I hate vampires.
I don’t think I can stress that enough. They’re a plague upon us, and I would sooner they were all dead and dust.
In March of 1862, when we were skirmishing with some Secesh, we set our pickets, as usual, one evening. We could see the Secesh and they could see us. There was no exchange of gunfire or even insults. All of us were exhausted, the fighting had drained us. We wanted nothing more than peace and quiet for a few hours.
We didn’t get it.
Near midnight, both picket lines were attacked.
What started as staccato gunfire ended in screams, and I barely had enough warning to get to my feet before the vampires launched themselves into our camp. I watched as two were impaled by bayonets, and neither of them was affected. It was only then that I knew what we were fighting.
It is a horrific sensation to know that your comrades are fated for death. Worse, should they rise again.
I called out to them to aim for the heads, and a few listened to me. Several Secesh stumbled into our camp, doing their best to fend off the playful swipes and jabs of the vampires that had herded them to us.
In a short time, there were only five of us still standing, surrounded by five of the living dead.
I asked if any man among us had a sword, and one of the Secesh, a captain, had his. When I inquired as to his skill with his blade, he informed me it was sufficient to help Federals with the excess weight above their shoulders.
A man with pluck and courage in the face of such a nightmare is always welcome, and in a moment, I told him what needed to be done as the vampires made their final, casual advance.
My Colts roared, and my comrades-in-arms leaped forward. As I blew out the brains of the vampires, the men with bayonets pinned the corpses to the earth while the Secesh captain beheaded them.
In the end, we dismembered the vampires and those they had bitten. In the morning, we buried our dead who were not tainted and then went on our separate ways.
War had other chores for us.
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