Page 4 of Obliterated
And bythem, she doesn’t just mean the crates of stale grain or barrels of half-rotten potatoes from the mainland settlements. She means the newcomers. Thechosenones. Handpicked like fucking cattle, shipped over, thinking Ibitha is some kind of safe haven. Like setting foot on this island and being allowed to work and live here makes them special. Makes themsafe.
I almost fucking sneer at the thought. They don’t get it yet. Nobody washes up here without a price to pay. They’re notsaved. They’re just owned… Same cage, different shoreline.
“Process,” I mutter. “You mean stare at wide-eyed idiots who don’t even know where to shit yet.”
“Exactly.” She comes over and kicks at the foot of my bed until I move. I roll onto my side and a white-hot bolt tears through my ribs, stealing the air from my lungs. Every damn muscle screams from last night’s fight in the Pit. The brutal round that bought me my freedom back.
For now, at least.
I sit up with a hiss, jaw clenched so tight it aches, and glare at her for real this time. She just stands there, unimpressed as ever. Her dark hair’s pulled back in one of those intricate braids she somehow manages even in this hellhole, her face pale in that way it always is after the red rain.
Touched blood doesn’t mix well with tinted skies. It leaves her hollow-eyed, restless, raw. A hangover from the heavens. Not that she’d ever admit it.
“Where’d you spend the night?” I flex my stiff fingers, the bloody bandages pulling at split skin. She’s right. I almost lost a couple last night. One of those damn Walkers got too close while I was busy slicing another open from throat to groin, smirking when its guts spilled out, just because I could.
“You know where,” she says flatly. “The only place us Touched are welcome when the sky bleeds red.”
I glance up at her, lip curling. “That filthy resort,” I mutter. A glorified carcass of a hotel, patched together with tarps and rope. It has a normal bar as well, but one wing is gutted and claimed for what it really is now—a den. A pit stop for the Touched when the red rain hits and the rest of us lock ourselves away.
Because when you’re Touched—when you’re marked but still walking, still breathing, not yet turned into a damn zombie, aWalker—things get ugly. The red rain strips away the last scraps of control. All your inhibitions dissolve. Your senses spike until everything’s too sharp, too loud. You crave. You burn. You want to feast, to fuck, to fight, anything to scratch the itch under your skin.
And Ibitha, ever pragmatic, carved out a place where they can do just that. Out of sight. Out of mind. Contained.
She doesn’t argue, doesn’t rise to the bait. Just watches me as I drag myself upright and start pulling on my black combats, every move a fresh ache in my ribs and shoulders. The shirt clings where my side’s still bleeding, but I don’t bother with clean bandages. Not worth it. Not today.
We don’t mention the big-ass elephant that always sits in the room whenever the Touched or the Carriers come up. She’s one of them and could turn any minute. She’s not a bitten one… No, she’s one of the few born this way. Her mother got infected after a bite, belly swollen, baby already inside. Tass came into the world Touched. Stained before she even took her first breath.
By some godsdamned miracle, she hasn’t fully turned into a Walker yet and has survived for twenty-three years so far. But that’s the thing about being Touched—you can change any godsdamned minute. Their blood thickens, darkens, tested again and again for signs of the slide. Some go quick, snapping within days of being marked. Others drag it out for months, years even, living on borrowed time until the rot wins.
I squint at the bronze dog tag resting against her chest, glinting above the collar of her combat shirt. Bronze for Touched. Always bronze. A brand and a warning.
She catches me looking. And like always, she shoves it under her shirt, out of sight. Like hiding it could ever make a fucking difference.
“Stop staring, Max,” she mutters. “We both know what it says.”
I snort, dragging the worn leather strap across my shoulder and sliding my sword, Whisper, into place on my back. I fucking named the thing because it’s bad-ass. The cleaver follows, heavier, brutal, settling against the other shoulder. My pistol is finally back at my hip, holstered where it belongs.
My prize for surviving last night. My freedom. My status. My gun.
The swords? Those are Pit weapons. They’re allowed, even encouraged during the fight. Brutal and fucking clever if you think about it. Because defending yourself against a Walker with nothing but steel means you’ve got to let them close. Close enough for teeth. Close enough for the bite that usually seals your fate.
The Pit isn’t just punishment, it’s a death trap dressed up as entertainment, disguised as justice.
But that shit doesn’t work on me. They can come as close as they want. They can sink their rotting teeth into my Immune ass all night long, and I’ll still be standing the next day.
Tass throws something at me, a big chunk of bread wrapped in paper. I catch it one-handed, rip the end off with my teeth as she unwraps another one, and fuckingmoanwhen I discover what’s on it.
“Where did you get the coin for actual cheese?”
“Thanks to you.” Her grin is quick, sly. “Took the courtesy of using your winnings from last night. You’re welcome.”
I glare around the mouthful, chewing anyway. Silver and bronze coins… the currency Ibitha runs on. Carefully handed out for performing your job, just enough to keep people on their feet but never enough to let them have much more than they need. You want more? You bleed for it. You barter, you whore yourself out, or you fight in the Pit. That’s the way it’s always been. That’s the way they like it.
And well… surviving eight Walkers in the Pit—sentenced or not—means a fat fucking payout in coins.
The bread’s hard, but it’s warm. I tear another bite off and shove my boots on while Tass adjusts her own belt of knives. We look the same now. Black combats, black shirts, weapons strapped close. Two shadows moving through a city that doesn’t want our scrutiny, but can’t survive without us Watchers.
She steps ahead of me as we finally push out of our building—her apartment just below mine—and into the street. The morning air is already warm, heavy with salt and rot, clinging to my skin like a second layer. Red-stained puddles dot the cobblestones where the rain lingered, still steaming under the rising sun. Tarps stretch from building to building, flapping overhead like torn sails, their faded plastic doing a half-assed job of shielding anyone stupid enough to linger outside.
