Page 73 of The Dead Don't Talk
Them.
“Fuck, is that—” I squint into the distance, the sleeveless shirt and tattoos hard to miss, even from so far away. As if the blacked-out eyes weren’t enough of a giveaway.
Raiders.
But before I can manage a thought about the raiders and why they might be trailing a horde of decomposed, another flash of something pulls my attention.
I stumble when the wall shakes beneath us, falling into Moros for support at the same time I grab his jaw and point his line of sight off to the right.
“That better not beourcurls out there.”
The roar that Moros lets out sounds utterly lethal, vibrating beneath my hands before he jerks away from my grasp.
“Kitten!” he exclaims with such ferocity that even I pause. But then he’s moving, pushing away from me and maneuvering around Guard’s rifles, jumping and leaping off the edge like a fucking madman.
I follow him.
Of course I follow him. I have for over a third of my life. Not to mention the bouncing head of wild curls bobbing in and out of my sight, among the throngs of decomposed, means that my knot-tying skills are severely lacking.
And I’m pissed.
How could he just take off on us like that?
“I can’t believe you let him out,” Moros grinds out when I catch up to him, weaving around the decomposed as we go. I slash as I pass, stabbing whatever is in reach with my pocket knife. It’s not fucking ideal, but neither is Amo being alone out here in the middle of this shit. A goddamnswarmof undead and raiders that seems to be following us.
“I didn’tlet himdo anything, Moros,” I snap back, narrowly missing his swinging arm with my blade.
“I’m gonna tie him up and teach him a fucking lesson.”
I snort and duck the swing of his chain as he whips it around a neck and snaps it clean through.
Viscera splatters across my face, my chest and flannel, and I growl.
“Can you stop brutalizing everything and get to him? I don’t want a red shower.”
Moros grunts as he rips his chain through a half missing torso, spreading more guts around. “How about a golden one?”
I dip beneath his swing and jam my knife through the chin of a decomposed at his back.
When I spin to face him, his wide chest heaving and face painted in deep red splotches, he quirks a brow.
“Maybe later,” I murmur.
A release of breath flies from his nose, his only response, before he takes off again.
“Amo!”
I follow close behind, watching his back as he clears a path straight to our guy.
The bewildered look on Amo’s face almost makes me chuckle. Had we not been in the center of a horde, I probably would.
But as Moros captures him, spinning him around and forcing his body to his chest, his sneer deepens. His face and clothes are painted just like ours, splatters of deep red woven into the fabric of his yellow shirt and splotched across his nose. It almost makes him look like the Guard I know he really is and yet I can’t find it in myself to regret trying to keep him back inside the gates. Inside our community, where his safety was … possible at least.
His arms fling around, hitting everything in his reach, his legs kicking out. He narrowly misses me in the process, but as he thrashes around, he manages to kick back two decomposed that are dangerously close.
His efforts have the corners of my lips tipping up but the wall of muscle behind him holding him back is not at all amused.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Moros asks the sneer and wildness in his hazel eyes I’ve never seen before.
