Page 86 of Worshiping Faith

A shot.

Echoing off the walls of this godforsaken place.

Dax and Irish both turn.

Crates hit the deck as everyone draws their weapons.

The fuck?

My eyes snap to the source, tracking the slow descent of two dumb motherfuckers coming down the stairs like this is some red-carpet event and they’re about to twirl in their fancy fucking dresses.

Kyle. Or Ryan. Or some other weak-ass name.

“That shit belongs here, Dax,” the first one says, chest puffed like he thinks he’s somebody. “You can’t take it all.”

All eyes ping to Dax.

I told him. I told him we should kill every bastard here.

A boatload of supplies for five? We’d be set for life.

Dax exhales through his nose. “I left you rations. And a boat. Fuck off.”

Not good enough for these two. Of course not.

“The rations ain’t enough,” the second one says, shaking his head.

Dax shoots him between the eyes. No hesitation. No warning.

Just, bang.

Fuck, that was satisfying.

The guy drops like a bag of bricks, blood pooling under his head.

Dax cocks his pistol, sights settling on the first idiot. “You got one more set of rations to divvy up now. Fair enough?”

Kyle, or whatever the fuck his name is, twitches like he’s thinking of running.

Wrong choice.

Bullets whiz through the air.

I drop behind a crate, peeking out to see everyone on the deck scrambling for cover.

Now we’re talking.

Less fucking mouths to feed coming right up.

Gunfire pops like firecrackers, screams echoing between the walls.

Beautiful.

Fucking beautiful.

Irish and his pack go full Rambo, guns drawn as they charge up the stairs toward whoever the fuck is firing down on us, like this is a game of paintball or Nerf and not a full-blown bloodbath.

For a second, just a second, I think maybe, just maybe, Dax is onto something with these feral bastards.