In the foul mist, Old Laver's body swayed with the corpse cart.
He heard his own ragged cough echoing amid the pile of bodies, uncertain of how many corpses or wounded soldiers were jostling with each bump.
The severed hand at the top happened to fall onto his chest, its skin cold, and its nails embedded with dried blood.
"Water, water..."
He licked his cracked lips, the oilcloth in front of him was shrouded in a layer of bloody light from thirst.
Where is this place? Gradually awakening from sleep, Old Laver looked around, unable to suppress his astonishment.
He actually wasn't dead, but had been mistaken for a corpse and loaded onto the cart!
Was he going to be burned then? After all, he was a soldier infected with the plague.
Cutting open the oilcloth with a small knife, he took a few bites of the snow that chilled his lungs, his heart spasmed violently like suffocating before regaining consciousness.
