The Monsters Among Us ➳ Daryl Dixon

46. The Viper

I clung to the shadows as if I belonged to them until I found a suitable victim.

He had been blissfully minding his own business, sewing a pair of jeans from a rickety wooden chair set up by the buildings exit, when I departed from the shadows of the wall and put my bloodied blade to his throat. My other hand instinctively reached around to cover his mouth before he could let out a yelp of surprise.

“Where are my people?” I hissed. “Tell me, and I’ll leave you alive.”

I could feel his body shaking, hear the whimpers escaping from the slim gaps between my fingers.

“When I take my hand away,” I whispered, “you’re not going to scream, or make any noise other than a coherent and well formatted sentence describing exactly where I can find the people I came here with, or I will cut out your tongue and feed it to you. Nod if you understand.”

The man nodded vehemently.

“Good.” I moved my hand.

Without even a beat of hesitation, he pointed across the room with a shaky finger, towards the adjacent doorway. “Out the door, right, down the hall, take the second door past the armoury on the left, and cross the courtyard. The warehouse area there is where they do their prep work.”

Prep work? God. This place was something else.

“Cheers, mate. Have a good nap.” I smacked him in the back of the head with the hilt of the knife and let his form slump sideways, out of the chair and onto the hard concrete floor.

Stepping over his unconscious body, I crossed the room and paused by the door. No sound. The hallway beyond was clear. I pulled it open, stepped out, and turned to the right. I’d only taken a few steps down the length of the corridor when I heard the distinct sound of a gun cocking.

It was coming from in front of me, echoing out from the open door of a room down the hall.

The smell hit me first.

Dead, rotting meat – the tell-tale scent of a walker.

I moved down the length of the corridor, drawing both my knives silently in preparation as I rounded on the open doorway. The room beyond was dimly lit with the only light source being a handful of sparsely placed candles, but I was able to make out its entire contents without issue.

Along each wall ran a series of tables, atop which lay various weaponry items, from small firearms to sharpened machetes, and above them, rather haphazardly affixed to the wall, were lines of wooden shelving containing a crateful of artillery, boxes of shells, and a small collection of grenades.

I couldn’t see what lay on the table at the forefront of the room, as the way was blocked by a slight figure draped in a dirty poncho that I guess had once been white but was now such a deep crimson, it was almost black. The smell was so strong, I almost flinched away, but I managed to keep myself steady as I silently approached from behind. It was obvious the figure had no idea I was there; they were too busy rummaging through the items occupying the table in front of them.

I stalked forwards, beginning to lift my knives when the figure suddenly lifted something from the table and slung it over their shoulder.

A fire lit itself within me, anger sending my body into action before conscious thought could. I leapt forwards, reaching around the figure to place my blade at its throat before it could so much as gasp shock.