Maarg lay flat on the crumbling pavement, his head pounding like a war drum, each breath coming slower than the last. The world around him tilted and wavered, a surreal haze of motion and violence. He couldn't move. His limbs felt like dead weight, dragged down by pain and confusion. But his eyes—his eyes were wide open, forced to witness every second of what unfolded around him.
He remembered the scream.
Tara.
Then the SUV.
Then the symbol—painted in crude red on the rusted metal door: a boar skull, twisted with jagged, horned edges. Henry's words from earlier echoed faintly in Maarg's head: "That's their mark… the cannibals."
The sickening sound of metal striking flesh had shattered their formation before they could react. Mark had been run down, his body flung to the side of the road like he weighed nothing. Blood pooled beneath him, and for a second, Maarg thought he might be dead.
Then the cannibals poured in—humans, but not quite. Their eyes were wild, their skin smeared with filth, their mouths grinning like predators who had finally cornered their prey. No mindless groaning like the undead. No lumbering steps. These people hunted.
Jack was the only one still standing. He moved like a man possessed—slashing with his axe, pivoting with surprising precision, weaving through the two attackers who had singled him out. His Jacket was torn, blood on his knuckles, but his eyes burned with a fury Maarg had never seen before. If anyone had seen him then. He looked like a demon let loose.
Tara was running, her hands trembling as she held Henry's gun. She was crouched low, trying to steady the shaking barrel as one of the cannibals began approaching her with slow, deliberate steps. His grin was toothy and twisted. Malice practically oozed from his every movement. Maarg wanted to scream, to tell her to run, to pull the trigger—but all he could do was watch. His voice wouldn't come. His body wouldn't respond.
He tried. God, he tried. He clawed at the ground, dragging himself just a few inches forward, heart thudding wildly. He had to get to them. To help. Even if it meant dying doing so.
But he didn't get far.
A shadow loomed over him, and then pain exploded again across his ribs. Another cannibal had appeared—this one reeking of alcohol and smoke. Without hesitation, the man kicked Maarg back down and dropped onto him, pinning his arms. Rope scraped across his skin as his wrists were yanked behind him and bound tightly. Nearby, Henry was still unconscious, another cannibal crouched over him doing the same.
Helpless.
Maarg was helpless.
He had swear to himself that he will never be helpless again, yet now he was lying on the gravel road, blood flowing from his forehead.
He writhed, cursed under his breath, his vision blurring with frustration and rage. He could still hear the clash of Jack's axe, the whimper of the gun shaking in Tara's grip, and the cruel laughter of the ones who had attacked them.
This wasn't how it was supposed to happen.
They had survived everything so far. Charity. The undead. The wasteland itself.
But now?
They were being taken by men. Monsters in human skin. The kind of enemy no vaccine or gunshot could cure.
As the cannibal finished tying Maarg's ankles and yanked a filthy cloth around his mouth, muffling his voice, he leaned in close with a sick smile.
"You'll make good meat," the man whispered, his breath rancid. "But not yet. Boss likes to talk to the strong ones first."
Then everything began to go dark again—either from the blood loss, the panic, or the blow to the head he hadn't even felt until now.
The last thing Maarg saw before everything faded was Tara pulling the trigger. Once. Twice. A flash of light. The roar of the gun.
Then—
Nothing.
***
Maarg didn't remember when exactly he lost consciousness. His memories were broken shards—pain, screams, the metallic scent of blood, and the dull thud of bodies tossed into a truck. He thought he heard Tara scream. He might've seen Jack struggling. Someone—maybe Mark—was groaning nearby. But the chaos had blurred into one long moment of helplessness before everything went black.
When he woke up, his head was pounding. A sharp, gnawing pain nestled just behind his eyes. The room was dim—lit only by a single flickering bulb that hung from the ceiling like a dying star. The air was thick with rot and mildew. His wrists and ankles were bound tightly, chafed and raw.
He blinked, trying to focus. The room looked like an old storage basement or bunker. Rusted shelves lined the walls, stacked with crates and sacks—most of them marked with strange symbols or graffiti. The walls were concrete, stained with moisture and something darker Maarg didn't want to name.
He pulled against the ropes.
"It won't work."
The voice came from across the room—sharp and steady, like it had been expecting him to wake up at any moment.
"You'll just tire yourself out," it added casually.
Maarg slowly turned toward the sound.
There, sitting on a metal chair, one leg propped lazily over the other, was a figure. A black hoodie hung loose over their frame. Messy purple hair obscured part of their face, but not the slight smile that rested on their lips—half amusement, half indifference. They weren't armed, but Maarg could see a sheathed machete under their Hoodie. They had the calmness of someone who wasn't worried about being attacked. Or maybe someone who knew nobody would dare attack them.
The person's skin was a warm tan shade, and they leaned back in the chair as if they owned the space. The air shifted around them—not hostile, not kind either. Just unreadable.
Maarg squinted, still groggy. "Who are you?"
The person tilted their head slightly, then smirked. "Gabby."
"That doesn't answer—"
"I'm a guard," Gabby interrupted, stretching lazily. "Officially, I'm here to watch the stock. You and the rest."
Maarg's body tensed at the word stock. He glanced around the room again. No cages. No signs of the others. Just the unsettling reality of being considered property.
"I'm not like them," Gabby added, sensing the tension. "I don't eat people, if that's what you're thinking."
"Then what are you doing here?" Maarg asked, his voice sharp despite his weakened state.
Gabby's smile thinned. "That's not a question I answer for free."
Maarg narrowed his eyes. "So what? You're one of them, but not really? Just… what? Playing both sides?"
Gabby's expression didn't change, but something in their eyes flickered—just for a moment. "Let's just say… I have clearance. Courtesy of the boss's brother. That makes me untouchable around here."
Maarg couldn't help but stare. Gabby didn't move like a cannibal. Didn't talk like one either. Too clean. Too controlled.
"You're not here for them," he said slowly, more to himself than anyone else.
Gabby gave a small, cryptic shrug. "I have my own reasons for being here."
"And what? You just sit and watch people get eaten?"
Gabby's smile faded ever so slightly. "You'd be surprised how much information you can gather by sitting still and keeping quiet."
Silence filled the space between them. Maarg's heart pounded against his ribs. His instincts were a storm of confusion. Something about Gabby felt… off. Not in a threatening way, but in the way a blade hidden under cloth does—not always visible, but dangerous nonetheless.
"You'll see them again," Gabby said after a while. "The girl and the injured boy. They're alive. For now."
Maarg swallowed hard. "And if I want to keep them that way?"
Gabby stood up and walked toward the door, pausing before stepping out.
"Then rest. Regain your strength. You're going to need it. Because once the boss arrives…" they looked over their shoulder, voice quieter, "things will change."
With that, Gabby slipped out the door, locking it behind them.
Maarg was left alone with the unconscious body of jack in the flickering light, bound and exhausted, but now wide awake—with more questions than answers.