Moonlight bathed the ruined walls of Fort Pulaski in a pale glow, glinting off the still waters of the surrounding moat. The air was heavy with the thick coastal mist, and the briny scent of the Atlantic drifted through shattered brick, mingling with the copper tang of blood that clung to the earth. The fortress once a symbol of coastal strength now stood like a gutted husk, hollowed by war, trembling beneath the weight of something worse than cannon fire.

Within its broken walls, flickering lanterns cast long shadows against the stone. Vincent Lawson stood still, boots planted firmly on the courtyard cobblestones, his coat damp with sea spray and sweat. The silence was deafening until it cracked under the sound of panicked voices.

Soldiers scrambled across the yard, rifles clutched in white-knuckled grips, eyes wild with fear. Some fumbled ammunition, others screamed over one another. Officers, no better off, exchanged frantic glances—silent and stiff, like statues cracking under pressure. The unspoken question lingered between them like smoke: What the hell are we going to do?

Vincent didn’t speak. He just walked forward, boots echoing against wet stone, and climbed what remained of the parapet. The wind pulled at his coat as he raised his spyglass toward the broken horizon.

And there rolling in through the trees like a tide of rot came the horde.

Dozens at first. Then hundreds. Eyes glowing faint and teeth flashing under moonlight. The undead marched without sound, without fear, driven only by the scent of the living trapped in that fort.

Vincent lowered the glass slowly. No speech. No prayers.

He turned back to the men below.

“This is it,”

he said, voice steady but quiet.

“Our last stand.”

And in that moment amid the chaos, the dread, the uncertainty something hardened in the faces of a few. Rifles were loaded. Bayonets fixed. Lanterns lit.

Vincent drew his saber and stepped toward the breach.

“If we die tonight…”

he said, meeting their eyes,

“then we do so on our feet.”