Chapter One: The New Home

At the foot of a barren hillside where not a blade of grass grew, Wade shoveled sand and gravel from beneath his feet, the earth piling up beside him into a small mound that now reached as high as his shinbone.

Without a pocket watch to mark the time, he had no way of knowing exactly how long he’d been digging, but by the feel of it, it had been quite a while. The hole before him had grown considerably, expanding from the size of a bucket’s mouth to as wide as a well.

Just a little more and the hole would reach the size he wanted—then the first step of his work would be complete.

As he dug, Wade’s thoughts drifted to how he would transform this burrow. This place was likely to become his home from now on; the spot where he would sleep and rest could not be taken lightly. He had no grand ambitions for luxury or comfort, but it needed to be safe—solid and reliable at the very least.

He’d already envisioned some modifications before he started. This was his first time living in a cave, after all. Best to try it out himself—only then would he know what made for a comfortable dwelling.

But as he dug, something unexpected happened.

Through the vibrations in the bones of his feet, Wade heard an intermittent creaking sound.

It came from ahead, and he had a strong suspicion of what it might be. He set down his tools, climbed the slope, and looked out over the endless wasteland.

As he’d guessed, it was a skeleton.

Its pale, desiccated bones rattled as it stumbled forward, the fire of its soul flickering in its hollow eye sockets. It was entirely naked, the joints and gaps between its bones packed with dry, powdery sand, and it staggered clumsily toward Wade.

This fellow looked as if it had just pried open a coffin lid and crawled out of its grave. By comparison, Wade was a picture of tidiness—his bones were smooth and intact, and he carried no extra sand or grit.

What truly set him apart from this other skeleton, however, was his equipment.

On his left arm, Wade wore a small, rusty round shield, slightly larger than his palm, strapped in place with leather. His waist was wrapped with a linen burial shroud covering his vital parts, and a mace the length of a forearm was tied to his right thigh.

Among skeletons, such gear was nothing short of luxurious.

If the one approaching was a mere foot soldier, then Wade was at least a centurion.

From any angle, Wade looked the more formidable of the two, and if the other had any sense, it would have stayed far away. Yet it came on doggedly, as if Wade owed it money.

Wade scratched his head, pondering how to deal with the relentless intruder.

He had certainly not invited anyone to help with his work. Clearly, this was a problem—one he wanted to resolve quickly, for time was of the essence and there was much to do beyond digging. He still needed to furnish the cave and add a door. If his energy were sapped by unnecessary distractions, he might not finish preparing his new home before it was time to rest again.

After a moment’s thought, he set aside his tools and drew the mace from his waist.

To improve his grip, he had wrapped the metal handle with layers of crisscrossing cloth strips. Grasping it firmly in his right hand, he raised his left and waved it in greeting.

It was a gesture of peace. Wade bore no grudge against this fellow skeleton; if he could persuade it to leave, that would be best.

But the skeleton advanced without a word, lunging at him blindly.

Well, that settled it. You threw the first punch—this is self-defense.

Wade raised his shield and stepped forward.

With a crack, the small, dark shield jammed into the skeleton’s jaws.

He’d long since noticed that other skeletons liked to bite things, latching on tenaciously, more stubborn than any hound.

This made it easy to fix the skeleton’s head in place.

Once its teeth were clamped tight on the shield’s edge, Wade adjusted the angle of his mace and swung it sideways with a whistling arc.

A mace was the perfect weapon against skeletons—enough force would shatter a skull.

He’d aimed to smash its head with one blow, but the result was unexpected.

The mace struck true, and with a dull bang, the skull separated from the spine, arcing high through the air.

A broken incisor landed at Wade’s feet. The skull hit the ground a dozen meters away, rolling several times.

Headless now, the skeleton staggered in place, flailing its limbs in confusion.

Wade hadn’t anticipated its weak spine—its skull wasn’t shattered, merely sent flying. The sight was almost comical; the body even toppled over, floundering like a stranded fish, unable to rise.

Left alone, it seemed harmless enough.

Yet mercy to one’s enemy is cruelty to oneself. Better to end its suffering swiftly than leave it to struggle.

Wade strode over to the fallen skull, crouched down, held it so the temple faced upward, and brought his mace down hard.

Crack!

Web-like fissures spread across the bone; the mace broke through the fragile temple as easily as cracking an egg.

The temple is the weakest part of the human skull—the thickest bone can be a thumb’s width, but the temple is scarcely one-fifth as thick, little stronger than an eggshell. For a skeleton, it is the deadliest spot of all.

Break open the temple, create a gap in the skull, and the soul-fire within loses its balance, spurting out like blood from a severed artery.

Flames poured from the hole, and Wade pressed his right palm against it. The soul-fire surged through the fissure, flowing into his body.

