Page 9 of The Dead Don't Talk
I can’t help but scan the area I saw the red paper in, my sight bouncing between it andhim. There’s a drop of blood collected on the shell of his ear that looks dark and dirty thanks to the arrows, with his lips pulling up, his eyes sparkling though they’re dark. At one point they seemed brown in the sun, though as that light fades, they seem pitch black.
The lack of light makes shit hard to tell out here.
“Youwere the one being shot at. How would I be the dead one?”
What does Moros do in response other than yank arrows from the ground?
He fucking grunts.
Chapter 4
From puppy to something else
Moros
Amo’s still pissed. Fumingactually. With his dark brows pinched and creases in his forehead, he stomps along the brush, stabbing at the earth with a stick before each step.
He learns quick.
His shoulders are up near his ears and the bunch of arrows are in his other hand, making him look almost like the Guard he’s so desperate to be.
It’s almost cute.
Like a pissy kitten.
He’s about to be even angrier.
Post number twenty-three is a live-in, round the clock, working station. It’s manned full time, and home to our rumoredcannibal,who spends his time making shit he trades back to the community. When he’s not hunting, that is.
Which means that our would-be attacker is doing his job.
The lack of undead in the immediate area also means he’s been doing his job well.
We’ll know for sure once the sun descends.
“Hey, kitten. It’s this way.”
Huffing, he follows my pointed finger skyward to just beneath the trees’ canopy, those fat fucking lips of his dropping open.
“A fuckingtreehouse?” he squawks out, squinting in its direction. The structure is high up, requires climbing to get to it, and has been here for the last nine years.
“You’ve got a mouth on you,” I drawl.
He growls and it makes me chuckle.
“Don’t call mekitteneither. It’s fucking demeaning.”
Snorting, I grab onto the chain hanging from the base of the structure and start climbing. It rattles and clinks with each move, the tail whipping around wildly.
“Who is even up there?” he calls after me once I’m halfway up, and jumps out of the way of the swaying chain that moves with my ascent. “And how am I supposed to follow you?”
I pause and glance down, strands of my hair hanging loose around my chin. “It’s called climbing. Grab on. Pull up.”
He huffs again and reaches for the end of the chain but misses. Then he jumps and still misses.
“Moros!”
“If you can’t reach, I’m leaving you down there.”
