Chapter Text
The 17th of July, 1815. The British Expeditionary Force arrived to the shores of Roscoff, tasked with fending off the cannibals that now roamed France and its land. Captain Henry Bartram was the first man to step off the ship, while his Second-in-Command Victor Percival followed beside him. The rest of the Expeditionary Force trailed behind, with Corporal Elijah Mercer in between the infantryman and his commanders. All of them were understandably nervous—they were in a foreign country infested with the undead. The noise of growling and groaning permeated the air as they treaded deeper into enemy territory, while the smell of gunpowder and decaying flesh still lingered and grew stronger.
Elijah tensed up as he heard a noise coming from his right, and yet he couldn't help himself but see what it was. An alleyway, with an intense stench of rot, caught the Dragoon's eye. He stood there, before his fellow soldiers stopped and turned to stared at what he was looking at as well. What they saw would only make them regret ever stepping foot into France. A shambler feasting upon no doubt a man from the Coastal Artillery, his eyes gouged out and jaw split wide open. No older than 20 was he, life taken far too soon. Elijah stood there frozen, as if he were glued to the ground, before a loud BANG rang out. Private Doyle—it was assumed it was him—had fired his musket at the fiend. Its brains had coated the alley's wall. Oh god was it quite the sight, such a gory demise that man had met... if only they came sooner, it could have prevented this. Maybe prevent many more even.
"How much longer must we walk?! My darn legs are aching..." one soldier complained, grunting as he reached behind to grab his canteen. "Not to mention the bloody smell, it goddamn reeks in 'ere!" another replied, pinching his nose to emphasise the god awful smell. Elijah was about to tell them to stop whining but his captain had already beaten him to it, hissing a warning to the two men, "oh would you two stop gaggling like geese and get a move on you gits!" Elijah couldn't help but let a smirk form on his face. These moments were the simplest things he cherished, the camaraderie they shared was what brought the section together. None of them said it out loud, but it was evident they were more than men in the same unit, but brothers in arms- or whatever it was. But Elijah knew this bond could never be severed, even by axe or sabre. And onwards they marched.
Bartram and Percival had hoped to encounter French forces as well, as worry grew silently among the Expeditionary Force. They knew why they had come here, but lord did they pray they would find anyone from the French military. With a sector of 20 men against hundreds to thousands of zombies, anyone else capable of holding back the undead was what they needed. Despite what had happened in Waterloo, hope that the French would still cooperate remained in the two commanders hearts. Because whatever happened today would cost everyone from the Expedition Force more than an arm and a leg.
After the horde had been cleared, the sound of foreign tongue graced their ears. Percival, the more eager one of the pair, signaled to the French—waving his arms as if he was calling attention for a ship. All was well, the nice French people approached them, hope wasn't lost after all! The French forces had weapons drawn, ready for battle, or it seemed. Elijah shyly peered from behind Bartram, nervous his scarred face would give the French a scare (although he already had bandages wrapped around his face, most of it.) He hadn't done this before, meeting with a supposed ally face-to-face. Elijah had always been a reserved man, soft-spoken and anxious was what many people thought of him. And being in front of another military's commander was something that made Mercer feel like he was a rookie again, trying to look like a competent soldier in the eyes of his sergeant.
Percival spoke up first, trying to communicate with the French, "ah... uh... it's a pleasure to see you." He knew he had to speak in a tone they like, because many of them probably wouldn't understand English after all. "I hope we can both put our differences aside and-" before Percival could finish his sentence, the French officer that stood in front of the lieutenant had the barrel of his pistol pressed against the other man's forehead. "Calm down there, I just want to talk!" he stammered, instinctively pulling away. "Let's put the pistol down and talk like civilised men... now shall we?-" the click of the French officer's gun was the last thing Percival heard as he fell forward, a pool of blood already forming from under his head. "Ferme-la, espèce d'Anglais!" the French officer yelled, gritting his teeth.
"O-oh my god... you... you fucking bastards!" Bertram was about to reach for his sabre, but he stopped himself. Him against 30 something men was impossible, even with the rest of his sector. The French weren't happy with the arrival of the British, and it showed. While the other British soldiers backed away. Elijah just stood there, his throat feeling awfully tight, as it seemed something or someone was choking him from behind. He looked at his captain, then to his lieutenant's dead body, eye widen in shock.
Before he could react the French had attacked them. Clashing metal and the splattering of blood was all Elijah could remember, as he had ran into the chapel amongst the chaos, seeking shelter from the savage battle. A couple of the other British had followed him, retreating from fight instead of helping their allies. The British were shoved into corner as they were unsure of what to do next. They had unknowingly dug their own grave, and now they would lie in it.