Soul-fire nourishes the undead; this uninvited skeleton had attacked Wade out of a primal urge to consume a fellow’s soul-fire.

But it had failed, and instead became Wade’s “nourishment.”

As the energy surged through him, Wade felt a blissful warmth, like splashing hot water on his face in the depths of winter.

He touched his own forehead—the last crack smoothed over, healed as if by the tempering of hot iron, the flame mending the fracture.

Meanwhile, the other skeleton, now utterly spent, fell still as a wound-down marionette.

Silence returned. Wade stowed his weapons and quietly buried the shattered skull beneath sand and stone, then looked up at the sky.

A pale, ashen sky held a crescent moon. In that moonlight, scattered skeletons wandered the wasteland, littered with gravel and twisted brambles.

Wade’s world was shades of gray and white—a perspective different from that of the living.

The sky was gray; the moon, a whiter blot. Moonbeams shimmered with the pulse of magical tides, like a thin veil.

Humans couldn’t perceive these waves of magic, but skeletons, seeing with their souls, were far more sensitive.

Never had the sun risen in this sky, at least not in Wade’s memory.

He suspected he was trapped in a subspace of sorts, though as to why—don’t ask him; he’d like to find someone who could explain it himself.

He recalled the night of the full moon a few days ago, when magic grew so dense it blotted out the moon, and hundreds upon hundreds of skeletons clawed their way from the soil and gravel in a frenzy—gnawing each other’s ribs, kicking each other’s pelvises.

Every undead Wade saw had become wildly active.

Being a civilized skeleton, Wade had not joined the brawl. He’d hidden in the very hole at his feet, waiting for the madness to pass.

Only when the moon waned and the magic abated did peace return.

It was his first experience of the full moon since becoming a skeleton. Considering another riot might erupt next time, Wade decided to expand this burrow for his own safety.

This spot, at the bottom of a slope and far from the sands where skeletons had emerged, was the best he could find after a long search.

With the problem settled, it was back to work.

He picked up his makeshift bone shovel, crafted from a shinbone and a large, unknown scale, lashed together with near-rotten leather.

He dug industriously, spending some time widening the entrance.

After crawling through several times to test the fit, he set about furnishing the place.

He spread the burial shroud he’d scavenged over the cave floor, then dismantled the skeleton outside, salvaging its leg, rib, and arm bones.

Besides this unfortunate soul, he’d prepared three more skeletons’ worth of bones for building materials.

Using soul-fire, he reassembled and joined the bones, carrying them into the cave and arranging them in place.

The white bones, like building blocks, formed a cage-like framework within the cramped space.

These were the “beams,” supporting the cave and making it sturdier, to prevent earth from loosening or collapsing.

Finally, he dragged over a stone he’d set aside earlier and placed it at the entrance.

This would be the door to his new home—a stone nearly chest-high, just enough to block the entrance from wandering undead.

Hands on hips, Wade nodded in satisfaction at his handiwork.

It was a crude arrangement, but serviceable.

Admittedly, the decor wasn’t much—bones piled everywhere would startle any living soul, who’d think it a place steeped in foul curses.

But Wade was no longer among the living, and this style suited a skeleton just fine.

He glanced at the bone shovel beside him—the handle was cracked, and a little more use would snap the brittle shinbone.

So he stripped it down, discarding the bone and keeping only the sturdy scale and old leather.

He ducked into the cave, sat on the tattered burial shroud, hugged his knees, and admired his little home.

The burrow was small—no room to walk freely, hardly enough to stand; sitting or lying down was the most comfortable posture.

Still, he rather liked it. The confined space made him feel safe. As a child, he’d loved sleeping with his head buried in the blankets, pressed against the wall, breathing in the cracks, convinced that no monster in the dark could threaten him there.

Now the thought struck him as funny—perhaps he was the monster others feared.

Not that it was a bad thing. Though dead, transformed into a skeleton, there were upsides: he was finally a homeowner, with no mortgage to pay. Worth celebrating.

The house was crude, but that could be fixed. The foundation was laid—one day, he could build a palace if he wished.

After a while, he began to feel tired. Only as a skeleton did he realize that the undead were not, as some stories claimed, tireless.

They needed sleep, too. After so much work and a fight to boot, he was exhausted.

He rolled the stone over, blocking the cave entrance.

As the stone grated against the earth, pale moonlight was shut out, leaving only darkness.

Wade curled up in the cramped cave, listening to the muffled sound of wind and sand, and lay down on his side like an infant.

The flames in his eye sockets dimmed, and his consciousness drifted away.

Just before sleep, he gave a brief summary of the day.

All in all, things had gone smoothly—he’d done what he planned.

Good night, Wade.

Though he would never see the sun rise, he could still hope for luck tomorrow.

…