Making peace with the fact that I'm now a lackey of evil, after several minutes pass and our necromancer friends complete their discussion, they depart, and we move out.

Now, he didn't tell us to move out, as in talk to us. Somehow or other, the connection between minion and master allows him to simply will us to do what he wants. 

That includes me, somehow, despite my retaining my mental faculties. A difference between the rest of the horde and myself seems to be that I can choose how I complete that task.

If I were to try to stop, or walk in the opposite direction, then the magic would bully my body forward. 

However, if I'm atleast moving towards the direction indicated, as long as it's not expressly the wrong way than I'm still in control.

Course, I don't know where we're going, for all I know our goal is pretty damn broad, but I like to think I'm smart. Emotions are gone but it seems desires, at least ones not associated with my body, remain. A desire to feel superior is especially strong.

Which isn't a hard desire to fulfill, when my peers are mindless undead who can't talk. They can groan though. Oh can they groan.

Thankfully it's only the guys from my army that do, as it seems the original zombies ran their vocal cords ragged. Or they were told not to groan. I don't know much about this necromancer or anything, but I know most people wouldn't want to hear "ooaah....gaahhhh..." everywhere they went.

I hope it's the latter and he notices the noise, I would rather not wait till these guys kill their 'voices'.

Aside from that, it's boring as all hell. Something to do with being the only one who can formulate a thought among countless brainless creatures, while the only thing you're allowed to do in walk.

It's making me want to march up to the necromancer and spark up a conversation, but I'm not dumb enough to believe I'm normal and that he's understanding. 

Suppose I can just think about things, and try to space out.

This worked for awhile too, up until I was rudely interrupted by the command to be quiet. Guess the necromancer finally noticed the groans. Thank goodness, too, they made zoning out really difficult for me. Which is funny since I'm supposed to be a brainless undead. Ah, woe is me for my gift of smartness in this sea of ignorance....smartness is a word, right? Ah, who'll correct me? Thus it's true.

Following that line of thinking, I once more devolved into mental seclusion, until I could take it no longer and was about to axe a guy in frustration and hope it goes unnoticed, when I saw it.

It was a village, albeit a rather cruddy one. I ever mention where we came from was desolate and the locals are nomadic? Well, being the tireless things we are with our necromatic slave driver leader, we made great time and have reached the slightly less desolate, still really shitty, region. Hell, I don't even remember where it was we came from, it was such a backwater.

But that doesn't change the situation. It seems that's our target, my connection to the necromancer giving me inklings of his excitement. I suppose he loves more subordinates, even if they'll be cannon fodder peasants. Although it's not much lower than cannon fodder soldier, especially when you attach the zombie modifier to the name, but at least we got weapons.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

Talking about weapons, I spent some of the time on the move examining my axe, trying to figure out where it came from. My conclusion?

No fucking idea. Nice axe though, minus the slight rust.

It's got a nice weight too, even if you add in the fact as a zombie I have more strength than a living person, and it's the perfect weapon for myself.

When your movements are stiff and mechanical, a simple method of attack is highly effective.

Our approach towards the village doesn't go unnoticed, and quickly it's visible that the inhabitants are trying to flee. Unluckily for them the necromancer's friends left us some more bodies. These bodies, however, weren't made from human corpses.

Reminiscent of a dog yet definitely not your best friend, these creatures actually rank lower than a zombie in terms of combat potential, but leave us in the dust in speed and pack hunting. Don't remember their proper name, but for now I'll call them ghoul hounds, since they don't look as eaten upon as your usual zombie.

Thank goodness I'm not your usual zombie, the axe wound in my shoulder is already a hassle. Thankfully it's healing. I can tell because I can feel the death energy in me working on it, but it's certainly not at the pace of what a living person would do. The only benefit is that I can find is the inclination to believe it's able to heal more than what a living being can.

The necromancer had the ghoul hounds circle around the village previously, boxing the village between our marching host and the rabid packs of canines, certain death on both sides.

From then on, it's a one sided slaughter, one I took part in.

My place in the horde was towards the front, since out of impatience I wanted to hurry up to wherever we were going, and so I was one of the first to strike against the villagers.

I came upon a man who looked to be a farmer, going by the hoe he had in hand and the utter look of despair plastered across his face.

He tried to swing down on me, aiming for my injured right shoulder, but I completely ignored the incoming weapon and struck out with my axe. While a zombie has mechanical and stiff movements, that does not mean they are slow. At least, that seems to apply to me, as my axe lodged itself in the man's side as he toppled over from the force, my hands still clutching the axe handle.

I think it's because I still retain my mind that I'm not as slow as the other zombies, as though whatever it is that animates them is inept at controlling the body beyond a certain level. While I, having been with this model for over eighteen years, know it like the back of my hand. Well, it feels immensely different from when I was alive, so that statement doesn't hold true anymore. Especially when my hand is now pale with dead flesh.

By the way, the farmer man I slayed isn't dead yet, though he's not far from it. That's when I feel it.

I can't describe it, beyond calling it a sixth sense....a feeling of death.

It's triggering in me some primal desire, something I was thinking I couldn't feel anymore with an undead body. I gazed upon the man. I hungered for him.

I reached down, grabbing his arm as he weakly tried to fed me off, and I bit. I bit with enough force to crack bone and ripped off a chunk of meat.

But this didn't satisfy me, and I tore into his throat, ending his cries and his life, and feasted upon his body. 

From then on it was all instinct, I bullied through a group of my undead allies, axe in hand, upon a barricaded door. I could feel the fear emanating from those inside. I began to axe the door down, my undead strength showing with each swing. Before long the door and whatever was holding it shut gives way, as the undead with me at the front burst through.

I first see a woman, fair of face and well endowed, I would surely think her pretty when I was alive. But at this moment I am consumed by a desire for death. Behind her I see two children. Even their innocence is helpless against this urge, which is further fueled by the necromancers order to kill everyone.

We descend upon them, devouring, the desire for death overpowering all my mental faculties I held so proud of retaining.

Before long, we exit the building, in contrast to before I'm the last one out. I wipe my mouth, as I feel full. I do not feel satisfied however....