. ◠◠𝓐 me. 𝓕erryman. / Patriot,

A gray, faded day slowly sank into fog. The soldiers, their uniforms long since reduced to filthy rags, moved almost mechanically—hours of endless slaughter of the dead were behind them. The group passed a rickety barn at the edge of a field; the interior smelled of rotten hay and old blood. After struggling up a steep staircase and climbing a cliff, they found themselves at the ruined Millpont Bridge. The span had been torn out, leaving the survivors to carefully navigate a rickety wooden beam over the dark water. Below, at the very edge of the bank, the silhouette of a raft hovered in the thick haze. A soldier in a dark blue uniform stood motionless on it, leaning on a long pole. His head was wrapped in a dirty, blood-soaked bandage, and his empty eyes stared off into the forest. Noticing the movement on the bridge, the ferryman only nodded slightly and hoarsely said without turning around: “Quickly, on board.”