“We have to go,” a Union officer said to me, “—Now!!” He was right. The hillside was covered in ghouls. Union, Confederate, civilian, man, woman, and even children. Children covered in blood, feasting on corpses, and seeking new victims. My mind stalled at such images, unable to process how our world had changed so quickly.

“Okay, let’s reload and move out.” I said, snapping out of my internal shock. There seemed to be thousands of them converging on our defensive ring. Their horrible groans were maddening. I struggled under the sounds, trying to reload my pair of Colts on an increasingly nervous horse. The final cartridge of powder and ball rammed into the cylinder, I began placing caps on the ends of the nubs. Sporadic firing began around me as men completed reloading and picked off approaching horrors. One of the spent shells was wedged in the shotgun, leaving me with a single barrel until it could be extracted.

“Go!” At the bugle call of retreat, our badly decimated makeshift troop began our escape.