Page 87 of Worshiping Faith

Then I remember I hate them.

Trip’s crouched a few crates over, rifle raised, scoping the towers.

Damn, I need a rifle.

Or…

I grin.

Why waste bullets when a blade will do?

I dash for the stairs, joining the chaos.

On the way, I pop Rick, or Dick, or whatever-the-fuck-his-name-was, right in the skull.

Guy said some shit to me once. Don’t even remember what.

Fuck him.

One less fucker on that boat with my angel.

Seconds later, I’m inside the walls again.

We separate, hunting these chickenshit bastards.

A gunshot cracks from somewhere to my right.

Idiot just gave himself away.

I slink toward the noise, keeping low, silent.

The dumbass still has his pistol raised when I jump him, blade sliding clean across his throat.

His gurgle is almost delicate.

I tilt my head, watching as his knees hit the floor, his hands flying up, trying to stop the inevitable.

“Shhh,” I whisper, guiding him down with a soft pat on the back.

Another scream splits the air.

Then more gunfire.

It’s everywhere.

Fuck, I love this.

The yard has gone to hell.

Men who were carrying crates moments ago are now trading gunfire, ducking behind whatever they can.

The whole damn dock is alive with chaos, men sprinting, shouting, ducking, dying.

Bullets zip past my head.

“Zachs!”

I whip my head toward the voice.

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