Davies stopped fighting six months ago, which meant he’d been running ever since.

  The massacre had been standard. Zombies at the walls. Skeletons digging beneath. Ghouls in the vents. The kind of coordinated assault that came every few weeks and killed a few dozen people and didn’t change anything except the body count.

  Davies had been a corporal. Infantry. Five years on the wall. Good soldier. Followed orders. Shot straight. Survived when others didn’t. The kind of reliability that got you promoted and killed slowly.

  During the massacre, his squad had been ordered to hold corridor D. Narrow passage. Single exit. Perfect kill zone. Command said reinforcements were coming. Command said hold position. Command said it would be fine.

  Command lied.

  The reinforcements never came. The ghouls did. Fast. Efficient. Killed nine of Davies’s twelve-man squad in under two minutes. The survivors held the corridor. Followed orders. Kept shooting until the ammunition ran out. Then kept shooting with empty rifles because muscle memory didn’t care about logistics.

  Davies had been the first to realize they were dying for nothing. The corridor didn’t matter. The position didn’t matter. Command had written them off. Acceptable losses. Necessary sacrifice. The math that kept strongholds running and soldiers dead.

  He’d dropped his rifle. Run. Deserted.

  Best decision he’d ever made. Worst thing he’d ever done. He’d lived with both truths for six months and still hadn’t decided which mattered more.

  -----

  The camp sat in a valley between two dead towns. Hidden. Quiet. Forgotten.

  Twelve people. All deserters. All runners. All survivors who’d chosen living over dying for causes they’d stopped believing in.

  No walls. No fortifications. No military structure. Just gardens and rain collectors and the kind of peace that came from giving up on heroism and embracing cowardice as survival strategy.

  Davies had found them three months ago. Wandering. Starving. Looking for somewhere to die that wasn’t a battlefield. They’d taken him in. Fed him. Didn’t ask questions. Didn’t judge. Everyone there had run from something. Running was the membership requirement.

  Life was simple. Grow food. Collect water. Stay quiet. Don’t light fires after dark. Don’t make noise. Don’t attract attention. The dead were everywhere but the dead didn’t notice what didn’t move or fight or matter.

  Invisibility was survival. Irrelevance was safety.

  Davies liked it. Liked not being shot at. Liked not shooting. Liked waking up and not counting casualties. Liked the absence of war more than he’d ever liked the presence of purpose.

  The camp had a rhythm. Dawn: tend the garden. Noon: check the rain collectors. Dusk: share food. Night: sleep without nightmares. Repeat. Simple. Peaceful. Sustainable.

  Then Patel arrived and sustainability became negotiable.

  -----

  Patel appeared at the edge of camp just before dusk. Stumbling. Bleeding. Barely standing.

  Davies saw him first. Raised the alarm. The camp gathered. Cautious. Wary. Visitors meant trouble. Survivors meant questions. Questions meant attention. Attention meant death.

  But leaving wounded people to die meant becoming the thing they’d run from. So they helped.

  Patel was maybe thirty. Indian descent. Military fatigues. Sergeant stripes. Face caked in blood and dirt and exhaustion. Three days without sleep written in his eyes. Wounds across his chest and arms. Shallow. Survivable. The kind of injuries that looked worse than they were.

  He collapsed at the camp’s edge. Said he needed help. Said his stronghold had fallen. Said he’d escaped. Said he’d been running for two days. Said the dead were hunting survivors. Said he’d found the camp by accident. Said he was lucky.

  Davies didn’t believe in luck anymore. Luck was a variable. But Patel needed help and help was what humans did before the war made them stop.

  They brought him into camp. Gave him water. Cleaned his wounds. Asked questions.

  Patel answered. Voice flat. Emotionless. Cold. He said his stronghold was Fort Collins. Population eight hundred. Well defended. Good leadership. Should have survived. Didn’t.

