Chapter 15: The Secret Feast
388 Words
The routine didn't change just because the world had ended.
Every morning, twenty men from the Syndicate marched out past the reinforced barricades into the silent, soot-choked avenues of lower Manhattan. Their objective was simple: search every ruined bodega, collapsed apartment, and flooded basement for canned rations and purified water.
Among the twenty scouts were three men named Rex, Miller, and Todd—veterans who had grown greedy under the Syndicate's banner.
"Keep your eyes sharp," Captain Jax commanded, pacing the flank of the formation with his rifle ready. "We take the perimeter around 6th Avenue. No one strays."
Rex waited until the main squad turned the corner near a collapsed glass tower. He caught Miller’s eye and gave a subtle nod toward a narrow alleyway choked with rusted vehicles.
Slinking away from the main column, the three men slipped through a cracked iron door into the basement of a ruined pharmacy. They dropped their heavy canvas sacks onto a dusty table, grinning wickedly.
"Jax thinks we're giving up everything we find," Rex sneered, popping open a stolen, dented can of potted meat. "To hell with that. The Boss can eat ash."
As Todd tilted back a bottle of stale water, a sharp, wet crunch echoed from the dark corner of the cellar.
Miller drew his sidearm, the beam of his flashlight sweeping over a small, wretched thing crouched over a heap of garbage. It was no bigger than a dinner plate—a bizarre, crawling fusion of a spider, a scorpion, and a deep-sea crab, its pale shell glistening with slime.
"What the hell is that ugly little bug?" Todd laughed, pulling his own pistol.
"Just some mutated sewer pest," Rex chuckled, taking a bite of meat. "Shoot it so it stops clicking."
BANG.
Todd fired a single round. The bullet tore through the creature's small shell, splattering black fluid against the concrete wall. The creature twitched once and fell still, leaving behind a thick, pulsating sack of fleshy placenta attached to its underbelly.
"Nice shot," Miller snickered, turning his back on the dark corner. "Pass the peaches."
None of them noticed the black, vein-like tendrils beginning to writhe out from the discarded placenta, absorbing the spilled blood and nitrogen from the floor.
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