Page 8 of Obliterated
When I step out of the ship’s belly, the light slams into me. Too bright. Too raw. My eyes burn, lids squeezing shut, but when I finally force them open the world explodes in colors I can’t fucking process.
Ibitha.
It sprawls before me like something out of a dream and a nightmare all at once. Whitewashed walls, cracked and scarred by red rain, patched over with tarp and rope. Palm trees jutting between broken stone, green vines crawling across balconies. Too lush, too alive against all this ruin.
I haven’t seen this much green since Germany. Since before everything went to hell.
The air hits next. Salt and rot, sure, like every dock I’ve ever known… But beneath it? Something sharper. Sweeter. Almost ethereal. It makes my head spin.
And the people. Gods, the people. Not just the filthy crowd packed onto the pier, but further in… Streets are already stirring in this early morning, voices rising beneath tents and tarps. I catch flashes of life: Men hauling crates and setting up shop, a woman filling a rusty bucket with water, a child tugging at a… is that a goat?
They were right.My mother was right.
This is a safe haven. A city. A place that breathes when the rest of the world is choking.
A place that feels too alive for someone like me.
My heart hammers as I step off the boat, stumbling when my flip-flop catches on the warped deck. I curse under my breath, clutching my bag tighter like that’ll anchor me, like that’ll keep me from falling apart right here.
The Watcher that found me doesn’t slow. Doesn’t glance back. Just cuts through the pier like he owns it, people parting on instinct, like prey scattering from a predator.
A rough hand shoves me forward, wedging me into line with the others. The unlucky bastards who actually made it to shore. They’re gaunt, sunburned, filthy… and all of them glance my way. Brows furrow. Mouths move. Whispering.
They know each other. Shared the boat, shared the fear, probably huddled shoulder to shoulder through those nights of storm and rot.
Me? I don’t belong. And they can see it, written all over my skin.
I ignore them and snap my gaze forward, fix it on the squat concrete building up ahead. A checkpoint. Of course, that’s where the line’s crawling.
My chest seizes. Heartbeat stuttering, then hammering twice as hard.
I don’t have any of the fucking papers you get when boarded. Not like the rest of them. You can’t just climb on a boat, sail to Ibitha, and expect to stay. Everyone knows that.
But desperate times and all…
We pass a crooked pole with a lantern lashed to it, and nailed right below, a weather-beaten pamphlet. The ink is faded, but the words still scream.
THE NINE DECREES OF IBITHA
When the red rain fell and the world rotted, Ibitha rose from ruin.
The wall was built stone by stone, the city carved out of bones and blood.
We endured because we stood together, and together we remain.
But strength demands order, and survival demands obedience.
To keep Ibitha strong, all who live within must uphold the Nine decrees.
Break them, and you break us all.
All must contribute.No work, no food.
All must wear tags.Concealment of your status is a crime.
Childhood is guarded.Adults must serve.
No one leaves the walls.Permission is survival.