  Said the dead attacked three days ago. Coordinated. Efficient. Overwhelmed the defenses in hours. No siege. No attrition. Just rapid assault. Clinical execution. Everyone dead. Everyone except him.

  Said the dead let him go. Pointed him east. Told him to find the cowards. Said they knew deserters were hiding. Said they wanted to eliminate non-combatants. Said anyone who wouldn’t fight didn’t deserve to survive.

  Said he’d run. Found the camp. Pure chance. Lucky accident.

  Davies watched Patel talk. Watched his face. No emotion. No fear. No trauma. Just cold recitation. Facts without feelings. Testimony without tears.

  Survivors didn’t talk like that. Survivors shook. Cried. Broke down. Showed something. Patel showed nothing. Just cold eyes and colder words.

  Davies asked if Patel was injured anywhere else. Patel said no. Just the cuts. Nothing serious. He’d be fine.

  Davies noticed Patel kept touching his chest. Under his shirt. Nervous gesture. Repetitive. Compulsive. Like checking for something. Making sure it was still there.

  The camp offered Patel food. Shelter. Safety. He accepted. Thanked them. Ate mechanically. Settled near the fire. Stared at nothing.

  Davies watched him through dinner. Watched him through the evening. Watched him not sleep when everyone else did.

  Something was wrong. Something beyond trauma. Something cold.

  -----

  At midnight, Davies saw the glow.

  Faint. Green. Pulsing. Coming from under Patel’s shirt. Rhythmic. Like a heartbeat. Like something alive. Like magic.

  Davies had seen magic before. The Necromancers used it. Wraiths. Colossi.

  And Patel was wearing it.

  Davies approached. Quiet. Careful. Patel was sitting upright. Eyes open. Staring. Not sleeping. Just waiting.

  Davies asked what was under his shirt. Patel didn’t respond. Just stared.

  Davies reached for Patel’s collar. Pulled it down. Saw the amulet.

  Metal. Carved. Old. Symbols etched into the surface. Necromancer script. The kind of writing that hurt to look at. The amulet pulsed. Green light. Rhythmic. Deliberate. Broadcasting.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  Davies asked what it was. Patel said it was a gift. A tracking device. A leash.

  Davies tried to remove it. Grabbed the chain. Pulled. The amulet burned. Not hot. Cold. The kind of cold that went through skin into bone. The kind that said this thing wasn’t meant to be removed by living hands.

  Patel stopped him. Said he’d tried. Said everyone tried. Said it didn’t come off. Said the Necromancers put it on him after Fort Collins fell. Said he couldn’t remove it. Couldn’t destroy it. Couldn’t do anything except wear it and do what it made him do.

  Davies asked what it made him do. Patel said find deserters. Track camps. Lead the dead to them. Hunt his own kind.

  Davies asked how many camps Patel had found. Patel said six. This was the seventh.

  Davies asked if Patel felt anything about that. Guilt. Regret. Remorse. Patel said no. Said feeling things was optional. Said he’d stopped feeling when the amulet went on. Said cold was easier. Said being a weapon was simpler than being human.

  Davies asked if the amulet was listening right now. Patel said probably. Said he thought it recorded everything. Transmitted back to the Necromancers. Said they knew where he was. What he said. Who he found. Said they’d be here soon. Probably dawn. They liked dawn. Liked killing people before breakfast.

  Davies asked why Patel warned him. Why tell the truth. Why not keep lying.

  Patel said lying was pointless. Said the dead already knew. Said Davies and his camp were already dead. Said honesty didn’t change outcomes. Just made the waiting shorter.

  Davies stood. Backed away. Looked at the camp. Twelve people. Sleeping. Peaceful. Safe. About to die because they’d helped someone. Because they’d been human. Because Davies hadn’t killed Patel the moment he arrived.

  Patel said killing him wouldn’t help. Said others had tried. Said the Necromancers brought him back. Fixed him. Sent him out again. Said he’d died twice already. Said dying wasn’t permanent anymore. Not for him. Not when he was useful.

