Page 65 of Infamous
I look between them. “What the hell are we doing here?”
Brando doesn’t answer. He just walks back to the car and opens the rear door. When he returns, he’s carrying something wrapped in thick butcher paper, stained dark in places.
He unwraps it with care. The smell hits first - metallic, raw, bloody. Meat.
Without touching it, he flings the whole mess into the water.
For a second, nothing happens. Then the surface breaks - one ripple, two - and half a dozen reptilian eyes rise from the black, reflecting the headlights like small, cold suns.
The water churns. The meat vanishes in seconds. Alligators.
I let out a slow, disbelieving breath. “And all this time,” I murmur,“I thought I knew what crazy was.”
Mason smirks, flicking his cigarette into the water. “You have no idea.”
Brando pats the trunk, where Michael’s muffled shouts have turned to panicked kicks. “Show’s about to start.”
I watch the water settle again, calm and patient. The beasts disappear beneath, but the ripples stay.
This is what family looks like here.
Not comfort or forgiveness.
Just men who understand your demons because they feed theirs too.
A grin pulls across my face before I even pop the boot.
Because now I know exactly what this place is.
Thezoo.
I hit the latch. The trunk springs open and Michael spills out, choking on panic and fury, stumbling into the dirt like a drunk animal. He’s been in there too long - blind, disoriented, blinking against the headlights that slice across the clearing.
He’s cursing before his feet even hit solid ground. “You motherfuckers - what the actual fuck - ”
His voice cracks, hoarse from screaming inside the dark. He swings at me, wild and sloppy, but the punch cuts through empty air. He’s dizzy. Soft. Weak.
Pathetic.
I don’t bother moving. Just watch him wobble, spitting blood and bile, still trying to find his bearings.
Brando and Mason lean against the hood of the truckbehind me - arms crossed, legs lazily draped at the ankle, watching the show like they’ve seen it a thousand times before.
And they have.
“Looks like our boy’s got some energy left,” Brando mutters, lighting a cigarette, voice flat with amusement.
Mason chuckles low. “Won’t for long.”
Michael steadies himself and glares up at me, sweat slick on his forehead. “You think you can fucking scare me?” he spits. “You don’t know who you’re messing with - ”
I take one step forward. He shuts up.
“I knowexactlywho I’m messing with.” My voice is low, calm, vibrating with primal energy. “You’re the coward who thinks you have the right to touch what isn’t yours. The kind of man who breaks what he can’t control.”
He opens his mouth to talk. I hit him once.
“You put your hands on her.”
