4. The Parallel WWI War

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4. The Parallel WWI War

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There was rain, and I was cold. The cloudy and stormy sky created an atmosphere of darkness. There was rain, and I was cold. The cloudy and stormy sky created an atmosphere of darkness. The water soaked through my uniform, sticking it to my skin like a second layer. My boots were filled with mud, and every step I took felt like lifting weights. I looked down the trench, a narrow corridor of despair, and it was filled with soldiers whose faces were as gray as the sky above. The stench of wet earth mixed with sweat and something far worse filled the air. The walls of the trench seemed to close in, and I had to fight the urge to climb out and run, knowing well that to do so was certain death.

The distant booms of artillery were a constant, like a grim metronome counting down an unknown time. I could hear the whistle of shells as they arced through the sky, each one a potential herald of oblivion. Every explosion shook the ground and rattled my bones, a reminder of the destructive power that loomed ever near. My hands gripped my rifle tightly, knuckles white, as if holding on to it could anchor me amidst such chaos. My body was exhausted, every muscle aching from tension and fatigue, but there was no time for rest. In that nightmarish landscape, I was a cog in the machine of war, and the machine marched relentlessly on.

I perfectly knew what was happening, down to the minimum details. I was soldier. Someway I knew what was happening. I was a soldier. Yet, even amidst the bedlam, I felt a disquieting awareness that something was off. My mind was saturated with knowledge of a world eerily similar yet distinctly different. In that parallel reality, the United States was under the iron grip of the Washington dynasty. General Malcolm Washington, grandson of George Washington, led a devastating charge against many countries of Europe in the year 5417 after the fall of the Persian Empire. The realization gnawed at me, adding an extra layer of unreality to an already nightmarish landscape.

As rain began to pour, lightning erupted across the apocalyptic sky, its electric fingers scrawling a tale of doom. Thunder roared like the battle cries of celestial gods, foretelling a world on the brink of annihilation. In a frenzy of despair and disorientation, I lunged at a nearby soldier who was innocently sipping his coffee. Seizing him by the fabric of his uniform, I hurled him against the trench wall.

"Where am I?" I snapped.

What I actually said was Wo bin ich?

The soldier's eyes widened in shock and fear, his copper mug tumbling from his grip. His face, already pallid from the unending ordeal of trench warfare, the relentless chatter of machine guns, the ear-splitting detonations of artillery, and the ominous hum of planes circling above, turned an even lighter shade of ghostly white. He was a middle-aged man, with blue eyes and white skin. His lips quivered as he fumbled for words, visibly rattled by my sudden and aggressive interrogation.

“Was machst du, Karl?” He said. “Bist du verrückt?”

"Tell me where I am," I raged.

"What sort of question is that? We're at the Stuttgart Front, fighting against the American loyalists of Washington III."

"What?" I looked at him in utter bewilderment. "The Americans have invaded Germany?"

"Germany?" He looked just as confused. "What's Germany? This is the Holy Roman Empire." He paused. "What's gotten into you, Karl? Too much schnapps?"

"None of this makes any sense."

"What doesn't make sense?"

"What year is it? For God's sake, Friedrich, tell me. Is it 5417?"

"Of course it's 5417. February 3rd, 5417."

I let him go. He straightened his uniform and kept looking at me with wonder, just as a squadron of planes roared overhead.

"I know this will sound utterly absurd,” I said staring at his eyes, “but you must believe me. I'm not a soldier, I'm not even a human being, and I shouldn't be here."

He laughed.

"What in blazes are you talking about?"

"For heaven's sake, Friedrich, listen to me! I'm not a human being, I'm a syraki."

"What on earth is a syraki? Where did you cook up this tale?"

"We're digital entities living in humanity's far-distant future. We exist within virtual realities and most of the time we don't even have bodies."

He looked confused, as if he had not understood a single word of what I had just said.

"How far in the future?" He feigned belief.

"Roughly twenty thousand years."

Then he burst into laughter.

"A fine jest, old chap. A fine jest indeed."

Just as he let out his final chuckle, a screeching whistle cut through the air—too close for comfort. Friedrich’s laughter died abruptly, replaced by the gloom of utter dread.

"Artillery! Down!" He yelled, pulling me to the ground.

Before we even had a chance to cover our heads, the world exploded into chaos. Dirt flew in all directions in the maelstrom of the deafening explosions. In the sky, bolts of lightning competed with the eruptions below, as if the heavens themselves were at war alongside the man-made catastrophe.

Grimacing against the shock and pain, I pushed myself up. Friedrich was doing the same, coughing up mud and wiping his eyes clear. A handful of other soldiers were picking themselves off the ground, some clutching wounds, crying and screaming, others frantically trying to get their bearings. The trench had partially caved in, and the air was thick with the smell of powder and burnt earth.

"To your posts, men! The enemy approaches!" someone hollered down the line.

A series of sharp, repetitive cracks began echoing across the no-man's-land—the unmistakable sound of enemy machine guns. I grabbed my rifle, checked its bolt action, and aimed it over the edge of the trench. I looked down my sights, seeing the dark silhouettes of American soldiers advancing through the rain-soaked, muddy terrain. One of the soldiers carried the American flag, but it was an altered version: the traditional stars and stripes remained, yet in the center of the blue field, where 50 stars would typically reside, stood an imperial eagle perched on the branch of a cherry tree and clutching an ax in one of its claws—unmistakable symbols of George Washington's imperial legacy.

As the battle began, bullets flew back and forth, punctuating the air with their deadly intent. Men screamed, machine guns rattled furiously, and the artillery continued to pound mercilessly and forever close. Shells exploded into fountains of fire and dirt, each blast shattering the world like an earthquake. Amidst the fog of war, my thoughts spiraled in a bizarre blend of horror and disbelief. What is happening? Trapped in a hellish war I did not belong to, I steadied my breathing, aimed, and pulled the trigger.

The last thing I heard was the engine of a plane, its sound intensifying as it drew closer and closer. The noise evolved into a harrowing wail that felt as though it were cleaving the air. Then came the relentless staccato of a machine gun descending from the sky. I screamed, and in that moment, I was no more. My consciousness snapped back again into madness as I was threw into the tapestry of possibilities. I felt like Alice swallowed down the rabbit hole.