After too many years to count, unlife becomes little more than a contest to avoid the inevitable stake. They call us immortal, and yet hardly any of us ever avoid meeting the same end. The pointy end.
More to the point, we end. Which seems to put the lie to “immortal”.
I’ve lasted longer than many.
And yet, each time they get closer.
The dogs are getting smarter.
The saws are getting sharper.
The hunters are getting closer to finding the hidden elevator to my crypt.
And then, the pointy end for me.