Page 2 of Obliterated
The crowd. The restless, bloodthirsty, packed crowd senses it. Feels it. And despite the frenzy, despite their obsession withwhat’s about to unfold down here in the Pit, they obey. Most of them pull back, cramming themselves tighter under the patchy plastic roof.
Because even a single drop on their skin could be enough to infect and end them. Could mean their inevitable demise.
All except for the already half-infected ones. The carriers of the virus. TheTouched.
Theydon’t flinch when the sirens blare.Theykeep right where they were—front and center—handing over their fear to whatever darkness already lives in them.
Theyare the ones already marked,touched, by the red rain or by the bite of a Walker.
Theyare the ones waiting out the clock, living on borrowed time, caught in that slow, quiet descent toward something unrecognizable. Something rotten. Just like the ones behind the bars.
They’re already doomed. Just not entirely done yet. Just like every poor bastard on this island will be, eventually.
All except for me.
I tilt my head back and look up higher, past the noise, past the cage doors, past the bloated clouds now beginning to spill over the cliff edge above the arena.
And just when the first red drop falls down at my feet, the gong strikes.
A deep, ugly sound. Metal on metal, too loud and too long. It tears through the stone like a warning from hell itself, and the Walkers respond in kind—howling louder, slamming harder into the gate. Rotting arms punch through the gaps, clawing at the air like they know I’m here.
Like they can smell me.
Like they remember me.
Like they know I’m the one who butchered their brethren—their pack, their hive, or whatever brain-dead bond ties them together in that rotting mass of hunger and hate.
An amplified female voice cuts through the air. Formal. Clear. And too fucking smug.
My head snaps toward the platform above the Walkers—toward the Nine.Nine misfortunate bastards who are the heads of their own departments. Health, military, schooling, you name it. They’re cloaked in those ugly-as-fuck red robes and puffed-up pride, seated in judgment like kings above the chaos. Perched just out of reach of the screaming Walkers mashed against the bars beneath them.
“Sergeant Maximos Skarlatos.” Her voice booms from the rusted speakers bolted to the dais, every word dripping from the cheap crackle of wasted electricity. “You stand accused of violating Decree Six. The unlawful execution of a Touched citizen. A citizen suspected of being turned but not confirmed.”
I cock a brow, fold my arms across my chest, and hold my chin high. Still standing dead center in the Pit. The wench knows I hate it when she uses my full name.
Noura El-Amin. Magistrate. Head of Justice. Once upon a time, she was also something else—pressed up against crumbling walls with my hands on her hips, gasping for more, more,more.
Now she won’t even look me in the eye without venom in hers.
“Do you deny the charge?” she asks, her voice ringing out crisp and cold.
I stay silent. Just raise my brow higher. Arms still folded.
A ripple goes through the crowd. Half of it are jeers, the other half laughter. They eat it up, the arrogance, the defiance.Mad Max refusing to fucking kneel.
“Answer,” she demands, her knuckles whitening on the arms of her chair.
I grin slowly, all teeth. Still don’t say a word. The rain has started its steady hiss, coating me in a crimson sheen that runs down my arms, painting me in death’s colors.
The crowd roars. Some boo. Most scream approval. They don’t want remorse. They don’t want truth. They want blood.
“Silence!” Noura yells, her voice slicing through the noise, and the turmoil settles. “As outlined in our laws, silence is guilt. Every violation proven, every crime confessed or unanswered, is answered here in the Pit.” Her eyes flicker with cruel satisfaction. “What is this now, your seventh time?”
“I think it is the eighth,” another member of the Nine supplies helpfully, his tone mocking. Laughter ripples across the dais.
And that mouth that once gasped my name curves into an evil little smirk.
“Right. Eight.” Noura tilts her head, savoring the words. “That means eight Walkers this time. One for every violation. One for every time you’ve been cast into this Pit. I have to say, Maximos… it’s quite impressive.”
