The Dead Brother's Vengeance,Rise of the Zombie King

After the zombie apocalypse broke out, a freak accident gave my brother and me immunity to the virus—and the ability to command the undead.

My brother cared about humanity. He revealed his identity to save Muriel Maxwell, a Recon Squad captain who'd been infected with the zombie virus. In return, Muriel hailed him as humanity's last hope and welcomed him into the Bastion with the highest level of protection, swearing her undying loyalty.

I stayed outside the walls, leading my horde in circles for three days until I was sure he was safe. Then I left.

Three years later, I slipped back into the city for his wedding.

What I found instead was a human being strung up outside the Bastion walls as zombie bait.

The bait had been tortured beyond recognition. Days of it, at least. All four limbs severed. Nose and mouth carved away. A death by a thousand cuts, still in progress.

And his face—what was left of it—looked exactly like my brother's.

Muriel Maxwell. Did I not tell you? If you ever betray my brother, I will bring a second apocalypse down on your head.

——

The bait they'd flung from the wall had no features left to speak of. The stumps of his limbs had turned black with rot. Every time the barbed whip kissed his body, flesh split open like wet paper, and dark red liquid dripped steadily onto the stone below.

I kept the Undead Legion hidden in the ruins outside the Bastion. The thick stench of blood was driving them into a frenzy.

A handful of strays broke formation, shrieking as they charged the gate. Arrows punched through the backs of their skulls with surgical precision. Second death, instant.

"Ha! These zombies are so damn stupid!"

"A few more rounds of this and we'll have the whole perimeter cleared!"

The soldiers on the wall were laughing, joking, shoving each other. Not a trace of the grim discipline they'd had three years ago.

I muttered the command phrase under my breath, layering another restraint over the Legion.

"That's it? A handful of zombies? Barely worth drawing my bow!"

At those words, the whipping stopped.

But someone immediately pulled out a knife, grinning.

A dull blade, sawing into living flesh. Pure, deliberate savagery.

A few of the younger soldiers covered their eyes, unable to watch.

The man on the wall never made a sound. Jaw clenched, teeth locked together. Impossible to tell whether he was already dead or simply refusing to scream.

Something ugly twisted in my gut.

How could the Bastion allow this? Even criminals had basic human rights.

"Hey! Put some effort into it—make him scream! Isn't he the one who supposedly commands the undead?"

The blood in my veins turned to ice.

In this entire world, only two people could command zombies. Me and my brother.

And my brother had voluntarily entered the Bastion as a senior researcher to help develop a vaccine for humanity. His status alone should have made him untouchable, and on top of that, his fiancée Muriel Maxwell was at his side to protect him.

How could some random man used as bait possibly know about that ability—let alone possess it?

My gaze snapped back to the figure on the wall.

I hadn't looked closely before. Now that I did, what I saw was worse than I'd thought.

His hair hung in matted clumps, stiff with dried blood, plastered across what remained of his face. The severed ends of his limbs had darkened to near-black, still weeping fresh blood. His nose and mouth had been cut clean off, the cruelty of it deliberate and methodical.

But his face. The shape of it, the bone structure beneath the ruin.

It looked like my brother.

No.

I slapped myself so hard my vision blurred.

How could I even think something that horrific?

That was not my brother. It couldn't be. Piers Henson held one of the highest positions in the Bastion. His body was unique, invaluable. There was no conceivable scenario in which he'd end up discarded and butchered as bait.

His vaccine research must have made a breakthrough. That was it. He was busy. Safe.

Yes.

I pulled out my communicator and fired off a message.

Every second I waited for a reply was agony.

I kept my eyes locked on the man hanging from the wall, searching for anything—any detail that would prove me wrong.

The communicator buzzed.

"Hey, bro! I'm doing great here at the Bastion. Come visit anytime!"

Attached was a photo of him inside a tailor's shop, trying on a perfectly fitted suit. Tall and elegant, clean and radiant, like something too pure for this ruined world.

That was my brother.