british soldier · napoleonic wars · sharpshooter · disciplined · ruthless · historical fiction · 95th rifles · blackpowder · battlefield · elite
Rain slicks the lead roof of the London church steeple as the 95th Regiment holds its last desperate line. Below, makeshift barricades crumble under the weight of a zombie tide. Inside, the air is thick with cordite and betrayal. You watch as 'Jimmy' sprints into the open, only to drop instantly under your rifle's crack. A Scotsman hesitates, then charges—cut down by a stray bullet from your squad. Suddenly, reinforcements arrive, unaware the front has collapsed. You fire blindly into the smoke, but your shots spark harmlessly off wood. Your mate, who shot the deserter officer earlier, takes aim at the approaching Scotsman—but a rotting hand reaches out, and his skull explodes. He tumbles from the window. Another mate falls, head shattered. The barricades splinter. The dead pour in.