TWD - Chapter 545: The Lord Says, “Traitors Shall Be Burned!” (Patreon)

At 2:00 a.m., Cyrus couldn’t sleep. He lay in bed with his eyes wide open, listening to the occasional footsteps coming from outside.

A faint snore drifted from next door. That was Old Ivan's room. He was the oldest of the Reapers, already in his fifties, and his snoring sounded like thunder. If the apocalypse had never happened, he might already have retired to that country farm he had bragged about countless times, enjoying a quiet life away from everything.

In the room next to that, someone was talking in their sleep: “Don’t eat the pickled radishes… those are mine…”

Cyrus recognized Xavier's voice. Even a madman's sleep-talking carried a murderous edge.

He rolled over gently to face the wall. Then he heard someone knocking on the wall from the room on his other side.

“Thump, thump, thump.”

Three knocks. It was Mika.

Cyrus reached out and tapped the wall twice: thump, thump. There was silence from next door for a few seconds.

Then came a barely audible voice: “Come out. Go to the back.”

Cyrus held his breath. He quietly sat up, slipped on his jacket, and stepped out into the darkness.

Behind the container dorms was a narrow passageway, with discarded parts and rusty steel piled along both sides. Hardly anyone came here because it was cramped and foul-smelling. There was an open-air toilet nearby, and the stench was enough to choke you.

Cyrus felt his way through the darkness to the far end of the passageway, where he saw a dark figure crouching there, a cigarette clamped between his fingers.

Mika looked up, his eyes gleaming in the darkness. His face was covered in stubble. “Cyrus.”

Cyrus crouched down beside him. “What’s up?”

Mika licked his lips. “Where’d you go this afternoon?”

Cyrus’s heart was pounding. “I had diarrhea.”

Mika looked at him, disbelief written plainly in his eyes. “You had diarrhea for half the day?”

Cyrus said nothing. Mika handed him the cigarette. Cyrus took a drag. It was harsh, one of those hand-rolled cigarettes with dried leaves mixed into the tobacco.

“How much do you know about Benson?” Mika asked.

Cyrus’s hand paused. “…I know a little.”

Mika looked at him. “Do you believe it?”

“Believe what?”

“That they’re dead or that they got away.”

Cyrus pursed his lips. He handed the cigarette back to Mika. “I don’t know.”

Mika took the cigarette, took a drag, and slowly exhaled. “I don’t believe it.”

Cyrus’s heart began to race.

Mika continued, “I've known Benson for five years. We carried guns together in Afghanistan and took bullets together. He's good at what he does, and he had plenty of people with him. I don't believe they're dead. They must have left. If Benson left, he had a reason.”

Cyrus looked at him, his brow slightly furrowed. “What are you trying to say?”

Mika turned his head and looked at him intently. “What I’m saying is, if he’s leaving, I might go with him.”

Cyrus froze. “You...”

“Don’t say a damn word,” Mika cut him off abruptly. “I know what you’re thinking. You want to ask if I’ve gone crazy.”

He stood up and ran his fingers through his hair in frustration. “I’m not crazy. I just don’t want to burn people anymore.”

Mika stubbed out his cigarette on the wall, then stuffed the butt into his pocket. “I’m leaving. Take care of yourself.”

He squeezed through the scrap metal and vanished into the darkness.

Cyrus crouched alone where he was, his heart pounding like a drum.

Then he stood, squeezed his way back to his room, and lay down. Only one thought remained in his mind. Maybe. Just maybe, someone really was willing to leave.

Early the next morning, Cyrus went to the cafeteria.

The cafeteria occupied a small factory building beside the workshop. A few long tables and plastic chairs filled the room, and large painted words covered one wall: “Eat my flesh, drink my blood.”

No one knew exactly when it had started, but the cafeteria had suddenly begun serving a predawn meal. Most people barely noticed, but the men on night watch no longer had to endure the rest of their shift on an empty stomach.

The predawn meal was a dull yellowish mush with no obvious ingredients. It looked thoroughly unappetizing, but at least it filled the stomach.

Cyrus carried his tray and found a corner to sit down. He had just taken a sip of the slurry when someone sat down across from him.

It was Malcolm, the man who ran the cafeteria. A scar stretched from the corner of his eye to the corner of his mouth. “Cyrus.”

His voice was rough and hoarse. “Where were you yesterday?”

Cyrus looked up at him. Malcolm's gaze was calm, but there was something pointed behind it.

“I had diarrhea.”

Malcolm nodded and said meaningfully, “Benson and the others haven’t come back. The Pope’s been in a bad mood lately and is keeping a close eye on things.”

He stood up and walked away.

Cyrus watched him leave, a chill running down his spine. Keeping a close eye on things? On what exactly?

Why would Malcolm tell him all this?

Cyrus thought again about the new predawn meal. Maybe Malcolm was not one of The Pope's die-hard loyalists after all.

Perhaps quite a few of the Reapers actually disliked The Pope’s style of rule.

The cafeteria gradually filled with noise as those who had just finished their night watch poured in, carrying their trays and grumbling as they looked for seats.

“…Holy shit, I froze my ass off last night. That shitty sentry post didn’t even have a damn windbreak!”

“Count yourself lucky. That asshole Xavier had me hauling ammo crates all night. My hands are still shaking.”

“Serves you right for losing to Dubin!”

“Lose my ass. He cheated!”

Laughter, curses, and spoons clattering against trays filled the room. As Cyrus listened to those familiar sounds, an ache rose in his chest.

These were people he had patrolled with, drunk with, cursed with, and killed with, both before and after the apocalypse.

But now, he sat here, plotting how to lure them away. He lowered his head and continued to drink that slop with its disgusting color.

After finishing the meal, Cyrus was just about to leave when a commotion suddenly erupted from the workshop.

Someone shouted, “Assemble! Get up! The Pope is about to speak!”

The cafeteria went silent at once. No one complained or dragged their feet. Everyone stood, set down their trays, and headed toward the workshop.

Cyrus followed the crowd.

The workshop was already packed with more than twenty people, a dark mass gathered around the Furnace of Purification.

Bathed in the flames, the massive iron pillar glowed a dark red, like a red-hot iron rod.

The Pope stood beneath the pillar, dressed in black. A priest stood behind him, and Xavier stood beside The Pope, holding a rifle and wearing a fierce expression.

Everyone was silent.

The Pope swept his gaze across the crowd and spoke coldly. “Brothers, there is a traitor among us. Someone has forsaken the Lord!”

Cyrus's heart began pounding, and his mind went blank. Had Victor been discovered?

The Pope's sinister gaze moved across the crowd. “Benson, Josephine, and those useless bastards have forsaken the Lord. They have forsaken us!”

He paused, his tone ruthless. “The Lord says that traitors shall be burned at the stake!”

Someone in the crowd shouted, “Burn them!”

The Pope raised his hand, quelling the commotion. “No rush. They’ll come back. The Lord will bring them back.”

He looked over the crowd. “You are all my brothers! We carried guns together and bled together. We are family. We are the Chosen Ones!”

The Pope's voice suddenly softened, even as his expression twisted. “I protect you. I feed you, give you shelter, and give you a reason to live. As long as you follow me and follow the Lord, you will not die. You will live until the day the Lord returns!”

Led by the priest, a low murmur of agreement rose from the crowd: “Amen.”

Cyrus joined in the response. He finally let out a huge breath of relief. It seemed that neither he nor Victor had been exposed.