Wake of the Dead | Two

Chapter Thirty | Killian

The air was still, the silence deafening. The two people Killian loved most in the world were glaring daggers at one another, suspicion and an unspoken rivalry between them. It was almost as if the world had stopped spinning, he was holding his breath.

Jackson's new appearance had surprised Killian to say the least. With his mask gone, the man's rotting side was plain as day. The cartilage on the left nostril had decayed away, revealing nothin but bone beneath. His lips were torn, clearly showing off his now bloodstained teeth. Part of the flesh on Jackson's cheek was pulling away, even a large chunk was shaved away from his lower jaw. It was grotesque, but simultaneously fascinating.

Once again Killian knew he should have been frightened, but he wasn't. "We can begin with what happened after the Swanston Massacre." Jasper rumbled. Killian liked when his lover's voice got like that. There a thunderous, deep bass to it, a rippling growl. It raised the hairs on the back of his neck, quickening his pulse.

"Is that what you're calling it now?" Jackson murmured softly. He scowled, "When none of your people—to my knowledge—died, with nearly my whole gang killed? In a single night your group cut our numbers down to a fifth of what they used to be."

"You shouldn't have picked a fight with us then."

"Don't you blame me for that," Jackson hissed. "It was Renier's idea. I tried convincing him not to go through with it but he did anyways. Do you know how old he was?" Jackson demanded. Jasper hesitated for a few split seconds. "He was sixteen." Jackson spat angrily. A spittle of blood landed on the floor beneath him. "Just a kid. Your people call it a massacre, but on which side?"

Not being able to take their arguing any more Killian interrupted before things could turn ugly. He could already feel Jasper bristling beside him. "That's enough." He said sharply. "If you two can't sort yourselves out, I'll do it for you." Nodding to Jackson he began, "We've been having...visitors close to the barn recently. A dog and maybe a man. They left a body of one of the gang," Killian swallowed back a hard lump in his throat, "Now they shove biter corpses in there as well. You have any idea who did that?"

As Jackson noticed just how closely Jasper was watching him, he picked his mask back up and set it over his face again. It was a mishmash of dull colors, hastily patched together. The mask seemed to be held firmly in place by a leather strap that fastened behind his head. Jackson tightened it until the mask was firmly in place before replying, "No." Jackson's voice was blunt, a tone of finality accompanying it.

There was a sharp pain in Killian's chest when he saw the bitterness on Jackson's face. He knew the feeling of betrayal himself—seeing it on Jackson and directed at him was heartbreaking. "The group who has your people," Jasper said, "What are they like?"

"Hell if I know." Was Jackson's rapid-fire response. "They came in armored trucks, dark green. Obviously military, but I doubt any of them were actual marines." Jasper stiffened beside Killian, so tense that he wondered if the man had suddenly been frozen. "They had guns, lots of them. Even though they had the ammunition they didn't kill them with a bullet to get it over with. They beat them to death. Oliver's was with a golf club. But Felicity?" Jackson glared up at them. Killian felt his body grow cold. "A bat, with nails. There was no face left to even recognize her. Nothing." He scowled, "Then they laughed. Made me watch. I couldn't look away."

An eerie silence settled over the room, Killian could feel Jasper's hand suddenly resting on his knee for comfort. This group was much, much bigger problem than they thought. They couldn't fight these people, they'd be slaughtered like cattle. Being beaten like that was torture beyond what Killian could ever imagine, a fate worse than death. Somehow, Jasper still remained calm. "Was there anybody who looked like a leader while you were there?"