"Nacht Der Untoten"
Night of the undead
Somewhere in Eastern Germany...
April 5th, 1942
Reynolds was in a daze, he could see the smoldering remains of his aircraft in the distance, planted nose down in the soil. Did any of his crew survive? Were they out here, in pain as he was?
He tried to call for help, but all that came up from his throat was blood. He just lay there, waiting for his death to come.
When in his haze of pain he saw forms in the distance, his heart began to race with joy. He tried to sit up, but a sharp and crippling pain overcame him. He lay back down and slowly raised his hand, hoping to signal the oncoming and hopefully friendly help.
The forms shambled towards Reynolds, apparently weaponless. This was good. This meant they must be friendly, right? They continued to shamble. Something did not fell right about this, but Reynolds could do nothing about it. Even if these people were hostile, his life was already over.
Now one of the figures was running towards him. Its dark arms flailing about and its head bent at a funny angle.
It drew near, and its form revealed a uniform like texture, meaning it was a soldier who bolted at Reynolds like a mad dog straight from hell. For whichever flag he fought for, that was still uncertain.
The form reached him, and it was not long before the monstrosity dug its teeth into his flesh. Reynolds knew this thing was not human, but he could not call for help. Moments later the others fell upon him, and Captain Jack Reynolds was no more.
All that was left of his was flesh, now rotting, as it arose from a brief nap of death and started walking once more.
