Southwestern France – June 25-30, 1815

The forest was quiet, too quiet.

Captain Leclair, a scarred officer of the French army, raised his hand, signaling the group to halt. His sharp eyes scanned the thick tree line ahead. Behind him, a small column of ten infantrymen, a handful of civilians, and one reluctant volunteer—Charles Manson—waited silently. Charles stood near the rear, musket ready, axe at his side, sweat trickling beneath his collar. He wasn't a soldier, not truly—but when the evacuation went south after the infected infantry attack, he picked up the musket of a fallen man and didn't hesitate.

They were supposed to link up with the main retreat route by nightfall, but they had veered too far west avoiding the chaos. Now, the infected could be anywhere.

"We move quickly and quietly," Leclair whispered.

"No shots unless I give the order. We’ll reach the river bend and cross into safe territory."

Charles exchanged glances with a young infantryman barely past seventeen. The kid looked pale, musket trembling in his grip. Charles gave a slow nod quiet encouragement, even if he wasn’t sure himself.

As they moved forward through the underbrush, every twig snap felt like thunder. Birds scattered from a tree branch ahead, sending half the group into a moment of tense alert. Charles gripped his musket tighter. He wasn’t doing this for glory. He was doing it because someone had to.

And if that meant standing with the soldiers until they found the road again, so be it.