  Davies asked what Patel wanted. Why keep doing this. Why not refuse. Why not fight.

  Patel said he couldn’t. Said the amulet controlled that. Said he could think. Could talk. Could feel cold certainty. But couldn’t resist. Couldn’t refuse. Couldn’t stop hunting. Couldn’t stop finding camps. Couldn’t stop being what the Necromancers made him.

  Said he was sorry. Said it without emotion. Said it like stating a fact. Said it like it didn’t matter.

  Because it didn’t.

  The dead were coming. Sorry didn’t save anyone.

  -----

  Davies woke the camp at 0400.

  Told them to run. Now. Fast. Don’t pack. Don’t hesitate. The dead were coming. Patel was a tracker. The amulet was broadcasting. They had maybe two hours.

  Half the camp believed him. Started moving. Grabbing essentials. Water. Food. Weapons if they had them.

  The other half didn’t. Said Davies was paranoid. Said Patel was wounded. Said deserters needed to help each other. Said running from every stranger meant dying alone eventually.

  Davies said better alone than dead. Said he was leaving. Said anyone smart would too.

  Four people followed him. Eight stayed. Including Patel. Sitting by the fire. Cold eyes. Watching. Waiting.

  Davies and his four companions ran west. Into the wasteland. Away from the camp. Away from Patel. Away from the dawn.

  Behind them, the sun rose. Behind them, the screaming started. Behind them, the camp died.

  Davies didn’t look back.

  -----

  The kill team was efficient.

  Davies heard it as they ran away. Crying . Brief. Sporadic. Then silence. Then screaming. Then more silence.

  No prolonged battle. No siege. No desperate defense. Just surgical strike. Professional execution. The kind of operation that took minutes and left no survivors.

  The four people with Davies wanted to go back. Check for survivors. Help if they could. Davies said no. Said survivors were the point. Said going back meant dying too. Said the kill team knew their job. Knew how to kill. Knew how to leave nothing worth saving.

  One of the four went back anyway. Good person. Brave person. Dead person.

  Three left. Including Davies. They kept running. Didn’t stop. Didn’t rest. Didn’t look back until the camp was ten miles behind them and the smoke was just a smudge on the horizon.

  One of the three asked what they’d do now. Davies said survive. Find another camp. Start over. Repeat until it stopped working.

  Asked how long that would last. Davies said he didn’t know. Maybe months. Maybe days. Maybe they were already being tracked. Maybe Patel had backup. Maybe there were other trackers. Other amulets. Other cold-eyed hunters finding every deserter camp in the wasteland.

  Said he didn’t know and didn’t care. Said knowing didn’t change anything. Said all they could do was run and hope and die eventually because everyone died eventually. Deserters just died quieter.

  The three split up two days later. Different directions. Different odds. Different deaths waiting somewhere down the line.

  Davies went north. Alone. Preferred it. Groups were targets. Individuals were noise.

  He walked for a week. Ate what he could scavenge. Drank from streams. Avoided the dead. Avoided the living. Avoided everything except forward momentum and the creeping certainty that nowhere was safe and nothing mattered.

  Then he found the second camp.

  -----

  The second camp was bigger. Thirty people. More established. Better hidden. Deeper into the wasteland. Father from strongholds. Father from supply routes. Father from anywhere the war touched.

  They’d been there for a year. No attacks. No contacts. No problems. Pure isolation. Pure irrelevance. Pure survival.

  Davies arrived half-starved and fully paranoid. Told them about Patel. The amulet. The tracking. The kill teams. The systematic elimination of deserter camps. The cold efficiency of Necromancer strategy.

  They listened. Nodded. Didn’t believe him.

  Said he was traumatized. Said he’d seen something bad and his mind was making patterns. Said the dead were brutal but not strategic. Said killing deserters was pointless. Said the war was about strongholds. Said deserters didn’t matter enough to hunt.

