Page 29 of The Dead Don't Talk
The impending rain and the moving group of decomposed means all of my traps have tripped and there’s no way left back up to safety.
The smoke signal I set off some distance back was my last chance.
I have no idea where the Guards that might see it are. Or how long it might take them to get here.
Moros …
But if the sudden shift of eyes in my direction is any indication, it won’t be fast enough.
Chapter 12
Ravaged
The past
Wilson—twenty-four years old
“Boss!Duck.”
Strings of wet black hair flies around with him as Moros spins to me, eyes hardening before dipping just out of my sight line.
My fingers have already released the string, the sharpened blade slicing through the air, and a few of his strands just above his crouching body. It lands with a satisfyingping, sunk insidemy target, the shaft reverberating the fletching like fluttering wings.
The target falls to the ground with a thud, maggot-filled eye socket blown out, the sounds fading out.
“I fucking had it,” he growls.
I can’t help but chuckle as Moros stretches to his full height, danger eliminated, and huffs.
Doesn’t hide the paleness of his face, though.
“Yeah. You did.”
He grumbles at my grin and yanks the arrow free from its skull and rot prison with rough fingers that make me cringe.
“Don’tbreakit.”
“Don’t fucking do it again,” he emphasizes, shoving against my chest with the arrow, fletching tickling my cheek.
“You’re welcome, prick.”
Rolling his dark eyes as he turns away, I snicker and shake my head as I slide the arrow back in my quiver.
I found Moros wandering in the last settlement, stealing scraps, in search of his kin, and in desperate need for some sleep. It’d looked like the days had just kept passing him by while he did his best to survive.Like the rest of us. He wasn’t willing to come with me, a total stranger, but starving to death in a community that would rather see you suffer for things you can’t control becomes a quick motivation to take an offer that doesn’t come every day.
The dip in the stream seems to have done him good, too, even though he wouldn’t listen to me about the tint of the water.
He’s irritable, grumpy even, but I think that’s justhim. How he copes.Who am I to judge that?
He’s a great fighter. A clever man.
Cute, too.
Not that it matters much if he is, unless we manage to find some shelter and some edible food before the storm comes in.
If the starvation doesn’t kill us, the rain might.
It smells like clear water and soil, the air thick with the kind of heat that makes skin sticky and cloth damp. Even the spot on my back where my pack sits iswet. The kind that feels like it’ll never be dry again.
