" Paul scrambled across the war torn lot to the rear of the car and snatched the dead boy’s rifle from the moonlight. Wet blood kissed his palm along its grip. He wiped the gore on his pantleg and pressed his back to the tire well at the rear of the vehicle. Another bullet yawped against the reinforced frame.

From the tree line, the chorus of dead rasped, you too, soon. "

― S.R. Hughes , The War Beneath