Page 13 of Immune

“Whoa, wait up,” I call after them, slightly alarmed by how quickly they move. I mean, one second they’re there, the next they’re making like a bandit.

To no surprise, the stranger doesn’t wait. I shouldn't have expected anything less, but I never claimed that I was the smartest person to still exist in a zombie apocalypse. I’veonly survived this long on sheer willpower, stubbornness, and apparently the help of prickly strangers.

I catch up five steps later, which is absolutely terrible considering my side is still bleeding profusely and the stranger is moving like they were personally tasked with making my pursuit look embarrassing. They vault the wall with one hand, effortlessly landing on the other side, right before they disappear into the overgrown playground. And I, of course, follow after them because I’m apparently determined to make every questionable decision available to me today.

By the time I topple onto the other side, my wound screams at me with a battle cry that would make weaker men cry. Thankfully, my tears remain teetering on my eyelashes, refusing to fall. Doesn’t make me feel any better, but it’s a small mercy I cling to as I groan, watching the stranger who has already made it halfway across the playground.

“Hey, stop,” I call, keeping my voice low enough not to carry too far. I’m stupid, but not that stupid. I know better than to lure more Biters toward us. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

The stranger glances back, and even with their face mostly hidden by their hat and bandana, it’s very clear the look they’re giving me is communicating an impressive amount of disbelief.

“Right,” they call back equally as low. “Because men always announce their evilly nefarious plans first. Because that’s definitely how danger works. Idiot.”

I ignore their little insult and the obnoxious amount of sarcasm, focusing instead on their accent and trying to figure out which part of America they’re from, if for no reason other than to understand how far this stranger has traveled to get to where they are now. Their voice is softened slightly, likely from years of not speaking much. And so I focus on that, because it’s betterthan focusing on the scent still trying to slip through the careful layers of blockers.

“I’m Kaito,” I introduce, trying my luck.

The stranger keeps moving. “Sucks to be you.”

“At least let me say thank you,” I plead, groaning in pain as I press harder against my wound.

“Do it silently,” they demand, and I’m shocked when I almost smile. Not quite, but almost.

Before I can lure any more out of them, they’re pulling themselves through a broken classroom window with a speed that tells me they’ve already picked this place as a temporary hideout. By the time I finally reach it, blood spilling over my fingers like it can’t leave my body quick enough, a desk is shoved under the window from the inside, providing a very effective exit route.

Smart. I like it.

A cabinet scrapes against the classroom door a second later, creating a makeshift barricade.

That’s even smarter.

I stop outside the window and push my hand harder against my side, willing my blood to stop vacating my body as I peer through the jagged gap. The stranger stands in the classroom with a knife in one hand and a gun in the other, both aimed directly at me with a level of steadiness I have literally no choice but to respect.

Reminding myself that this is just a small Beta boy, battling my instincts that don’t seem to be listening anymore, I pause where I stand. The classroom behind the stranger is nothing more than a graveyard of everyone’s childhood. Tiny chairs are tucked under small desks, faded drawings and posters still covering the walls, mold spreading over old storybooks placed in what once used to be a cozy corner with dust-coated beanbags and a damp carpet. Sunlight spills through the brokenwindow, catching on the specks of dust that float around the stranger, turning the air gold around them.

With their cap sitting crooked from the fight, the brim still low, I still can’t quite tell what the stranger looks like. The bandana still covers everything under their eyes, still masking them in mystery. One sleeve of their jacket is torn, and blood darkens the fabric around their upper arm.

I look at their wound, and the stranger’s grip on their gun tightens before they roughly command, “Eyes up, Alpha.”

It doesn’t escape my notice how that word isn’t just said with fear, but with a strong dose of warning. There’s history there. A history hidden by countless locked doors, and this stranger doesn’t look too willing to hand over the key to a single one of them.

Swallowing, I lift my gaze back to theirs. “You’re hurt.”

“Captain Obvious is alive and well, I see,” they snark lowly, before jerking the gun at my side. “So are you.”

I glance down at my bleeding side and wince, the pain only growing the more I leave it to bleed. “I need somewhere to patch it up.”

The stranger shrugs, never once faltering. “Sounds very much like a you problem.”

“It was a me problem,” I agree, right before I glance toward the street where several Biters are groaning and dragging their corpses closer. “Now it looks like it might become an us problem.”

Their eyes narrow, but I don’t move closer to the window. I don’t touch the frame, I don’t give them a single reason to believe I’m about to climb into the room and steal the choice from them. I can already tell they’re on edge and afraid. And something tells me that if I even try my luck, I’ll receive a bullet to my forehead faster than I can sneeze. I’m fairlyconfident that gun isn’t empty, and I don’t believe for one second they won’t make me regret any further poor decisions.

“Why did you follow me?” they demand, something still off about their voice.

“I was trapped in an alley,” I answer, my own voice strained with pain.

“You followed me from the alley,” they point out, as though I need reminding of the bullshit we just went through.