  Davies said that was the point. Said eliminating deserters meant eliminating the option. Said anyone who might run would know running meant death. Said the Necromancers were removing alternatives. Forcing people to fight or die. No middle ground. No escape. No desertion.

  Said it was psychological warfare. Said it was working. Said he was proof.

  The camp said he could stay. Said he was welcome. Said he was safe. Said they’d been hidden for a year. Said nothing had found them. Said nothing would.

  Davies stayed. Didn’t believe them. But didn’t have anywhere else to go.

  Six days later, Patel arrived.

  -----

  Davies saw him at dusk. Same stumbling approach. Same wounds. Same blood. Same cold eyes.

  Same story. Same stronghold. Same escape. Same luck.

  Different camp. Same hunter.

  The camp took Patel in. Davies didn’t stop them. Didn’t warn them. They wouldn’t believe him anyway. He’d already tried. Already failed. Already knew how this ended.

  Instead, Davies approached Patel directly. Away from the others. Private conversation. Final conversation.

  Patel looked at him. Recognition. No surprise. No fear. Just cold acknowledgment.

  Davies asked how many camps total. Patel said eight so far. This would be nine. The Necromancers were thorough. Methodical. Patient. They’d find every deserter camp eventually. Eliminate every runner. Close every exit. Force everyone back to the strongholds to fight and die like they were supposed to.

  Davies said it wouldn’t work. Said people would keep running. Survival instinct didn’t care about strategy. Desertion was human nature. Said you couldn’t kill an idea.

  Patel said the Necromancers weren’t killing the idea. Just the people who acted on it.

  Davies pulled out the axe. Old. Rusted. Sharp enough. Practical tool. Practical weapon.

  Said he was done running. Said this time he’d kill Patel properly. Said he’d destroy the amulet. Said he’d burn the body. Said he’d do whatever it took to make sure Patel stayed dead.

  Patel said others had tried. Camp four. Guy with a sword. Beheaded Patel. Necromancers brought him back. Camp six. Woman with fire. Burned him alive. Necromancers brought him back. Said dying was temporary. Said the amulet was permanent. Said Patel was permanent until the Necromancers decided otherwise.

  Davies said he didn’t care. Some things were worth trying even when they didn’t work. Said killing Patel was principle. Letting him live was surrender. Surrender was worse than failure.

  Patel said the kill team would arrive at dawn. Davies should run now. Staying meant dying. Dying was permanent for everyone except Patel.

  Davies cried that humanity would lose eventually. But not tonight. Tonight Patel died. Again.

  Davies raised the axe.

  The camp heard the screaming. Came running. Found Davies standing over Patel’s body. Axe bloody. Patel’s head separated. The amulet still glowing. Still pulsing. Still broadcasting.

  The camp asked what happened. Davies said he kept a promise. Said the dead were coming at dawn. Said everyone should run. Now. Fast. Don’t stop.

  Some listened. Most didn’t. Same as before. Same as always.

  Davies ran. Alone. West. Away from the camp. Away from Patel’s body. Away from the green glow and the cold eyes and the certainty that nothing he did mattered because the Necromancers would bring Patel back and send him to camp ten and eleven and twelve until every deserter was dead and every runner was caught and every exit was closed.

  Behind him, dawn arrived. Behind him, the kill team arrived. Behind him, thirty people died.

  Davies kept running.

  -----

  Davies stopped running a year later.

  Not because he found safety. Because he realized there wasn’t any left to find.

  He’d seen Patel three more times. Different camps. Different people. Same cold eyes. Same green glow. Same promises that Davies kept and the Necromancers undid.

  First time: Davies used fire. Burned Patel and the amulet. Patel returned three weeks later. New amulet. Same cold.

  Second time: Davies tried to destroy the amulet first. Hammer. Chisel. Brute force. The metal didn’t break. Patel died anyway. Returned two weeks later. Same amulet. Still glowing.

