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Civil war fought with zombies.

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The Blue The Gray and The Dead

by D.A. Pennington

With shaky hands that trembled with over wrought nerves, Neville reloaded his rifle, careful not to spill the precious gunpowder he and his fellow soldiers were desperately low on. It was the start of the second day of battle on Culp's Hill in Gettysburg. Neville and the rest of the troops of the Army of the Potomac where mustering up for another day of fighting. General Meade had made a call to arms that morning. Forward observers and scouts reported back just a few hours ago that General Lee and his Army of the Damned was on the move again. Never in his life had Neville seen such horror than the Confederate army that Robert E. Lee had assembled. No horror of war, no explosion of cannon ball, screams of wounded or dying men could compare to the shambling dregs that could be called human beings that comprised the militia that Lee amassed.

Dead. There were hundreds upon hundreds of walking dead. All walks of humanity comprised the Army of the Damned; Confederate and Union soldier, town folk from the outlying towns of Adams County, women, coloreds and some children even. Pallid faces drawn of all life. Greasy matted hair, lips drawn back in a rictus of hate; Black tongues wagging for the taste of human flesh. They were all shambling toward Culp's Hill from the town center of Gettysburg.

It was two days before that Neville and his company went head to head with the undead soldiers. A push of lumbering Confederate troops climbed up Culp's Hill. Shot after shot went into their bodies. They fell, they got back up, and fell again.. Neville noticed that the ones who took head shots stayed dead permanently, unmoving. The stench was an indescribable sweet smell of rotting flesh. It permeated the air like the thousands of black flies that clouded around him as the dead came near. The company was becoming panic-stricken started to falter as realization that the hail of musket balls were doing no good against the approaching menace.

Panic hit the line as a Union soldier, whose lower jaw was missing, latched onto Corporal Smithline. Smithline, a seventeen year old from Massachusetts who was drafted by lottery just two months ago, let out a high pitched shriek that made Neville think there was a faintish woman standing right next to him.

"Fix bayonets!" Sergeant Mulcahy bellowed. "They're breaking the line!"

 

Copyright © 2007 by D.A. Pennington . All rights reserved unless specified otherwise above.

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