Chapter 4
From puppy to something else
Moros
Amo’s still pissed. Fuming actually. With his dark brows pinched and creases in his forehead, he stomps along the brush, stabbing at the earth with a stick before each step.
He learns quick.
His shoulders are up near his ears and the bunch of arrows are in his other hand, making him look almost like the Guard he’s so desperate to be.
It’s almost cute.
Like a pissy kitten.
He’s about to be even angrier.
Post number twenty-three is a live-in, round the clock, working station. It’s manned full time, and home to our rumored cannibal, who spends his time making shit he trades back to the community. When he’s not hunting, that is.
Which means that our would-be attacker is doing his job.
The lack of undead in the immediate area also means he’s been doing his job well.
We’ll know for sure once the sun descends.
“Hey, kitten. It’s this way.”
Huffing, he follows my pointed finger skyward to just beneath the trees’ canopy, those fat fucking lips of his dropping open.
“A fucking treehouse?” he squawks out, squinting in its direction. The structure is high up, requires climbing to get to it, and has been here for the last nine years.
“You’ve got a mouth on you,” I drawl.
He growls and it makes me chuckle.
“Don’t call me kitten either. It’s fucking demeaning.”
Snorting, I grab onto the chain hanging from the base of the structure and start climbing. It rattles and clinks with each move, the tail whipping around wildly.
“Who is even up there?” he calls after me once I’m halfway up, and jumps out of the way of the swaying chain that moves with my ascent. “And how am I supposed to follow you?”
I pause and glance down, strands of my hair hanging loose around my chin. “It’s called climbing. Grab on. Pull up.”
He huffs again and reaches for the end of the chain but misses. Then he jumps and still misses.
“Moros!”
“If you can’t reach, I’m leaving you down there.”
“You’re such a dick!”
Pursing my lips knowingly, I climb the remaining length, my boots landing heavily on the open wooden platform that creaks beneath my weight. My lips quirk at the man sitting in one of only two chairs in the place, the vines behind him a contrast to the gruffness staring back at me.
“Wilson,” I greet the man that runs this post. “Nice shot.”
“Who’s the fucking kid?”
Amo, who is still yelling after me, makes me chuckle as I plop down on the seat across from Wilson.
He’s as scruffy as ever, chest hair spilling out of his worn flannel, his bow sitting across his knees as his thick fingers fiddle with the spindle.
“Recruit,” I answer and steal the open jar next to his elbow. He grumbles from behind his beard but doesn’t protest when I take a swig.
The liquor burns down my throat, dry and otherwise flavorless. Strong enough to hit my gut like a rock and make me hiss.
“This is a terrible batch,” I say and tilt the glass to look at it, the clear liquid inside sloshing around.
“Thanks, boss. I was waiting for just that compliment.”
I take another sip and hand it back to him.
“How’s the weather?”
“Dead. Red due to come soon, too.”
The rattle of the chain makes his words feel almost ominous, but I keep those thoughts close as the sound continues to travel up the trunks and echoes in the open air porch.
I can already feel the rain coming. I don’t need him to tell me that.
Seems to be every few weeks now that the skies flood an odd tinge, an abnormal color and dump infectious precipitation down on us. The crops. Our animals and feed.
It makes places like this, far away from supplies and assistance, unsafe to be for quite some time. Hard to get to without risk. Even more difficult to come back from, unless you’re already infected.
“We’ll be here ‘til morning,” I rumble out. “You need supplies?”
“Give me back my arrows and I’ll run,” he says roughly after a drink of the pure alcohol. “The traps are all set. Sounds in place to warn ya. I’d get some shut eye if you can.”
He doesn’t wait for a reply before stretching to stand with a groan, his beloved bow in his grip.
“You get that other shit bottled up?”
Slinging his weapon to the holster across his back, he gestures vaguely in the direction of the cabinets that are lined with green spiny looking plants I know to be called aloe.
The leaves have grown since last time I was here, but not as much as I recall from last year, which is not a good thing for him and I and our daytime activities.
“Should be enough ‘til next time,” He mutters distractedly as he gathers a few things for his trip back to my cabin that sits just outside of the community where the supplies he requested should be waiting for him.
The chain makes a loud clink, pulling my attention away from Wilson’s growing collection, to the thud of footsteps that hit the platform, and my smirk grows at Amo’s breathlessness. There’s even a little perspiration sitting above the brow not covered by his deflating curls.
“Here’s the fucking arrows minus one. I’m not going back down there to fucking pick it up.”
He shoves them at Wilson despite the man’s sneer and aims his death glare on me.
“You’re a complete asshole,” he pants out.
“You did fine.”
Wilson grumbles something that resembles sarcasm about how the rest of my night will unfold and descends the chain with a grace that never did make sense to me.
With just one arm wrapped up in the links, his thick body barely makes a sound, and then he’s gone, heading back to the community for his supplies.
“So, he gets to shoot at us and then leave?” Such a pissy lil kitten.
I nod and offer Amo the jar of alcohol that Wilson made. “That’s what he’s here for.”
“Then why the fuck are we?” he nearly screams.
Taking a sip when he ignores my offer, I hiss at the burn then answer him coolly. “So he can do a supply run. It’s been six weeks or so. He likes to look at the plants or some shit.”
Amo’s eyes bug out of his head, and he throws his arms up.
“Oh, motherfuck. You are so confusing and infuriating,” he huffs.
I watch him with barely contained mirth as he rubs his face and walks in a circle. There’s not much space in here with the cot on the floor, the plants, and the two chairs, but he manages to make it work.
“Okay, kitten, have a seat and I’ll explain.”
Relenting feels like the right answer until his audible groan of frustration almost makes me smile more.
“Okay. Speak.” That earns him a brow raise he growls at as he drops into the chair next to me before adding, “you dragged me out here, had me attacked, and now what? We gotta wait here until he comes back?”
“Yes, actually. He should be back mid-morning.”
Another bug of his eyes.
“We have to stay here?” he yells.
“You wanted to follow me. This was always the plan.”
“So why the fuck is he the only one Guard out here, but it’s off limits to everyone except you?”
“It takes most people a day’s trek to get here from the community.” Normal people that is, but Wilson is not normal. Neither am I. “It’s riddled with decomposed, and he knows the area better than anyone. Enough to keep the spread back and the raiders out.”
“You mean kill them all.” He almost seems exasperated by that possibility. That killing the already dead fucks isn’t what we’re supposed to be doing. As if they aren’t decomposed.
“You’re catching up.”
He blinks at me. Glances around at the various pots nestled neatly in every free corner that are hanging from the ceiling and the walls, then shakes his head.
“What does he do with the bodies?”
“Why does that matter?”
Groaning, he snaps to his feet and paces some more.
“So, what are we supposed to do all night?”
My brows jump but I quickly recover before he catches the thought broadcasted on my face. “Sleep or hunt.”
That’s not what I’d prefer, or what I want to say. On the nights that I bring Wilson’s supplies, we generally spend the evenings eating. Hunting.
Fucking.
But Amo doesn’t seem into men in the slightest. He’s just a little jumpy and a lot jumbled. Almost awkward and jittery. Which means my night is going to be filled with hunting game and decomposed alike, instead of showing him what his prostate feels like.
What a shame.