Outside the wall, for the first time in spring. In Grandfather’s day they would sweep the approaches twice in a week, year round; but not now. The dead don’t come often anymore. Look for movement on the ground, in the tall grasses. Step carefully, always aware. Watch the treeline. Large groups mean a town somewhere grew careless.
Since the end of the world, when a man dies, he becomes the walking dead. We learn this in the crèche. A zombie rots, flesh sloughs off, becomes a walking skeleton. Smash it to bits, burn the bits. Only way to be sure.