Page 5 of Obliterated
The buildings themselves are ghosts of what they once were, but still beautiful in their own way, white-washed walls crumbling, balconies half collapsed, paint peeling in long strips. What seventy-six years ago used to be a party-paradise, is now patched together with rope, sheet metal, and stubbornness.
It suits it.
Tass falls into step beside me as we head toward the docks. It’s only a short walk, since we practically live on the beach. The ocean’s our natural barrier, our blessing and curse. The Walkers can survive in it, sure. Enough wash up from the mainland, dragging themselves through the surf like bloated corpses. But they’re slow in the water. Easy to spot. Easier to kill.
There’s no challenge in it, but a dead Walker is still a good Walker.
“Dock duty,” Tass mutters with a sigh, her tone dripping with boredom. “Maybe there’ll be some fresh blood worth looking at. Cute boys. Maybe a girl or two.”
I snort, cutting her a side-eye. “Didn’t you fuck enough people last night?”
She smirks, unbothered. “Please. Like there’s such a thing as enough.”
I scoff. Can’t say I share the sentiment. She knows I don’t care for sex. Sure, I’ve fucked. I’ve taken up a few offers over the years. Noura included, back before she got her shiny red cloak and her seat with the Nine. Back before she decided tormenting me was her new favorite pastime.
The getting off part? Fine. Good, even. But I can do that with my own right hand, no strings, no mess, no games. When I told her that, she took it personally. Like rejection from me was worse than death.
We hit the docks, the first early workers already shuffling about. They see me, and every single one of them stiffens. Wide eyes, steps back, like my shadow alone might bite them. A couple even bow their heads, quick and nervous.
“Gods,” Tass mutters under her breath. “Idiots. The almighty Max is back. Fucking cowards. You’d think they’d remember you’re not untouchable. You rot in prison same as anyone else. Break the law, you’re a convict. And convicts get thrown into the Pit. You’re an ordinary criminal.”
“I’m not a criminal.” My lips curl into a grin. “And I’m anything but ordinary. I’m a damn legend.”
She snorts. “Go fuck yourself. You killed someone, and that’s why they threw you in.”
I raise a brow, slowing just enough to catch her gaze. “You do believe me when I say that woman turned right before my eyes, don’t you?”
We’d been on night watch when we heard the screams from a nearby home, standing on the wall that circles the city. A wall cobbled together between ruins, high enough to keep the Walkers from climbing in—most of the time.
Tass sighs, shoving her hands into her pockets. “Of course I do. But Noura was damn quick to believe the family’s story.”
“Nothing new there. She wants to see me dead.”
“She forgets people eat it up,” Tass says, giving me a sideways glance. “They love you in the Pit. They fucking worship the ground you walk on. You’re blood and spectacle all rolled into one, Max. You give them something to scream about, something to cling to. Makes their shitty little lives feel less empty.”
I grunt. She’s not wrong. Noura might call me a criminal, an abomination, but the people? They cheer my name. They’d rather watch me gut Walkers than face the truth of their own meaningless routines, thanking the Gods once more that it’s not their puny asses down in the Pit.
As we round the last corner, the rest of the docks stretch out in front of us, wood and concrete jutting into the sea. A big-ass boat has just docked, ropes still taut, the hull groaning against the tide.
One of our colleagues—the poor bastard stuck running point today—spots us and waves us over, relief written all over his face. “Thank the gods,” he mutters when we get close, eyes flicking straight to me. He’s practically beaming, like I’m his savior.
Figures.
Behind him, a line of filthy, hollow-eyed newcomers is already forming, shuffling toward the checkpoint office where they’ll be tagged, signed in, and filed into their new lives. Some look dazed, others desperate. All of them stink of salt, sweat, and fear.
“We’ve got a problem,” he says, lowering his voice. “Walkers tried to climb on during the crossing. They managed to clear the deck, but they had to seal off the lower hold. We think one’s still trapped down there.”
Tass’s head swivels toward me instantly, her lips twitching, green eyes sparkling like she already knows how this is going to play out.
“Max,” the man adds quickly, hopeful, “since you’re… well, you. We could use you to do a sweep.”
Of course. I get the honor of crawling into a rat-infested ship’s belly with a half-rotten fucker waiting to gnaw on my bones. But I’m the only one Immune. Lucky me.
I drop down the narrow steps into the hold, air thick with salt, piss, and old blood. The light’s fucking shit down here. Perfect place for something rotten to hide.
I draw my cleaver from my back, my hurt fingers protesting. Whisper’s too long for these tight quarters. The cleaver, though? Short, brutal, built for splitting bone up close. My kind of work.
The first filthy compartment’s packed with stragglers and the smell is horrible, rotten. Thin, filthy bodies huddled in corners, eyes wide and darting. Survivors. Barely. I scan them fast, grab a couple by the arms, check their necks, wrists, the soft flesh where bites show first. A scratch, a bruise, I can overlook. A bite? That’s a death sentence.
