Terror. A dimension mirroring the living one--but morphed to reflect the imagination of its Overseer. And the current Overseer... has refused to relinquish her power for centuries, tormenting her souls--"terrors"--into becoming... zombies.
Arielle f...
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Apparently, going north meant traversing towns saturated with zombies. How Oscar thought this way was the best, Arielle didn't understand; but she followed, unable to fend for herself. Unaware of her location, how far they'd walked, where they were headed.
Several streets they swept through were infested with rotting corpses, flies buzzing about, mingling with orange sparks from nearby flames. Some spots were dry, some were damp, some reeked of fuel, and others were so putrid with death that Arielle pulled her shirt collar up and did her hardest not to gag. She wished for a scarf, a cloth, anything to cover up the stench as it invaded her nostrils and reminded her of her dire situation: stuck in Terror, hunting down a zombified Jade, and plotting to undermine a centuries-old Overseer who was greedy with power.
Oscar, somehow unfazed by the despair looming around them, urged them onward. He spoke little, only gesturing at Arielle to crouch when he did, to hide when flesh-eating creatures were close, to run when they faced impasses that might get them swarmed if they didn't react fast enough. He was neutral, impervious to everything, but always on the alert.
In the time since they'd decided north was their vague destination, Arielle had witnessed so much fire, inhaled so much smoke that she worried she'd become the flames and they'd consume her body. She often touched her hair, ensuring her locks hadn't caught fire. She spoke to herself, repeating complicated words to be certain she still had regular brain function.
If he cared, Oscar said nothing. Confident, cool on the outside, he showed no emotion as he barreled through the dilapidated cities. He had no reaction to the chaos left in the zombie's wake. Carcasses had no effect on him—if they were in his way, he shrugged and marched over them, whereas Arielle shrank and walked around them, cramming her lips shut to not vomit. Oscar was immune to the grossness, to the toxicity in the air, and never expressed tension or internal torment as he navigated the perilous parts of Terror.
And all parts were perilous, Arielle had decided. Every turn they took led them deeper into zombie territory, or so it seemed. Every new town was bigger, bloodier, more destroyed than the one before. Every zone surged with smoke, flares flickering overhead, and a reddening sky that looked ready to tumble atop them.
When she wasn't shriveling in Oscar's shadow, she watched him, his easy steps, his unafraid demeanor. He'd only been in Terror for a month, yet weaved his way through busy, burning streets as if he'd done it for years. As if he'd done it with his eyes closed, his hands tied behind his back, deprived of his hearing. Had he been a cop or a spy or a mythical martial arts specialist in real life, before he died? How had he died? She couldn't imagine someone with his skill, with his impenetrable nature when facing danger, was able to die at all.
One area they waded through—its fires less intense, but still surrounding the perimeter, threatening to engulf it whole—prompted Oscar to slow down. His ears perked, his shoulders squared. He must have detected maliciousness nearby. His zombie radar was blaring inside that thick, impossible to penetrate skull of his.