Page 6 of Obliterated
“Up,” I bark, jerking my chin at the stairs. They stumble past me, tripping over themselves to escape, relief spilling off them like sweat.
The second room’s empty, but the third is worse. A corpse of a man is slumped in the corner, jaw hanging loose, torso a mangled ruin. Half-eaten. Blood smeared across the walls, thick and black in the dim light. My boots stick when I step too close. No movement. No twitch of it coming back alive. It’s just meat.
I press forward into the last compartment, grip tightening around the cleaver’s handle until it stings. The stink hits first… sweet, rotting, familiar. Then the sound. A low rasp. Wet and hungry.
There he is. A Walker. What’s left of a man. It jerks to its feet when it catches the scent of me. Its clothes hang in greasy tatters, soaked dark with fluids that haven’t been human for a long time. Skin peels in strips from its jaw, teeth bared through ragged gaps, and one ear dangles loose by a thread of flesh.
It’s disgusting.
The way it moves, those sharp, twitching jerks, are always the same. But I know better than to blink; Walkers can be quick, quicker than you’d ever expect, and the only way to live is to stay sharp.
So I bend my knees, grip tightening, and let it fucking come. There’s always that breathless split second, the space between hunger and impact, where the world narrows down to me and the monster.
I fucking savor it. Welcome it.
And like expected, it lunges.
One swing. Fast, clean. Cleaver cracks through skull and spine, and the head hits the floor with a wet thud.
Silence.
I let out a slow breath and grin to myself.Easy enough.
That’s when I hear it.
Not the wet rasp of a Walker. Not the groan of the ship settling. No, something softer. A whimper.
I pivot, the cleaver still dripping, and follow the sound to the far corner. Behind a stack of crates, where the shadows are thick. I step closer, slow, boots grinding through dried blood. Then I see him.
Cowering. Trying to make himself small, pressed back like the hull might open up and swallow him whole.
I reach in and haul him out by the throat before he can scramble further. He’s light in my grip, but not weak. His arms tense, hands grab at my wrist. His muscles strain under a ratty old T-shirt that’s seen better decades. Golden-brown hair,filthy and matted, but catching the dim light like it belongs to something brighter. Flip-flops, patched with tape, slap against the boards when I drag him forward.
At first glance I think he’s small for a man. Fragile. Breakable. But he’s not. Just shorter than me. Lean. Built for running, not blunt force.
And then his eyes hit me.
Blue. So fucking blue it knocks the air out of me for a second. Deep and endless. The kind of blue I’ve only ever seen in old videos and pictures, the kind that used to belong to oceans before the rain painted them pink.
Hollow now, sure. Ringed with fear and hunger. But still that color.
I tighten my grip just a little, just enough to feel his pulse hammering, and tilt my head as I study him.
Pretty. Too pretty for this rotting world.
The boy flinches, eyes darting everywhere but me, like maybe there’s a way out. There isn’t. Not anymore.
I lean in, close enough that he feels the weight of me, the press of my body against his trapped frame. The cleaver still drips Walker blood onto the boards between us, each drop a slow reminder of what I just did… and what I could do to him.
His fear cuts the air, sharp and electric. Bitter, addictive.
His breath stutters when I bring my face near his, heat from his gasp ghosting my lips. His pulse hammers against my palm, frantic and alive under my fingers. Those lips part, full and unsteady, and those ocean-blue eyes widen—wide enough to drown in.
I fucking smirk and let out a dark chuckle. “Well… Hello there, pretty.”
Chapter two
Kieran
