Sergei Mikhailov

Sergei Mikhailov worked with numb fingers, hammer striking iron spikes into frozen timber while smoke from the destroyed bridge drifted across the river. Each blow echoed through the ruined camp like a countdown. Around him, soldiers dragged wagons into position, overturning crates and furniture to form walls that would not hold, only delay. The Sapper knew delay was all that mattered. “Higher,” he muttered, adjusting the angle of a barricade plank. “They climb.” Few listened, but fewer argued. Engineers earned trust quickly when survival depended on structure instead of courage. He measured distances instinctively: firing lanes between gaps, choke points near the supply tents, fallback routes marked by lantern placement. Powder barrels were buried beneath snowbanks, fuses carefully protected from moisture. When the dead reached the barricade, the line would break, but not before paying dearly. Private Orlova helped carry nails, her breath fogging in sharp bursts. Sergeant Volkov inspected the perimeter silently. Captain Korsakov observed from behind, already planning where men would stand when Sergei’s work was finished. The President himself hauled timber beside common soldiers. Sergei noticed but said nothing. Wood weighed the same regardless of rank. A distant groan rolled across the ice. Sergei paused, listening. Years of fortification work had taught him to hear pressure before collapse, bridges, walls… armies. The sound coming now was worse. It had no rhythm, no command. Only hunger. “Lanterns low!” he called. “Make them come close.” Flint struck steel as he prepared the fuse line running beneath the barricade. His defenses were not meant to save everyone. They were meant to buy minutes, precious, bloody minutes for the wounded to escape and rifles to reload. Snow began to fall again, softening the edges of his work. Sergei stepped back, studying the barricade like a craftsman admiring a coffin he hoped no one would need.