Page 51 of The Dead Don't Talk
The gurgling gasp, his hands clawing at mine, has the room exploding in a chaos of motion around us and I know that my time with them is running thin.
Thundering footsteps break out around me, the elders all abandoning their seats in varying degrees of panic as I snatch up another one that dares get within arm’s length of me.
He’s still not the one I’m after and I toss him away like the trash that lines our streets.
“Hey, boss? I found this one out back.”
Chapter 25
Here we go again
The past
Wilson—twenty-six
“Moros,” I mutter indisbelief as he grips the throat of yet another elder, crushing it with nothing but his bare hands.
I knew he was pissed—I am, too.
Dangerous.
But I didn’t expect him to bathe the walls in their blood in retaliation.
“Boss, stop.” Hooking my arm around his does nothing but make him squeeze harder. Enough that the eyes staring back at us silently beg for release. His screams are silent. And my stomach turns. “Stop, Moros,fuck.”
He growls a deep and reverberative sound that leeches through the muscles beneath my grip and tosses the elder aside like the trash he was.
I try to stop him from slicing through the next.
Force myself between him and another.
He’s just too fucking strong. Full of well-deserved rage for what this group has done to us, to the people of this community.
But the people here don’t know any better.
They’ve only known this desolate treatment. Scraps for food is normal to them. Leaking buildings and limited shelter from the rain is standard.
Moros and I are the only ones beside his father that have seen anything beyond these walls to know that it doesn’t have to be like this.
Fuck, his father is the reason he was out there wandering along, searching for the man that gave him life, when I found him. If it weren’t for Micheal, neither of us would be here.
We wouldn’t have stayed here.
But sometimes, the familiar devil keeps you closer than you’d ever admit.
Moros’s only living family.
Which makes it even more difficult to haul him back when his fingers wrap around another grown man’s neck.
It snaps easily in his hands and my stomach rolls.
Then it growls with the hunger I can’t control.
“M-Moros. Please.”
It’s not until he stalks his father’s path up the stairs to the second floor where the elder’s rooms are that I pin him to the wall.
“I’m going to kill them all, Wilson,” he growls out, those dark eyes swallowed up by the black centers and bloodshot. I’m too stunned to hold him back when he shoves me, my muscles too weak from the infection I’m still learning to live with.
