Page 121 of Immune

Dakota points her knife at Fletcher. “I hate it when he’s right.”

Fletcher’s mouth twitches. Only barely, but I catch the moment. “Which one of us?”

“Yes,” Dakota answers, stabbing the knife toward him with a vicious glare.

Kaito looks away, but I see the beginning of a smile he tried to hide. For a moment, despite the rain, the pilot’s blood, and the dead below us, something almost human passes through the group.

Then metal clatters somewhere down the corridor and everyone stills.

The sound echoes once. Twice. Then silence.

Dakota signs with two fingers before I expect it. Left. High. Distance unknown. They’re military signs but slightly altered. Survivor-taught and very efficient.

Fletcher sees and understands, nodding once. Ewan slides his headphones over one ear, leaving the other uncovered. He tilts his head before he whispers, “Two. Maybe three. Human steps. Trying and failing spectacularly to be quiet.”

Dakota shifts toward the wall. “Vector?”

“Could be scavengers,” Kaito murmurs.

“Scavengers run away from big groups,” Fletcher says. “Vector tracks.”

And then the pilot groans softly. It’s too loud, and Dakota moves first, grabbing his dangling foot before it scrapes over the floor again. Her injured arm protests, and I see her flinch, but she ignores it and lowers his foot carefully.

Kaito’s body tightens, but he doesn’t move from where he’s standing. Another choice made.

I step closer to Dakota, not toward her front, but next to her line of sight. It’s a place she can see me and a place that won’t make her feel trapped.

Her eyes cut toward me and suspicion enters them instantly. “What?”

“Your arm,” I say softly.

Her grip on the pilot’s boot tightens. “It’s still attached.”

“I’m glad,” I tell her, and she frowns as if she can’t decide if that was a joke or not. It wasn’t exactly one, if I’m being honest. But then I say, “Move it less.”

“Bossy for someone with nice eyes,” she mutters.

Ewan suddenly makes a small choking sound behind me, Kaito looks up at the ceiling as though it interests him more than Dakota, and Fletcher closes his eyes for half a second, as if patience is as limited a resource as clean water now and he’s budgeting really hard.

Dakota seems just as horrified by what came out of her mouth, and that makes the two of us. Her scent spikes, but not in fear this time. More like embarrassment. Heat. Something sweet and sharp.

She releases the pilot’s boot as if it’s offended her, and she snaps, “Forget I said that.”

“I can try,” I promise.

“Try really fucking hard,” she demands, her gaze narrowing on me.

I dip my head slightly. “All right.”

The softness of the answer seems to make her more suspicious than anger would have, and she steps away from me. Just a single step, not far. Just enough to prove that she can. And I do nothing but let her.

Fletcher then gestures to a maintenance alcove. “Pilot in there. We take position.”

The alcove is shallow, filled with stacked caution signs and a maintenance cart. Not defensible for long, but enough to at least hide from direct view. Fletcher lowers the pilot behind the cart with care, and Kaito hovers nearby. He’s ready to help, but his injured side keeps him from taking more weight than he should. He’s already suffered enough until now.

Dakota watches Kaito’s hand press briefly against his ribs, and so do I. Her mouth tightens under the bandana. She’s concerned and she’s angry about it. I can see both emotions live openly in the set of her shoulders before she buries them again.

The approaching footsteps draw closer and two men appear at the far end of the red-lit corridor. They’re wearing dark waterproof jackets and carry rifles held too low for soldiers but too comfortably for scavengers. One has a yellow strip of material tied around his wrist.