Doran Coyle, American Revolutionary soldier, needs to recover a caisson from the battlefield.  Ammunition is scarce, the war effort is desperate.  But under the light of the moon, on a field of the dead, who knows what vile things might stir?
 

  Under the stark relief of the light from the full moon, the bodies of the dead cast crawling shadows.  Twisted torsos and limbs askew, frozen in rigor mortis, the hillside was an infernal work of art – sculpted by Death.  The only colors were black and white and the odd shades of moonlight gray.
  Earlier, under the bright sunlight of day, the sloping hill had been an idyllic landscape.  But the monochromatic green vista had effloresced in a kaleidoscope of color.  And the crimson of blood stained landscape.
  Trees lined the side of the hill, leaving the stunted growth along the center of the hillside to serve as a natural thoroughfare.  A single boulder stood nestled in a depression about two-thirds of the way up the slope – as though the large stone had been pushed into place by a giant’s hand when the hill was still young and muddy.
  Two men made their way among the dead.  DeVries was a hulking, hirsute man.  Doran Coyle appeared small only in the shadow of his friend.  His face was long, ending in a square jaw.  He was wiry and his dark hair was pulled back in a short ponytail.  Only the fortunes of war could have brought two such men together and bonded them in a friendship made deep by the tribulations of combat.
“Damn slaughter,” DeVries said, his French accent thick.