Page 16 of Obliterated
I stayed in that apartment, pretending not to know. Sometimes an old neighbor peeked in on me, like she did with the other kids on our floor. Mostly she just hunched over her chair, eyes glazed at the flicker of a scavenged TV, watching old DVDs. I’d bury myself in whatever book Mom managed to find for me, because she was still a good mother. Despite everything, I know she loved me.
The building still had electricity, at least. Solar panels rigged across the roof. Same as here. I even have electricity in my room.
When I get back there, the sun already sliding low, I toss the little medic bag into the cabinet in the bathroom and step into the shower. The tiles are cracked, grout black with age, but it’s clean enough. And there’s running water. Courtesy of the plumbing system they’ve somehow kept alive in this place.
I scrub a hand down my face, exhaustion dragging at me. Half a day helping the girls and boys with cuts, bruises, stitching what needs stitching—it wears me out faster than I want to admit and my shift has yet to start.
Sometimes I want to kick myself for not mentioning this skill when I first arrived. But I was too panicked, and who would’ve believed me without documentation? And even if they had, my skills wouldn’t have been enough for a medical posting. I can only do the basics. Still… I want to learn more.
For now I just have to be good enough that Joyeus sees the value. Keep the others healthy, keep them a little less broken.
When I step back into my small room, a crusty towel around my waist, I freeze. Someone was in here.
There’s a T-shirt laid out on my double bed that wasn’t there before. Clean. Bright blue. Basic as hell, but when I lift it, I see it’s my size. My brows rise. Underneath it, cargo shorts. Also new, also my size. No stains, no tears, no stretched-out seams.
My brows pull tighter as I scan the room. The sliding door to the little balcony, where I’ve cluttered the sill with scavenged herb pots, is open. Curtains stir with the early evening breeze.
I go out there, staring past the balcony, to the wall rising behind my building, a strip of land between us. It stretches all the way to the Den. Beyond that, nothing but forests and cliffs. The resort sits at the city’s edge, close to the beach, but after that it’s just rugged land where the world finally fell apart.
On the wall, the usual Watchers patrol in pairs, rifles slung easily, eyes fixed outward. They scan the other side like clockwork, radios crackling whenever something stirs, but none give me any attention.
There are a lot of Watchers. More than I first realized. And they’re everywhere, keeping the inhabitants safe from the Walkers. It’s effective, since I haven’t seen a Walker since I got here, since the one on the boat.
I learned a few other things, too. Like the fact there are one or two smaller villages here, but running there wouldn’t change anything. They all play by the same rules, under the same council—the Nine—who rule this island, far away from the mess on the mainland. Roads connect us, sure, but you don’t travel without permission.
They’d turn me in the second I showed up.
I sigh and pull the shirt over my head. It fits. Better than anything I’ve had in years. I’ll have to thank Joyeus, I guess, for finding something that finally sits right on me.
After pulling on the shorts, I shove my feet into my trusty flip-flops before going down for my shift. They’re the good kind, thick soles, single band. I can’t give them up. My mom found them for me once, proud as hell when she did. And fuck, they’re comfortable.
When I come out of the stairwell into the foyer, I nod at the manager behind the rundown counter, then push through the double doors into the former restaurant, now turned bar. My steps take me straight to the far left corner, the bar I’ve claimed as my little safe place.
For the next three months, I can still pour drinks, trade small talk, and almost feel like I’m living. Actually living, for once in my life. Even though it’s not freedom, not really… it’s still a life. And that’s more than I ever had out there.
I freeze when I get close.
He’s there, the Watcher from the docks.Max.Shit.
He’s here at almost all of my shifts. Only this time, he’s not in the booth he usually claims with Tass—the beautiful Middle Eastern warrior princess with a grin sharp enough to cut—or with the new addition, the dark-skinned guy, probably from the southern lands, always smiling like nothing on this island can touch him.
They’re always huddled there together. Talking. Smoking. Eating. Him endlessly sharpening that wicked sword of his, the muscles on that arm with the big alligator tattoo flexing, eyes scanning the room like he’s already picked who he’d kill next, smoke pouring out of that sinful as fuck mouth. And just like on the docks, there’s always space around them. Aroundhim, mostly.
Because when the others wander to the bar, when Tass or that other guy mingle with the crowd, people talk to them. Easy. Like they’re part of the room.
Not him. Never him. And now I finally know why.
He’s Immune. Immune to the rain. Immune to the virus.
The Immune.
I’ve heard of Immune people before, but I never met one. Where I came from, whenever someone like that appeared, they were never seen again. Snatched up. Turned into lab rats for the scientists. My mother used to hush me when I asked. Said if you were Immune, you kept your head down. You let no one know. Or they’d take you.
Don’t tell them, she’d whisper when she thought I was asleep.Don’t tell them, don’t tell them. Keep quiet. Keep safe.
But Max… he doesn’t keep his head down. Not even close.
And no, it’s not just the immunity. That’s only half of it. The rest? He’s a legend. A warrior through and through, if I have to believe half of the drunken stories told around here.
