I used to be a Starfleet officer, once. Long ago before this life, before this hell.

Back when the uniform meant something to those who wore it, to those who gave their oath, and in some unfortunate cases, lives. And as I sit here on a cold slope of a shallow embankment, I can only wish for those days. As you read my tale of self-pity you may feel I have sat here for years in the squaller and mire of filth and grey, but that is simply not the case. I have only been here a month, but it seems like eons in the valley of the dead on Celeron-M-Three. It isn't even mud at this point, but a clay that sticks to our boots and uniforms. I tire of it, the coldness goes to my bones, down deep where I fear that no matter the warmth I receive at our patrol depots, it will never wane. My squadmate Chip says he feels like his soul is being eaten. I agree.

But it isn't just the cold and desolation that eats our willful resources, but the noise. The ever-crying and moaning of the damned. Only in nightmares would it be possible for the dead to walk.

Down here in this wasteland on Celeron-M-Three. They do.

The Dominion war has been raging for years now, and by my best, and I admit, vague understanding, placed the Federation on its back heels. On the Enterprise I often gained access to classified briefings since my duties placed me in charge of tri-corder adjustments to detect the cloaked Jem'Hadar. They were a tricky bunch, cunning and difficult to detect by day and nearly impossible by night. We landed here thinking we were stopping a raid on the largest dilithium crystal reserve in the quadrant. In our squad briefing in the hanger bay aboard the Enterprise, we listened to Commander Riker explain that it was imperative to secure the facilities underground so that the war effort could continue.

Riker. He was a good commander…, and the first to fall ill. He beamed back aboard the ship with a painful rash he contracted when inspecting a relay junction in the mine. That was three weeks ago, and since then we have heard nothing. Transporters seem to have failed aboard some of the ships, and due to an abundance of caution are no longer being used. Shuttles come and go bringing us supplies but even they seem to be weary, looking as if they'd fought in a thousand battles. Cubit, my other mate said he was unloading a shuttle and saw degradation along the hull. The alloy flaked as he brushed his arm against it. What manner of weapon is this we face from the Jem'Hadar? Data, the android is experiencing issues, he is down here with us trying to help, but even he is suffering. Just an issue with his voice synthesizer they tell us. Sure. Sure it is. We all know that he too has fallen to whatever it is that blows in the wind into our bones and souls. He will go offline in time, like our replicators and half our phaser charging stations. They will all go offline with degradation.

Is it my time to keep watch? What time is it? I am no longer sure. Even the shining sun seems to have become heavy, the light not quite as dazzling as it was when we landed so many weeks ago. It tires us to squint, and our hands become heavy as they protect our eyes from the dullness and grey. I just need some rest. I peak over the ridgeline of the embankment, the narrow gully and pooled water running along the edge of the mining facility where the ore is extracted for the war effort. From a distance, I can see mountains with tops of snow that I swear were white when we came down. Now it looks grey, the same as the mountain so many miles away. Burnt trees as still as scarecrows cover the landscape, burnt to near ash by the monumental firefight weeks earlier. The Jem'Hadar had indeed been here, but they had brought something with them. New soldiers that waged war on an entirely different scale, with a horn on their head and a single eye to scan the battlefield, gibbering and jabbering about, counting untold things as they spread their diseases. We killed them as they crested the hill just to the east, unloaded volleys of fire to those coming down the mountain and out of the caves to the west… and they just kept coming. Flies as bloated as any I've ever seen buzzed about them, biting and attacking us if they drew too close before the beasts fell. These Plaguebearers are disgusting, that is what we call them now. Each holding a rusted sword that they hopelessly swing about to try and gain a killing blow. Too slow for us, but even then, we feel the soreness in our muscles and bones. When we sit it takes a bit more energy to rise, when we sleep, a bit more to wake. Soon the swords will be able to catch us, it is only a matter of time.

I will not be leaving this planet, I will die here like my kin. On my right hand I can see the first sign of a boil forming just over the third knuckle, this sickness takes its time we have been told. Before Data lost his voice, he mentioned that starships throughout the sector who rotated troops to and from the ground in the first few days have reported outbreaks, over seventeen ships at last count reported issues. Doctor Crusher, bless her heart, hopes to make a cure for this sickness, but I am skeptical. I have doubts. Even that seems to spread in this valley of the dead. A mind virus has taken us, and we cannot shake it, our resolve is faltering and no amount of rest can recover it. We wait, but transmissions have stopped from orbit and we are unsure of what has happened.

…there are so few of us left, from the thousands that landed from a fleet of ships to protect the Dilithium mines…

Oh…the dead… I have not elaborated yet. But given the circumstances, I suppose I will before I too lose my sanity. They have risen from the clay. How? We do not know. I tried to call out to an old roommate, and he just looked at me with dull-set eyes, unblinking or wavering. He did not know me, the soul and spark was long gone. I finished him with a phaser blast which vaporized him to dust. Every night in the shroud of darkness we hear them murmuring, humans and Jem'Hadar alike, their tired throats flapping as they call out for flesh.

Ironic. The diseases and mutations they brought to us turned against them. I suppose even my enemies require pity sometimes. Were there more Jem'Hadar out there? Hiding in some hole like us? Bless Ensign Parterly who is the only one who has managed to save himself from the pain. In his screaming delirium, as his body bloated beyond recognition and flies escaped through his abdomen he found solace. Without pain, he now walks in the mire and muck far from here, joining the diseased and wretched in a painless embrace. Will that be me? I tire of it all. God help us.