Page 177 of Romancing in Rot

He whimpers.

Lyla turns to the group. “Okay, folks. Quiet first. No distractions unless this goes sideways. Jacob, you and Leon use the service tunnel to get eyes on Clair and Poppy. Joanie, Carlos, Trish, you flank me. We’re going up a level for a better vantage.”

Her gaze cuts to Earl. “You stay near the delivery bay and keep our housewarming present ready.”

Joanie’s brows lift. “By housewarming present, you mean Clair’s little murder crafts?”

“I mean leverage,” Lyla says. “And an exit strategy if this place turns ugly.”

Earl adjusts his grip on the pack slung over his shoulder. “Understood.”

Jacob checks his rifle, then nods to the man on the ground. “And him?”

Everyone looks at him.

He looks at me.

I unhook my hatchet.

The wood is smooth in my palm.

The man tries to crawl away. “No. Please. I told you what you wanted.”

I step behind him, close enough that he feels me there. Close enough that when I lean in, my breath hits the side of his face.

He goes still.

I press the edge of my hatchet against his belly.

His breath catches.

Then I open him.

The blade tears through his shirt, skin, and the soft wall beneath with one hard drag. Heat spills over my hand. Blood floods down his front in a black-red sheet, and his scream comes out strangled and disbelieving, like some part of him still thought the world owed him mercy. He clutches at himself, fingers slipping in the wet ropes pushing through the cut, trying to hold inside what his body is already giving up.

Steam curls into the cold air.

The smell hits next. Copper. Shit. Meat.

Both hands press to his stomach, but there is too much blood and not enough time. Pink-gray loops slide between his fingers and slap wetly against the pavement.

If there were time, I would let him crawl. I would let him drag himself through these streets, leaving pieces of himself behind until every monster in that mall heard him scream.

But my girls need me.

I swing the hatchet up and bury it between his eyes.

The scream cuts off.

His skull splits around the blade with a heavy crack, and his body folds forward over the mess of his own insides.

I yank the hatchet free, wipe the blade clean on his coat, and turn away.

The first undead stumbles into the alley as we move out, mouth open, gray hands reaching. Bits of old flesh hang from its teeth, and one eye rolls loose in its socket. I put an arrow through its skull without slowing. The back of its head bursts against the brick behind it, and the body drops with a wet slap.

More groans answer from the street.

Let them follow.