TWD - Chapter 550: The Cesspool Exploded! (Patreon)

When Cyrus released the knife hilt, his palm was slick with sweat. “Mika, what are you doing here?”

Mika closed the door gently, leaned against it, and let out a long sigh. “I couldn’t sleep.”

Cyrus looked at him. Mika walked over and sat down beside his bed.

They sat facing each other in silence.

At last Mika spoke. “He... Victor didn’t give me away.”

Cyrus said nothing.

Mika continued, “I was standing right there. He knew I was there, but he wouldn’t look at me. Not once.”

He lowered his head and buried his face in his hands. “If Victor had looked at me, I’d be finished. Xavier would have noticed! But he didn’t. He... he protected me.”

Cyrus watched Mika’s hands tremble against his face. In fact, his whole body was shaking.

“What Victor said about the Lord sending him to save us... do you think it’s true?”

Cyrus remembered Victor smiling through the beating, the sound of his prayers, and the last glance he had cast in Cyrus’s direction.

“I don’t know.” Cyrus shook his head.

Mika raised his head. His eyes glistened in the darkness.

Cyrus said, “But I know he wouldn’t turn you in.”

Mika’s eyes filled with tears. He opened his mouth, but no words came.

Cyrus laid a hand on Mika’s shoulder and gave it a gentle pat. “He can handle it.”

Mika looked at him. “Cyrus, how do you know?”

Cyrus thought for a moment. “Because he’s stupid. He’s a fool.”

Mika froze for a moment, and Cyrus continued, “Fools don’t know what fear is.”

After a few seconds of silence, Mika bowed his head. His shoulders began to shake. He made no sound, but Cyrus knew he was crying.

Cyrus said nothing. He stayed beside Mika, his hand resting on the young man’s shoulder.

Outside, Old Ivan kept snoring, while somewhere farther away people laughed and swore. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

But inside that cramped shipping-container dormitory, two men silently wept for a fool whose life hung in the balance.

After a long time, Mika looked up. He wiped his face with the back of his hand, took a deep breath, and said, “I have to go!”

Cyrus nodded.

Mika got up and paused at the doorway. Turning back to Cyrus, he said, “If... if Victor dies...”

He couldn’t bring himself to finish.

Cyrus looked at him. “He won’t die.”

Mika stared blankly, not understanding what he meant.

Cyrus continued earnestly, “Victor won’t die. I promise you.”

Mika stared at him, blinking. Then understanding dawned. He drew a sharp breath and nodded.

The door opened, and he vanished into the darkness. Cyrus sat alone on the bed, recalling what Victor had said earlier that day: “Lord… have mercy on me...”

Did he believe in God?

He wasn’t sure. But Victor believed, and that was enough.

...

The workshop basement.

Victor was tied to a rusty iron post, his hands bound behind his back, his ankles tightly bound with rope.

His face was swollen beyond recognition. Bruises ringed his eyes, his lips were split, and blood still seeped from his nose.

The rest of him looked even worse. His clothes hung in tatters, exposing skin covered in purple bruises. Some wounds had split wide open and were caked with layers of dried blood.

Xavier crouched in front of him, holding an iron pipe. “Victor, I’ll ask you one last time.”

Victor forced his swollen eyelids apart enough to look at Xavier. One corner of his mouth twitched, and he gave a contemptuous snort.

Xavier’s face twisted. He sprang up and swung the iron pipe into Victor’s ribs.

“Crack!”

Victor’s body arched violently, and a piercing scream escaped his mouth.

And then Victor actually smiled again. He kept it small, though. Smiling any wider would hurt his broken ribs too much.

Xavier glared at him, his eyes blazing with rage. “Are you fucking crazy? Possessed by the devil?”

Victor shook his head. “I’m not crazy. I just have faith.”

Xavier froze. “Faith in what?”

Victor looked up with an odd light in his swollen eyes. “Faith in the Lord, in Gabriel, and in a priest in a black robe.”

He paused. “He told me that the Lord commands us to love our neighbor as ourselves.”

Xavier’s expression changed. “What are you talking about? Who is that priest?!”

Victor ignored him and began reciting a prayer again: “...Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me...”

Xavier kicked him in the face. Victor’s head slammed against the iron post, but he kept praying. “...Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me...”

“Shut up! You’re crazy!”

“...You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies...”

Xavier kicked him again. Victor fell silent, his head lolling to one side as blood trickled from his mouth.

The beating had exhausted even Xavier. He stood panting as he stared at Victor.

A few minutes later, Victor’s eyelids fluttered. “Xavier, you can’t kill me. The Lord will protect me.”

As Xavier stared, a strange realization came over him. Victor truly seemed unafraid of death, and that infuriating stupidity made Xavier want to smash his skull in.

Once he understood that, Xavier lost the will to keep beating him. He threw down the pipe and left.

Left alone in his bonds, Victor resumed his prayers, his voice so broken he sounded close to death.

“...Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life… I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever...”

Outside, night had fallen completely. Nobody heard him, but he kept praying. It was the only thing he could still do.

...

The next morning, a foul stench woke Cyrus. It turned his stomach and seemed to burrow straight into his skull. It smelled as though a cesspool had exploded.

Hold on. A cesspool? Had it actually exploded?

Startled, he sat up with a jolt and rubbed his eyes.

Old Ivan’s snoring next door had stopped, replaced by a stream of curses. “Jesus Christ! What’s that smell?!”

Cyrus leaped up and flung open his door. The hallway was in chaos. Several men ran out clutching their noses, some retching as they went.

Dubin stood bare-chested in the doorway, his face contorted in disgust. “Damn it, is the septic tank full?”

Oh no, they’re going to find Douglas’s body!

Cyrus’s mind went blank, and he followed the crowd out.

The farther they went, the worse the smell became. By the time they reached the middle of the factory grounds, it was so strong that Cyrus could barely keep his eyes open. Some men crouched down and vomited.

Cyrus covered his mouth and nose and made his way toward the septic tank, where a crowd had already gathered in a circle.

Xavier stood at the front, his face black with anger. The men beside him looked equally disgusted.

Cyrus edged into the crowd without drawing attention and took a quick look.

The septic tank’s cover had somehow been forced loose. Thick, blackish-yellow filth, fermented for who knew how long, spilled over the rim and spread across the ground like a foul swamp.

In the middle of the tank, a human hand stuck out of the disgusting sludge, its fingers pointing straight at the sky.

Jesus Christ. Several men nearby were already vomiting.

Cyrus’s stomach clenched violently, and his mind went blank.

He recognized the tattoo on the wrist. That was Douglas’s hand!

Cyrus had used a long stick to shove that hand beneath the filth before. Now it had risen again, as though Douglas could not rest even in death.

Xavier crouched and studied the hand. A moment later he looked up, glaring at the people around him. “Pull it out!”