I was on a bald mountain top that wasn’t marked on the Union map. The sun was stabbing down through a ceiling of silvery clouds like blazing swords from Heaven to make the valley below shine in patches of yellow light. My horse fidgeted behind me as I sat on my ragged blanket to eat some jerky and study just how inaccurate the map really was.

Distant muffled shots echoed out of the valley. Not volleys, like you would hear on a battlefield between armies, but little clusters of fire. Fire of ones and twos popping off here and there along with indistinguishable yelling. Smoke drifted up in thin clouds from the trail near the creek below. My mouth was dry from the jerky and my canteens nearly empty.

I held a spyglass up and caught a small glimpse of the struggle. Two groups of men, not a uniform or distinguishing feature to either side, were shooting each other among a wagon train. The fight was attracting small clusters of ghouls.

Written on the side of a crate in black stenciled letters was “AMMUNITION.”