When Silas first dragged me into this hell, I swore I wouldn't fire a single shot. But war is a hollow beast that doesn't care for your vows. During one skirmish, a girl—wild and crazed—leapt onto my back, her nails tearing at my face like talons. I didn't see a human in her eyes; I saw only hunger and madness. Before I knew it, my fingers pulled the trigger. Boom.
The warmth of her blood sprayed across my face. No matter how much snow I used to scrub my skin, that crimson stain refused to leave. It felt as if it had seeped into my very soul. I screamed into the void, "Hey, you 'Infected'! I've killed a human!" But my voice was swallowed by the roar of cannons and the rhythmic groans of the dying. I couldn't grasp the meaning of this war. This wasn't human progress; it was our final descent.
There were about thirty of us, led by Silas. None of us had a grand purpose. We were just shadows guarding the outskirts of our dying village. To hell with it all—around that time, rumors spread of a "Black Book" falling from the sky. They whispered that it predicted only ten would survive. Who believes in such fairy tales? But Silas didn't care for stories. He only cared for one thing: "John, a musket takes ten seconds to reload. Those ten seconds are the only thing standing between your life and your grave." To Silas, my father's brother, the entire world was measured in those ten agonizing seconds.
The "Whites" call themselves the sane ones. But how can you be sane when you're drenching the earth in blood? Then there are the "Reds"—the "Infected." Stories say they lose their minds and won't stop until every living thing is slaughtered. The rule is simple: kill them before the sickness takes hold.
Silas had one goal: to keep outsiders away from our soil. It was madness—him and his handful of soldiers against an empire. Predictably, our month-long defense crumbled. The Whites breached the village, pouring blood into the very heart of Europe. It was one of those bone-chilling months of 1852, yet we refused to yield. In the end, only Silas, myself, and six or seven others remained. Silas had the only horse.
When the rustle of trees caught my ear, Silas opened the gates of death for a man emerging from the dark. Boom. I dove into a trench, paralyzed by fear as lead whistled over my head. When I finally dared to look up, the air was filled with the clash of steel. As I tried to stand, Silas kicked me squarely in the back, sending me face-first into the mud.
"You coward!" he roared. He grabbed me by the collar and shattered my nose with a heavy fist. I fought back, confused and desperate. The few survivors left stood there, watching our brawl as if it were a twisted form of entertainment amidst the carnage. Silas drew his weapon and pulled the trigger on me. Click. It wasn't loaded.
In a fit of rage, he kicked mud into my face and turned away. We marched in a single, grim line. I tripped on the slick earth, and a split second later, arrows rained down like a lethal storm. They missed me, but Silas took a hit to the shoulder. Four of our men vanished before our eyes, swallowed by the earth. Silas grabbed two muskets and began to fire rapidly. He would toss an empty one to me, I'd reload it in ten seconds, and throw it back. It was a dance with death. Finally, he hauled me onto his horse, and we fled toward the border of the neighboring village.