Page 52 of The Dead Don't Talk
I collapse to my shaking knees as he slips into the room his father occupies, his front covered in bright red blood.
It takes everything in me to claw my way up the wall to stand. All of the breath left in my lungs to follow him. Any energy I have left to fall onto his back, barely catching myself on the scraps of his jacket.
“And who’s going to lead this place,” Micheal ekes out through the grip on his throat. “You two?”
Moros sneers and yanks his father closer. “Anyone else is better thanyou.”
“Oh, that’s—” Micheal’s words squeak to a pause, his hands clawing at Moros’s arm. “That’s exactly what you must do.”
“Boss, please stop,” I murmur, my vision darkening around the edges as I cling to him.
“No.”
“Who … who else will keep them alive, Moros?” his dad croaks out.
Something seems to click as he spares me a glance, sees me barely hanging on through the sickness that’s coursing through me.
I can’t let it kill me.
Not yet.
That tunneling in my eyes grows, threatening to swallow up the room. Moros. The feelings I have—have had—for him.
My strength fades and my grip slips.
“Let’s make a deal,” is the last thing I hear as I crumble to the floor.
Chapter 26
This is … not what I thought
The Present
Moros
“What the … fuck?”
Walking back into this place nearly ten years later, I can still smell the iron from all the blood that stained these carpets.
Except … notthesecarpets.
They’re rugs now, colorful and messy and too bright to fucking look at as we walk them, tendrils of smoke leading the way.
“This is definitely not …” Wilson trails off, bewildered, and confused as his fingers slice through a hanging curtain of shining beads on strings. They rattle as he passes through, then holds them back for Amo and me to follow him.
The smoke is thicker back here, washing the room in a pink-tinted haze. It’s the kind that comes from an incense that the elders use to burn.
Something in it triggers … well … anyone infected.
“Did we eat the wrong mushrooms again?” Wilson asks and I grunt.
“Nope. This is … real.”
“Aw fuck, we have company,” murmurs a man I don’t recognize, his form struggling in a pile of giant pillows and rounded bags. They’re in the center of the room, the far wall lined with worn seating that appears to have some kind of floral pattern if you look past the brown shade.
The light source in the corner casts shadows over the guy's face until he finally gets to his feet, his partner more graceful than him, and he meets us with a grin.
He’s wearing the same robes I recall, though this set has popped threads and added stains.
