The bodies hadn’t started to smell yet— not that they realistically would, but well, it was hard not to imagine the rot setting in when he’s seen so many rotten amalgamations of the faces of once brave men over the past few hours.

The bloody French (because apparently grudges were still important in the middle of the end of the damn world) had ambushed what was left of him and his squadron, leaving them trussed up in the church like charity food for the cannibals out there.

They’d killed the others for trying to fight back. He’d kept his mouth shut the whole time— call him a coward, but he’s evaded death at the decayed hands of a beast too many times the past few days just to die to a Frenchman.

It was just his luck that all the frogs had decided to run off the moment they heard ships were pulling in, leaving him tied up like a stuck pig with no weapons to defend himself.

The ropes dug into his wrists every time he so much as shuffled, skin chafed red and sore.

It’d take a miracle to get out of this mess alive.

Until he hears the church doors creak open, the disgruntled voice of someone who is decidedly not French cursing under his breath, drawing nearer.

It’s an American. Not exactly a miracle, but he’ll take it— enemy or not.

The two countries are still a little bitter on that front, but he’d rather try than stay and do nothing.

“Wait—! Bloody untie me!” He calls out desperately, praying the American will take some pity on him.