The Soldaderas could only breathe when the wind picked up. The coming tide inundated the coastal battlefield, small crabs picked at the purple and bursting faces of the dead. Egrets and Terns ran between the bubbles of sea flies homes to pick at the bloated tongues of the dying. Maritza Osorio has initially fled the tunnels bellow the Barstowe European Circus, used as sanctums for Brujeria and the lustful hunger of creatures who fear the light. As her contingent dashed for their horses to flee the sweeping US Cavalry, she looked right into the eyes of a machine gun leveled at her. She was the only survivor as her Compañeras and their horses were racked with fire from the gatling gun. 

Now as the fog is white hot with the early morning sun, she and the survivors of Pancho Villas Northern Army are exposed. Among the heros of the deadly night, the brave scouts and Apache allies who rode with the Revolutionary force, now in the stark daylight only the wounded and craven seeking term of surrender are standing and waving their hats on ends of rifles. Maritza has no such faith in the Punitive Expedition of “Puta Madre” General Pershing to meet out any justice. She crawls between tide pools, turned over wagons and piles of the dead to pick up working rifles to fire off confusing shots as the din of battle dies down. 

The Americanos blert their trumpets in the regimental song “Gary Owen” borrowed from refugee Irish who fill the ranks of both Armies. Pancho Villa is long gone, as was her Americano lover Xavier, the awol bastard who lost his family to ghouls still had some charm over her. Amongst the smoke and dying she thinks of him as she makes her way into the southern tree line. She hopes if she cannot make it back to the Norte contingent of her force, she can find a route to the Southern Cavalry of Guerilla leader Emilio Zapata who was visiting the camp when news of the abductions and undead threat sparked them onto this ill fated voyage that led them all directly into the main force of the invading Americans.

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Xavier had toyed with the idea of surrendering as a fake captive, binding his own hands to be rescued by his former allies. He cannot, his heart is just not in this war any more. His family farm in ruins, his sisters scattered to the winds. He found far more comraderie with the Mexican Revolutionaries, despite their attacks on border towns and black reputation in the US press… he feels the righteousness of their cause and to the US Army he is just another brown face to haul cannons out of ditches and shovel horse shit. He examines the red sash of the Villaistas, pulled from the chest of a sun baked corpse. He feels a deep pride of his motherland and a pull south of the Rio Bravo to reunite with the new familia who has adopted him. 

He lost sight of General Villa. Skulking around the marshes for horses or cover, Villa had been pulled away by his elite scouts. Xavier waits on the roof of a sunken masoleum, enjoying a cool breeze and allowing his eyes some rest in the bending shadow of a fan palm. His nose taking in the scent of pepper corn trees that have taken over the stone building. Its once white marble stained by yellow and green moss, old flowers and darting birds make this placid corner of hell seem as if he could close his eyes and wait out the battle. Thoughts of his sisters, Dorotea specifically fill his mind. Lifting his beaten and aching body he splashes down into the black water to find what remains of his family.