In the rocket’s red glare, I spied my commander. General George Pickett sat on the rock wall of Cemetery Hill, hungrily eating the flesh of some poor soul’s severed leg. Although he was clearly not with the Confederacy anymore, I felt the need to salute him and our colors. His objective had been taken, in a way, and the cost had been high.

I spurred forward on my horse, firing rounds from Colt Army .44’s into the skulls of reaching ghouls. Rebel or Yank had stopped being important hours ago. It took the emptying of two pistols, the expenditure of seven shotgun shells, and the repeated slashes of my newly acquired cavalry saber to reach Pickett.

He dropped the half eaten leg and turned his dull eyes towards me. I reigned the mount to a halt, the nerve wracked horse whinnied with protest, and I gave a stiff salute to my General.

I knew somehow that this was it for my War. For the Confederacy. For my old life. I was saluting the end of it all.

Pickett rose, groaning, and I pulped his skull with buckshot.