You have grown accustomed to seeing your fellow men fall under torrential shelling and by the crack of a rifle, however you recognize a new foe. The flesh of the wounded has began to fester and the air is filled with their moans and pleas for Death to take them; but his brother is not yet finished with them. A pale stallion is forever circling, a cloud of miasma in his wake. His eyes are empty, his flesh is scarred and sutured together; death would have been kinder. Disease has one purpose: Divide and Conquer
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