Page 24 of Obliterated
I unsheathe Whisper, the blade singing free, and focus on my surroundings.
I couldn’t give a flying fuck about most of the people here, but I’m not letting diseased, rotting, zombie scum get anywhere nearhim.
I’m not the only one in the rain. No. I might be the only Immune bastard, but the Touched are drawn to it, pulled like moths to fire. Some are heading for the Den where they’ll fuck and fight the sickness out of their system, some go inside their homes to lock themselves away until the frenzy and worst of it passes.
To each their own.
I flip the sword once, twice, the weight familiar in my palm. Around me, the normals stay hidden, huddled in shops, keeping their mouths shut. Doesn’t matter that we’re in the busiest part of Ibitha, smack dab in the middle of the market. Out here in the rain, it’s just me, the blade, and whatever the storm spits out.
The square empties to silence, just scraps of fabric snapping in the wind, crimson puddles swelling dark on the cobbles.
I breathe in deep andlisten.
Beyond the sirens still blaring, beyond the steadydrip drip dripof red rain sliding down canvas, gutters, rooftops.
Listening is survival. Always has been.
I spare a glance back to Kieran. He’s gripping the banister inside the shop, knuckles white, eyes fixed on me while the rain runs in rivulets down my face. Wide, unblinking, drinking mein. I don’t know if it’s horror keeping him there, or awe, or something else entirely.
I scoff, heat curling sharp in my chest. He’s got no idea what kind of monster he’s staring at. And I’ve got no business caring either way.
That’s when I hear it.
A wet, snapping snarl, loud and hungry.
Then, a scream.
It’s close. Too close.
My attention jerks to one of the bakeries. It’s the one Tass raids every morning for our bread. The shop right next fucking door to where Kieran is. My gut knots.
A child bursts out, no older than eight, sprinting like his life depends on it, terror on his face. Rain slicks his skin crimson, and before he can slip away, one of the sellers who was just gutting fish snags his arm with her gloved hands. She doesn’t pull him close, doesn’t shield him, just pushes him back under her awning, careful to keep herself dry. She nods my way, sharp and quick, like she knows I’ll handle the mess.
Fuck. A small part of me hopes the rain could spare him, and he doesn’t turn Touched. But hope’s a damn luxury. With that much red soaking through, it’s as good as a death sentence, the virus already in his veins. He’s already doomed.
But no time to think about that.
I bolt forward, Whisper gripped in both hands, and raise the blade over my shoulder. A fucking warrior in his element, storm roaring in my ears, blood and steel ready to dance.
The Walker lurches out of the bakery. Still a woman, meat not yet sagging off her bones, freshly turned. Her movements are already jerky, that twitching stagger that gives them away, and her teeth snap in the air like she’s already biting down on a phantom throat.
I recognize her. The kid’s grandmother.
One of the long-haul Touched, clinging on for more than a decade. Held herself together longer than most, but the rain finally finished her.
She’s fast, too fast for a seventy-year-old. The virus sharpens her, snaps her joints into motion, and she darts for the booth where the boy cowers.
His eyes are huge, locked on her, on me, pupils blown wide with terror.
I whistle sharp, cut across her path. Her head snaps to me. Her eyes have that unmistakable shimmer. That dead, hungry glow.
And I grin. Fucking finally. “Hello there, granny. You wanna dance?”
Of course she charges.They always fucking do.
I don’t care that this Walker was once a person. I don’t care that the boy is watching me about to carve his kin apart, tears cutting clean lines through the red streaking his face. All I care about is how my blood thrums at the sight of her, how my chest cracks open with the rush.
I thrive in this lawless, immoral world. I thrive where chaos reigns and blood flows freely, where survival isn’t about how good you look on paper but how viciously you can fight.
