had to walk, even when everything inside screamed for mercy, even when every cell demanded rest. She had to deliver the information. She had to get them all to the border. And she walked, feeling each new step bring them closer to the goal, and knowing there was no turning back.

On the third day, when the sun had passed its zenith and the wasteland was slowly being replaced by rare patches of greenery, they finally saw it. The city rose from the grey earth like a mirage, but this time it was real - its walls, made of concrete blocks and rusted metal, were high and massive, studded with observation towers. Around the city stretched a strip of scorched earth - a minefield, beyond which rows of barbed wire stretched in three lines. Iris felt warmth spread in her chest - the first real relief in three days - but it mixed with anxiety when she saw that the city's main gates were closed. The massive steel leaves were tightly locked, and on the walls she saw armed people peering into the horizon with the same tension with which they themselves had looked at the Frontier camp.

She approached the gates, feeling dozens of sights on her, and raised her hands, showing she was not a threat. One of the sentries shouted from above, his voice hoarse from dust and strain:

Halt! Who goes there? Where from?

Iris pulled her identification from her pocket - an old, worn plastic card with a holographic Union seal - and held it above her head. She gave her call sign, name, unit code. A few minutes of tense waiting, and then came the screech of mechanisms - the gates began to slowly open, letting them inside. She entered first, feeling the shadow of the gates fall on her, and behind her - Elias, pale but still standing, Kell and Ren bringing up the rear.

Inside, the city was submerged in feverish activity. Everything she'd seen in recent days - the calm but tense life of small settlements - was replaced by a picture of total mobilization. Streets were dug up, people built barricades from sandbags, rusted cars, and concrete slabs, hastily erecting fortifications on every corner. Women and the elderly hauled ammunition boxes, teenagers brought bottles of incendiary mixture, men of all ages checked weapons, cleaned barrels, counted charges. Children - small, frightened, with big eyes - sat deep inside buildings, huddled together, or stood in lines for trucks ready to take them to safer areas. The air smelled of burnt oil, metal, and fear, mixed with the resolve hanging in every glance, every gesture. Iris saw a mother clutching a child while her father nailed boards over a window, and her heart clenched at the sight - but she also felt pride that these people weren't giving up, that they were ready to stand to the last.