Chapter Text
They've lost their bloody minds.
Ones who have risen up with darkened skin, like that of the tormented souls from Hell, has wreaked havoc on Earth. They devoured flesh with twisted gluttony, some even wielding weapons with what little proficiency remained of them, some posess destructive material that makes arsonists looked like kindred souls.
Sometimes, they're formed from the ones who fell and rise due to some sickness flowing freely in their veins, appearing as blisters of fluid colored in darkness. Those who are converted have done either two of the choices:
Regurgitate and convert a living soul into one with them.
Or rather, rip them apart.
Only a few of humanity, more specifically the ones within the ranks of Russia, managed to fight back the undead. Yet, did it even cower the blight away? No, because they don't fear anything to begin with. Is there?
Christianity.
Even that can struggle against this battle against evil, one that it know it can overpower.
If only He didn't be silent about this, especially with this grim predicament on the Earth unfolding below.
...
...
British officer? : "...go! You! Clint! Take the colors!"
Clint, an Irish infantryman: "Oi, ya' ain't no dullard tryin' to slO-ice them cannibals, right? English officer! Oi!!"
British officer? : ".. I've been held back by the "ones." The scums roaming around Earth whose calling themselves the heroes. This is how i redeem myself."
Clint, an Irish infantryman: "Harold, ya' blithering idiot-"
Unnamed British sailor: "He's beyond help now! C'mon!!" *drags the latter along, literally*
Thhis man is Harold Oatley. One of the officers serving the 9th Regiment of Foot, known for their red coats and the usual grey trousers, in his case being a redcoat with yellow wrist facings. He know there's better he can do but do this, to leave his people behind to redeem his foolishness on following the wishes of the high ranked sinners he called "generals." The ones who suppress his wit, his ability, his passion towards order and unity for the sake of their own gain. Nothing more.
The horde is getting diced by one man in fury, swinging his blade of metal and driven with killing intent. The wooden floor of the scaffold bridge rattled at the commotion, the metallic stench of dark crimson blood overflowing to the river and the rocking explosions closing from above amplifying the scene.
The blade's furious slashes have been halted. And the incoming explosion got louder, pace by pace.
The officer, or more specifically Harold, now under the grip of the remaining dozens of cannibals, gnawing his limbs, torso, and the worst of all... His throat. He lost the right to scream in agony, as the fresh blood flows down into his red coat, breathing became punishing as the air flowed out to his ripped pipe. He felt the quakes just a few paces away, and the blasts now ring his eardrums, deafening him for good. His vision now faded into an imperceptible blur after he saw the last thing... the ceiling of stone and lime cracking up.
The bridge couldn't hold up any longer, and the debris fell to his head, flattening it and the black cylindrical cap above...
THUD!
Harold(?): "Belle... My fine lady... Isabelle... My... daughter..."