December 17, 1813.

After nearly having been mauled by a gang of shamblers and zappers, you finally managed to fence hop over a few rows of stakes keeping them back, a few of the zombies already stuck on the stakes like an olive on a toothpick.

You could hear some distant struggling and straining, peeking over the corner of a building to see an officer, all by himself, specifically a freidoras man, with slightly outgrown jet black hair, a thick white scarf wrapped snugly around his nose, mouth and neck. A few fresh shrapnel wounds, barely having been stitched up, likely early in the morning. And a few droplets of god knows what’s blood splattered across his face.

Rudolf: komm schon..!!— geh! du dummer Wagen..!!!

he huffed angrily through his nose, now attempting to push a cart, which was stacked with muskets, rolled up bedsheets, pillows, candles and god knows what else on it, problem? The front right wheel was jammed with a stupid rock. Damn.