Chapter 2

  The tension in the air was suffocating. Every musket in the regiment was raised toward the barn, fingers trembling against the triggers. The silence of the abandoned village pressed down on them like a weight, their breath visible in the frigid morning air.

  Captain émile Duroc, the regiment’s only officer, stepped forward. He was a man in his late thirties, his face hardened by years of war, but there was something almost fatherly in the way he held himself. He raised a hand, motioning for the men to lower their weapons.

  “Steady,” he ordered, his voice firm yet calm. “It could be a survivor. A child, perhaps.”

  The soldiers exchanged uneasy glances, but they obeyed. Henri, however, kept his musket half-raised, his body coiled like a spring. His instincts screamed at him that something was wrong.

  Captain Duroc took slow steps toward the barn, his boots crunching against the snow-covered earth. The large wooden doors loomed before him, slightly ajar, revealing nothing but pitch-black darkness inside. He placed a hand on one of the doors and gently pushed it open.

  The moment the gap widened, something exploded out of the barn.

  It moved too fast.

  A blur of tattered Austrian blue and pale, dead flesh shot forward, knocking Duroc onto his back. A red-eyed soldier, or what had once been a soldier, straddled him, its mouth snapping open to reveal jagged, broken teeth. Duroc barely had time to react—he raised his arm to shield himself, and the thing bit down savagely on his wrist.

  He roared in pain.

  “Mon Dieu! Get it off him!” Pierre was the first to react, rushing forward with his bayonet. He thrust the blade into the creature’s side, but it barely seemed to notice. It kept its grip on Duroc, gnawing into his wrist with a sickening squelch.

  Henri didn’t hesitate. He flipped his musket, gripping it like a club, and swung with all his might. The stock slammed into the thing’s skull with a sickening crunch, knocking it sideways. Duroc scrambled away, clutching his bleeding wrist as the soldiers descended upon the creature. Bayonets and rifle butts struck repeatedly until it stopped moving.

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  The body twitched once more, then went still.

  Duroc sat up, panting heavily, his sleeve soaked in crimson.

  “What… what the hell was that?” muttered Jacques, one of the younger soldiers, his face pale as a ghost.

  “An Austrian deserter who’s lost his mind,” Pierre said, still trying to catch his breath. “That’s all.”

  Henri wasn’t convinced. He had seen madness before, but this? The way it moved, the way it didn’t react to pain, the way its eyes glowed red…

  Duroc groaned, pulling his coat tighter over the wound. “Let’s move. There’s nothing left for us here.”

  —

  They marched through the snow, passing more villages as the day wore on. Each one told a different story.

  The second village they found had been burned to the ground. Charred remains of houses still smoked, blackened skeletons of buildings standing like gravestones. Bodies lay scattered in the streets, some missing limbs, others half-buried in the ash. There were no signs of survivors.

  The third village was eerily intact, but abandoned. Pots of stew sat frozen on tables. Chairs were knocked over. Footprints littered the streets, all leading in one direction—toward the forest. Whatever had happened, the villagers had left in a hurry.

  The fourth village was worse. The smell hit them before they saw it. Corpses lined the main road, stripped of clothing and valuables, stacked as if prepared for burial. But no graves had been dug. The doors of the homes were wide open, the interiors ransacked. Bandits, most likely. The soldiers said nothing as they moved on.

  Finally, as the sun began to set, they stumbled upon something different.

  A village untouched by war.

  The houses were intact, smoke curled from chimneys, and in the distance, children played in the snow. It was surreal, like stepping into a world before the war had begun.

  The villagers regarded them cautiously, eyes wary but not unkind. They spoke little French, but their gestures were warm, offering bread and water. Henri saw no weapons among them, only farmers and their families.

  The village elder, a graying man named Václav, stepped forward and greeted Duroc with a respectful nod. He spoke in slow, careful German, a language Duroc understood well enough to converse in.

  “You have traveled far,” Václav said. “You are welcome to rest here.”

  Duroc nodded. “Thank you. We appreciate your kindness.”

  That night, they gathered in the largest house, a simple but sturdy building with a roaring hearth. Duroc sat at the head of the room, his bandaged wrist resting on the table. The soldiers ate in silence, exhaustion weighing on them.

  Henri was the first to break the silence. “There’s something out there,” he said. “Not just soldiers or bandits. Something else.”

  Václav’s expression darkened. “You have seen them.”

  The room tensed. “You know of them?” Duroc asked.

  Václav nodded slowly. “We have heard stories. Some say the dead do not stay dead anymore.”

  The words sent a chill through the room.

  Henri leaned forward. “You believe it?”

  The elder’s eyes were grim. “I do not know what to believe. But we do not take chances. When we find bodies, we burn them.”

  Silence fell over the group. No one laughed, no one dismissed it. The day’s events had been proof enough.

  Then, a low groan interrupted the quiet.

  Duroc clutched his head, sweat dripping down his face. His breath came in ragged gasps.

  “Captain?” Pierre asked, concerned.

  Duroc exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “It’s just the cold. I’ll be fine.”

  But Henri wasn’t so sure.

  And as

  the night dragged on, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong...