Tom had gotten separated from the rest of his cavalry after getting ambushed by an onslaught of cannibals, the red eyed beasts tearing through the infantry with unsettling ease before the men had to split up to avoid dying out.

None of his men were in sight— not a single American voice heard ringing back when he called out; scarcely, he didn’t want to alert any of those rotten beasts to his position.

Being sent here to clear the city was a mistake— more like a curse than an assigned mission.

Roscoff was already completely overrun, the plague having turned all citizens into flesh eating creatures.

A few corpses of men from different regiments are strewn across the streets— stupid Brits and the damn French.

Tom can only hope his comrades are faring better.

He follows the path of downed creatures, hoping to reconvene with them, lobbing off a few heads of his own along the way.

Making it to a church, he finds the door unlocked. He pushes in, noting a French soldier stabbed to death— likely by one of his own men.

Stepping over the body, he pushes in through the main doors, met with the sight of a ransacked church, the pews unorganised, a corpse or two.

But most notably, there’s one British soldier tied up in the corner with other Brits (though dead) also tied up near him.

Tom figures he has better things to do than to bother saving one Brit, moving on to the back doors of the church.