TWD - Chapter 547: Now, You Should Shut Up! (Patreon)

Cyrus's heart began to race. He took a step forward, then suddenly heard something heavy hit the ground behind him.

He spun around. Douglas stood three meters behind him with a knife in his hand. There was no fear or anger in his eyes, only something cold.

“Cyrus.” Douglas stared at him. “You've been following me the whole way.”

Cyrus looked at him. “Douglas, what do you want?”

Douglas gave a cold laugh. “What do I want? Shouldn't I be asking what you're trying to do?”

He stepped forward and licked his lips. “That idiot Victor really thought I wanted to leave?”

Cyrus narrowed his eyes and tightened his grip on the knife. “You don't?”

“Leave?” Douglas laughed again. “What the fuck would I leave for? To get strung up? To get burned alive?”

He paused and cracked his neck. “Valentino’s dead, Benson’s gone, and I’m staying. Do you know why?”

Cyrus said nothing. Douglas stared straight at him. “Because I’m smart. I know when to talk and when to shut up.”

With that, he raised his knife. “Now, it’s your turn to shut up!”

As Douglas lunged at him, only one thought flashed through Cyrus's mind. I've hated this bastard for a long time anyway.

Douglas moved fast. They were all mercenaries, after all, and every one of them knew how to fight.

The knife drove toward Cyrus's chest, fast and vicious.

Cyrus twisted aside, letting the point miss him, and kicked Douglas hard behind the knee at the same time.

Douglas lurched forward, nearly falling, but forced himself to regain his balance and swung his blade again.

Cyrus leaped backward, creating some distance.

The two stood facing each other, both panting.

“You can fucking fight!” Douglas said, his eyes locked on Cyrus.

“You’re not half bad yourself,” Cyrus said. “Valentino and Benson taught me a few moves.”

Douglas’s face twitched. “Valentino’s crazy, and Benson’s a traitor.”

“Is that so?” Cyrus said. “Then why didn't you turn him in before?”

Douglas didn’t answer.

Cyrus stepped forward. “You've wanted to turn him in for a long time, haven't you? You just never had the chance.

“Valentino was too defiant. He openly challenged The Pope's claims about God and died too quickly. Benson simply left.”

A flicker of panic crossed Douglas’s eyes. “H-how do you know that?”

Cyrus lunged at him. “Because I know exactly what kind of person you are! You fucking two-faced bastard!”

Douglas swung his knife to block, but Cyrus was already inside his reach. Close combat was Cyrus's advantage.

Cyrus seized Douglas's knife wrist with one hand and drove his own blade upward with the other. It slid between Douglas's ribs with a wet stab.

Douglas’s eyes widened. He opened his mouth to scream, but only a short, gasping sound escaped him.

Cyrus kept Douglas's knife hand pinned and, without changing expression, pushed his own blade another inch deeper.

The blade pierced Douglas's lung. He could not make a sound. His free hand pressed weakly against Cyrus's chest as he fought for air, but he was still suffocating. The strength drained from his arm, and his body sagged.

Cyrus caught him and slowly lowered him to the ground. Blood poured from the wound and spread into a dark patch across the gray concrete.

Douglas’s eyes were still open, staring intently at him.

Cyrus crouched beside him and looked at him coldly.

“You... you...” Douglas's lips moved, but only a muffled sound came out.

Cyrus pulled the knife free. Blood welled from Douglas's mouth, and then he stopped moving.

Cyrus remained crouched there, staring silently at his face. Then he drove the knife into Douglas's head once more. He stood, wiped the blade on Douglas's clothes, and put it away.

No one was around. The passage was secluded, and hardly anyone ever came here.

Douglas had probably chosen this route because he did not want anyone to see them. He had expected to deal with the man following him. Instead, he had led himself to his own death.

Cyrus looked down at the body. Blood was still leaking onto the ground. He had to get rid of it.

First, he pulled the walkie-talkie from inside his clothes and pressed the transmit button. “Hello?”

“I’m here,” came Calista’s voice.

Cyrus took a deep breath. “I took care of a snitch.”

“Are you okay?”

“Victor and I are both fine.”

“What about the body?”

“I haven’t had a chance to dispose of it yet.”

“Okay, don’t let anyone find it. Stay safe.”

“Got it.”

The other end was silent for a few seconds. Then Calista said, “Cyrus, you did the right thing.”

Cyrus swallowed. He said nothing, released the button, and tucked the walkie-talkie back inside his clothes.

Then he crouched down and began to dispose of Douglas’s body.

Dragging Douglas's body into the septic tank was the most disgusting thing Cyrus had ever done in his life.

The tank sat behind the open-air toilet. No one had cleaned it since the apocalypse, and everything inside had fermented into black sludge foul enough to knock out an elephant.

When Cyrus shoved Douglas's body into it, he nearly vomited on the spot, but managed to hold it back.

He watched the body slowly sink, swallowed up by the black sludge, until finally only one hand remained sticking out.

“Tsk. What a pain.”

Cyrus found a long pole and jabbed the hand a few times until it sank completely beneath the sludge.

Sorry, Douglas. This was probably the least dignified final resting place in the world.

Cyrus sighed and headed back. At the corner of the workshop, he stopped and leaned against the wall, eyes closed, until the nausea finally settled.

Then he opened his eyes and looked down at his clothes. There was a little blood on them. Not much, but enough to notice.

Cyrus cursed, stripped off his jacket, rolled it into a bundle, tucked it under his arm, and walked back toward the dorms as though nothing had happened.

He ran into Zike on the way. Zike shouted at him, “Jesus Christ! Where the hell's your jacket?”

Cyrus did not even turn around. “Hot.”

Zike laughed behind him. “Hot? It's barely in the teens. Are you fucking stupid?”

Cyrus rolled his eyes. “I'm young. I run hot.”

Zike: …

Cyrus returned to his room, shut the door, and threw the jacket onto the floor.

He sat down and stared at the jacket, at the small bloodstain on it, and remembered the look in Douglas's eyes at the end.

Fear. Resentment. And something else, just a little of it. What was it?

He shook his head, deciding not to think about it anymore. Time to sleep.

That evening, after a short nap, Cyrus went back to the cafeteria.

He carried his tray to a corner and sat down. At some point, Victor came over and sat beside him.

“W-where did you go today?” Victor studied his expression and asked cautiously, keeping his voice low.

Cyrus glanced at him. “I took care of something.”

Victor froze for a moment. “What kind of business?”

Cyrus did not answer. He simply lowered his head and kept eating his porridge.

Victor watched him with a complicated expression. “Cyrus.”

“Hmm?”

“Did… did you kill someone?”

Cyrus paused, then raised his head and looked at Victor's guileless face. “You don't need to know.”

Victor fell silent and lowered his head to eat as well.

The two sat there without speaking while the familiar noises of the cafeteria continued around them.

Dubin and Zike cursed at each other, Xavier bragged to someone, a spoon slammed against a tray, and someone burst out laughing.

Listening to those sounds, Cyrus suddenly wondered how many of these people were like Douglas. How many truly wanted to leave, and how many were only pretending?

He did not know, but he had to keep going. Victor was too naive. If Cyrus was not there to watch over him, Victor would die.

He looked toward the window. It was already dark outside.

Cyrus remembered what Calista had told him: “You're not going there to die. You're going to help your friend stay alive.”

He took a deep breath, pushed down the heaviness in his chest, quickly finished the last of his porridge, then stood and patted Victor on the shoulder. “Victor, I'm heading out.”

Victor looked up at him several times before finally nodding, his expression complicated. “Thanks, bro!”