  Third time: Davies killed Patel and ran before the kill team arrived. Warned the camp. They evacuated. Survived. Found a new location. Patel found them six months later. The camp blamed Davies. Said he was cursed. Said he brought death. Exiled him. Patel killed them anyway.

  Davies stopped trying after that. Stopped warning camps. Stopped killing Patel. Stopped running from the inevitable.

  Just walked. Survived. Existed. Waited for his turn. Waited for the kill team. Waited for the cold efficiency of Necromancer strategy to close his particular exit.

  He was alone in the wasteland when Patel found him the last time. No camp. No people. Just Davies and the wind and the certainty that this was the end.

  Patel approached. Same wounds. Same story. Same cold.

  Said the Necromancers wanted Davies to know something. Desertion was no longer viable. Said all camps had been eliminated. All runners had been caught. the exits were closed. The only choice now was fight or die. Strongholds or nothing. War or extinction.

  Davies could go back. The Fortress would take him. Deserters were being pardoned.

  Davies could choose. Forgiveness or death. The Fortress or the wasteland. Fighting or nothing.

  Davies asked what Patel chose. Patel said he didn’t get to choose anymore. The amulet chose. Said the Necromancers chose. Said he just existed. Cold. Useful. Efficient. A tool that hunted until it broke.

  Davies said that sounded like hell. Patel agreed. Said it was. Said he remembered heaven once. It was warm. He missed it. Said it without emotion. Said it cold.

  Davies asked if Patel wanted to die. Permanently. Finally. Properly. Patel said yes. Said he’d wanted that since Fort Collins. The amulet wouldn’t let him. Said the Necromancers wouldn’t let him. Dying was temporary but wanting death was forever.

  Davies raised the axe one more time. Said he’d try again. Three tries wasn’t enough. Said he’d keep trying until it worked or he died trying. Said promises were promises. Even the impossible ones. Especially the impossible ones.

  Patel said thank you. Said it without emotion. Said it cold. Said it honest.

  Davies killed him. Properly. Thoroughly. Axe through the neck. Head separated. Body burned. Amulet smashed. Ashes scattered.

  Patel didn’t come back.

  Not that week. Not that month. Not that year.

  Davies didn’t know if he’d succeeded or if the Necromancers had just stopped caring. Didn’t know if Patel was finally dead or just reassigned. Didn’t know if the promise was kept or if it was just another temporary victory in a war humanity was losing.

  Didn’t matter.

  He’d kept his promise. Three tries. Fourth time worked. Some promises were worth keeping. Even the ones that took a year. Even the ones that cost everything.

  Davies walked back to The Fortress. Turned himself in. Pardoned. Reassigned. Put back on the wall. Given a rifle. Told to fight.

  He fought. Followed orders. Shot straight. Survived when others didn’t. Same as before. Same as always.

  But sometimes at night, he thought about Patel. About the cold eyes. About the green glow. About the camps and the running and the systematic elimination of alternatives.

  About how the Necromancers had won without fighting. How they’d closed the exits. How they’d forced everyone back to the war. How they’d turned desertion from escape into death sentence. How they’d optimized. How they’d strategized. How they’d learned that killing runners was more efficient than fighting soldiers.

  And how Davies had helped. How he’d killed Patel. How he’d kept his promise. How he’d thought that mattered.

  How it hadn’t mattered at all. Because Patel was just one tracker. One amulet. One cold-eyed hunter.

  There were others. There were always others. The Necromancers were thorough. Methodical. Patient.

  They’d already won. Humanity just hadn’t figured it out yet.

  Davies stood his watch. Fired his rifle. Survived his shifts. Waited for the end.

  At least he’d kept his promise. At least Patel was gone. At least one cold-eyed hunter had stopped hunting.

  It wasn’t much. But it was something. And something was better than nothing. Even when nothing was all that was left.