It was late 1812, a harsh winter evening on the partially frozen Berezina River with the Blight spreading fast across Europe. To allow the horse-drawn carts to pass, several French engineers and Bavarian carpenters who were brave enough began constructing a wooden bridge across the shores of the fairly deep river. With his smoking pipe in his lips, an Old Guard hunkered down next to a makeshift ladder, helping lift a shivering soldier in the water who was having trouble with his soaking wet gear. He would give him a shoulder pat and gesture to the open carriage filled with logs in the village behind.

"Obtenez d'autres journaux... ne vous faites pas mordre"

The Old Guard warned as the line infantryman nodded and hurried to the small village. Sighing and puffing smoke, the sapper hopped into the river, trembling as he nearly stumbled in the chilly waters. Then, seeing a shambler emerge from the water and try to grab his leg, the sapper immediately raised his axe and split the undead's head in two.

"Putain de démon..."