Nothing

Four

He should stop reminding himself of the war. Because there was something far worse.

The snow had begun to disperse, though the cold stayed, but it wasn't what he was fearful for. The four men that came to the camp a few months ago brought in the virus. People were getting sick. The medic was getting sick. His officer was getting sick, but the sniper?

He never caught it.

There is no cure. The camp would die out. If the squadron that was due to arrive arrived, they'd come to a ghost town. But, despite the sickness, his fellow soldiers liked to joke, "you must be immune to the sickness."

Maybe he was. But he didn't want to take chances.

He felt a pit within his heart. What he was about to do was terrible. In his eyes, anyways. He slung his bag around his shoulder, gathering as many as needed supplies as possible.

He was going to desert his camp.

He knew the guilt and regret would travel with him, he didn't know where to go. Would he perish in the frozen wilderness? Or be killed? He'd have to hope to come across another squad, as his supplies were little.

The sniper cast his glance towards the fields outside town. The skies were filled with light grey clouds and for once he could see out far. He took a step forward, stopped, and glanced at his camp.

Did he really want to leave? If someone from the camp lived, and saw him, they would surely see his him as a traitor.

Then again, what if he could catch the virus? He didn't want that risk. Not yet. Not without a cure.

It was his heart, taking control. Where he wished to go, not where his loyalty lies. He was leaving that all behind. He turned around, snow crunching into the ground as he walked forwards, never to return to the town for a long, long time.