Jeremy anxiously rubbed at the dull stain on the stock of his rifle, his fingers moving in restless, repetitive motions. The mark refused to fade, its presence gnawing at the edges of his already frayed nerves. He had only been issued this weapon three days prior, yet after their grueling twelve-mile march through rough terrain, harassed by Union forces at every turn, it already felt like it had seen a lifetime of war.
Night had fallen, blanketing the weary Confederate soldiers in an uneasy stillness. The rhythmic motion of his hands against the wood was the only thing keeping him grounded.
A voice interrupted his thoughts.
"Have you heard about Fredericksburg?" Tommy, a young soldier with an endless supply of gossip, leaned in, his voice lowered conspiratorially.
Jeremy sighed. He didn't particularly like Tommy—too much chatter, not enough discipline—but found himself listening anyway. He slowed his movements, keeping his eyes down but his ears open.
"It happened months ago, but it ain't no ordinary defeat," Tommy continued. "There were… things on the battlefield. Undead things."
A few men scoffed, others chuckled under their breath. One of them shook his head. "Ghost stories? You think we lost 'cause of spooks?"
Tommy leaned forward, undeterred. "I ain't jokin'! Gatling guns couldn't kill 'em. They'd just keep comin', rippin' through our boys like they was nothin'. Drained 'em dry, left 'em lookin' like old leather."
The laughter died down, replaced by a tense silence.
Jeremy stole a glance at the veteran soldier sitting across from him. The man was clutching the cross around his neck, knuckles white, his eyes distant. He wasn't laughing.
A chill crawled up Jeremy's spine.
Suddenly—
"Assembly! Urgent assembly!"
The company lieutenant's sharp voice split through the camp. The shrill whistle followed, sending men scrambling.
Jeremy snapped to his feet, fumbling with his rifle as the squad formed into ranks. The darkness pressed in around them, the woods whispering with unseen movement. Their Master Chief stalked through the lines, ensuring order, his expression grim.
Jeremy positioned himself between Tommy and the silent veteran. Even in the darkness, he could see the man's face, now beaded with sweat.
Then came the sound.
A rustling from the trees.
At first, it was faint—just the wind shifting through the leaves. But then it grew. Footsteps, shuffling in the underbrush, too many to count.
Jeremy's breath hitched.
The Master Chief raised a hand. The entire line tensed, fingers tightening around triggers.
The shadows moved.
Figures emerged from the treeline, their forms barely distinguishable in the darkness. Then they surged forward, not firing, not even carrying weapons. Just running.
"Fire!"
The order rang out. Muzzle flashes split the night. Bullets tore through the air, striking their marks—but the attackers didn't stop.
Jeremy squeezed the trigger, his shot slamming into the chest of an oncoming enemy. Relief flickered through him—until the soldier kept running.
"Dear God," someone whispered.
A scream tore through the line.
Jeremy turned just in time to see Tommy collapse. A Union soldier—no, something else—had tackled him, sinking jagged teeth into his throat. Blood poured out in a sickening gurgle.
Jeremy staggered back, his rifle shaking in his hands.
A shadow loomed over him.
He barely had time to react before a monstrous soldier slammed into him, knocking him to the ground. Its mouth twisted open unnaturally wide, sharp teeth glinting in the moonlight. Blood-red eyes bore into his, hunger radiating from their depths.
Jeremy shoved the rifle up between them, barely holding the creature back. The thing's jaw unhinged further, its breath reeking of decay.
Then—
CRACK!
The creature was ripped off of him and flung through the air like a ragdoll. It struck a tree with a sickening crunch.
Dazed, Jeremy turned his head.
A man stood over him.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, and clad in a dark brown leather coat. A black silk mask obscured most of his face, save for a pair of sharp, piercing eyes. His hair was slicked back, his entire form immaculate—without a single drop of blood on him despite the carnage.
Jeremy barely had time to process before the stranger strode forward, grabbed the fallen monster by the head, and slammed it into the tree. Bone shattered, flesh split, and the creature let out a wet, gurgling death rattle before collapsing in a heap.
The masked man turned, scanning the battlefield.
"Jack! Get your men up the ridge!" he barked.
A squad of gunners broke off, taking position on higher ground. A moment later, controlled bursts of gunfire rang out, and this time, the monsters fell. Their bodies convulsed, then decayed before their eyes—flesh rotting away within seconds.
Jeremy gaped. Silver.
The masked man was already moving, cutting through the battlefield with terrifying precision. Every strike was measured, every blow fatal. Where he fought, the creatures fell.
Then—
"Victor! Damn it!"
The man's tone shifted, now edged with frustration.
Jeremy followed his gaze—and froze.
Another warrior was tearing through the battlefield. Unlike the masked man's refined efficiency, this one was pure, unrelenting carnage.
He moved on all fours, leaping into enemies like a wild beast. His claws—long, gleaming—ripped through flesh with gruesome ease. When one monster lunged at him, he caught it mid-air, tore it in half, and tossed the remains aside like garbage.
Jeremy's stomach turned.
The soldier beside him whispered, voice trembling. "That ain't a man."
Victor roared, a sound that sent shivers down Jeremy's spine. Then—
BANG BANG BANG BANG!
A Gatling gun roared to life, bullets slamming into Victor's back. He staggered, but didn't fall.
Two Union soldiers, pale and terrified, manned the massive weapon, their hands shaking.
Victor grinned.
Slowly, he turned.
The men panicked. "W-We surrender!" one stammered, dropping his rifle.
Victor stepped closer.
He reached out—
"Victor!"
The voice cut through the battlefield like a blade.
Victor halted.
The masked man stood a few feet away, arms crossed. "We're not here to slaughter the living. Stand down."
Victor exhaled sharply. Then, with one last lingering glance at the trembling soldiers, he smirked—and turned away.
Jeremy let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
He didn't know who these men were, but one thing was clear.
They weren't Union.
They weren't Confederate.
And they sure as hell weren't human.