The Local Battle

Virginia, Chancellorsville.

Jeremy nervously rubbed a dark stain on the stock of his oak rifle. He couldn't figure out what had stained it, especially since he'd only received the long, slender rifle three days ago. They had set out early that morning and marched nearly twelve miles, stopping only once to rest. All the while, Confederate troops had harassed them.

Night had fallen, and he rubbed the stock with growing irritation. The stain looked so out of place that it bothered him.

"Did you hear about Fredericksburg?" Tommy, the fellow beside him, said slyly to those around them. Jeremy didn't care for him; the kid was a loudmouth. Still, he unconsciously slowed his hand and pricked up his ears.

"That was months ago. Who hasn't heard about it? Haven't we had enough defeats in the Eastern Theater?" someone nearby replied in a strange tone. Jeremy couldn't tell who it was. They were all part of a unit hastily thrown together.

Tommy perked up even more. He craned his neck to look around, then quickly ducked back and lowered his voice as much as he could. "You know how they lost? Huh? Something terrible happened. The Confederates have these things that can't be killed..."

A wave of barely suppressed snickers rippled through the group. Tommy protested anxiously, "What? You don't believe me? Gatling guns can't kill those things! They rush up and bite people, sucking them dry until they're corpses!" The men could no longer hold it in and burst out laughing, drawing a few glares from the sergeant.

Jeremy curled his lip and lost interest, resuming his vigorous scrubbing. From the corner of his eye, he glanced at the veteran opposite him. The man leaned against a tree with a vacant stare, clutching the crucifix hanging from his chest so tightly that his knuckles had gone pale.

Jeremy couldn't remember which unit the veteran had come from. For some reason, that only made him more uneasy.

"Form up! Emergency assembly!"

The company officer of the Eleventh Corps shouted sharply, blowing his whistle again and again. The men scrambled to their feet, several of them still groping around for their rifles.

The squad blindly followed the crowd as it gathered. It was already dark, and everyone stared tensely into the gloom, looking around as if they might spot something. The sergeant was already cracking his whip and ordering the squads to form up according to their drills. Jeremy knelt on one knee, half sheltered by a rock, rifle at the ready, repeatedly checking that the bolt was drawn back.

After the miserable confusion, the entire unit fell strangely silent. At their officers' orders, they raised their rifles and stared into the woods on either side. Jeremy glanced around. Loudmouth Tommy stood on one side of him, and the taciturn veteran on the other. Both looked as frightened as Jeremy—and even the veteran was scared.

Rustle, rustle...

The woods really were stirring. There were no lights to be seen, but the footsteps grew denser. The sergeant raised a hand, and the line snapped into formation, rifles shouldered and ready to fire.

The enemy figures grew clearer. They began moving faster, seemingly intending to charge straight at them instead of exchanging gunfire. Jeremy glanced nervously at the sergeant on the flank.

"Fire!"

At last, the officer's command lit the night with flashes of gunfire. For an instant, the enemy Confederates were illuminated. Their uniforms hung loose, their faces looked terrible, and they charged forward with their mouths gaping. But, to everyone's surprise, they carried nothing in their hands—not a single weapon.

Jeremy clearly saw his shot hit an enemy soldier in the chest. Before he could feel pleased, the veteran beside him let out a sobbing wail, dropped his rifle, and ran.

As Jeremy wondered what was going on, someone tugged at his leg. Tommy lay on the ground, eyes unfocused, groping wildly around him. A Confederate was on his chest, biting into his throat. Blood bubbled out, and Tommy's throat rasped as he choked on his own blood.

Bang!

Before Jeremy could recover, a Confederate tackled him to the ground. In desperation, he raised his rifle between them and shoved with all his strength on instinct. Crack! Jeremy finally got a clear look at the enemy who had lunged at him and clamped its teeth onto his rifle. Its mouth seemed to stretch all the way to its ears, its teeth sharp as a beast's. Its skin was deathly pale, webbed with blue-black veins, and its blood-red eyes glared at him. Jeremy felt the last of his strength draining away.

"Ah!"

Suddenly the weight was gone. The monster in front of him screamed and slammed into a tree three or four meters away. Jeremy heard the dull crack of breaking bones. Hysterical with terror, he scrambled into a nearby thicket.

A huge, broad-shouldered man strode toward the monster crumpled beneath the tree. He hooked a foot under its head and kicked it up against the trunk. Red and white splattered everywhere, like a watermelon smashed to pieces.

The man turned and surveyed the area. He wore a dark-brown leather coat and a black silk mask that faintly reflected the light, leaving only his dark eyes visible. His hair was neatly slicked back, and he was so clean that not a drop of blood had spattered onto him.

"Jack! Take a squad up the slope and fire at will!"

James gave the order to the head of the family's sharpshooters. Jack Pitt quickly called out a few names and climbed the hill. Seven or eight sharpshooters fanned out, picking off the Confederate vampires.

To the Union soldiers' amazement, the monsters that ordinary bullets couldn't kill screamed and dropped under the sharpshooters' fire. Before long, they fell silent as their bodies rapidly rotted, oozing pus and blood.

James continued moving across the battlefield, helping Union soldiers in danger. His attacks were simple and brutal: a punch or a kick blew apart each vampire's skull. And the Howlett Family's sharpshooters were more than just well equipped and well trained. Their silver-tipped bullets and knives were the vampires' bane.

The Northern Union army quickly turned the tide. The first wave of charging vampires was steadily wiped out.

"Victor! Damn it!"

James cursed in frustration. As soon as Victor entered the battle, he became a runaway Mustang. On all fours, he plunged into the enemy ranks like a living tiger, ignoring the vampires' bites and the rifle fire. He killed as he charged deeper into their lines. Unlike James, who struck with precision, Victor tore through everything in his way with his claws.

Seeing Victor charge deep into the Confederate ranks, James had no choice but to follow. He was worried Victor would lose control of his wild nature.

Rip!

Victor sank one claw into a vampire's shoulder blade and clamped the other around its thigh. He strained with both arms and ripped the creature's entire body apart from its chest down. The vampire stared at its severed lower half and the black-red organs inside its abdomen, shrieking incoherently. After a couple of cries, Victor crushed its head underfoot.

Bang, bang! Bang! Bang, bang!

Victor gave a muffled growl and staggered as a volley of bullets struck him in the back. He shook his shoulders in pain, then slowly turned around.

Two ordinary Confederate soldiers, trembling all over, operated a new Gatling gun with four barrels. Their bullets had struck the broad back of the huge, wild-looking man squarely, but he merely seemed to be in pain as he slowly approached them. The giant grinned savagely, baring his long canine teeth, and reached for the gun mounted on its carriage.

The claws at his fingertips had grown longer. He casually sliced through the barrels and twisted them into knots as if playing with them, then looked mockingly at the two soldiers, who barely came up to his chest.

"I-I surrender! We surrender!" The two soldiers suddenly lost all feeling in their legs. They trembled as they fell to their knees and raised their hands, heads bowed, afraid to look at the approaching monster.

Victor stepped in front of them and slowly reached out toward one man's head.