Page 129 of Immune

“Door,” I blurt.

“Yep, I can see it,” Ewan volleys.

Fucking hell.

“Open it,” I instruct sharply.

“Oh. I was hoping you’d ask me to tap-dance or something. Maybe even sing,” he says.

“I would much rather be eaten by the Runner,” I tell him, not even sure if I’m serious or joking at this point.

Ewan moves while I keep the Runner’s attention. It watches me with cloudy eyes, head twitching unnaturally, limbs a little too long to be considered normal, and mouth split viciously around an animalistic snarl. Not quite dead, but not exactly alive either. Just NOVAC’s idea of a funny little punchline with teeth and a hunger for flesh.

I feint left, and the Runner lunges. I drop low, kicking its knee, and the joint bends all kinds of wrong. It crashes into the wall in a heap, claws scraping sparks off an exposed electrical panel.

Ewan yanks the door open harshly, the sound bouncing off the walls, right before he blurts, “Inside.”

“You first,” I insist.

“Dakota,” he groans.

“You’re taller,” I explain quickly. “Block the doorway.”

His expression tells me he has several complaints to make and not so very nice comments, but his survival instincts, bless them all, veto each and every one of them. He ducks into the maintenance room, and I follow after him, slamming the door just as the Runner hits it from the other side. The whole door shakes, rattling hard enough that I feel it in my bones.

I look around, but the room is black except for Ewan’s flashlight splitting across shelves, old tools, plastic bins, and a dead generator. A second door is stationed at the far end of the room, but it’s locked. Obviously it is, because nothing in an apocalypse is easy. Well, other than dying.

“Please, I beg of you, tell me you have a key,” Ewan pleads.

I shake my head. “No. But I haverage.”

“That could work,” he answers quickly, a little more enthusiastic about it.

The Runner slams into the door again and, behind it, the Rotters arrive. They add to the weight, truly testing the integrity of the door. Hands slap metal, nails scrape harshly, and mouths snarl against the small gap under the frame.

Gritting my teeth, I start shoving a shelving unit toward the door, my knee compiling several complaints to the State. Ewan hurries to join me without hesitation and without uttering a single word. Together, we jam it under the handle. It won’t hold long, but long is a luxury I’ve never been able to afford in this new world. I only need useful.

“Far door,” I say, already crossing the room with a limp I can’t disguise as well as I could before.

The lock is old. Mechanical. Better than electronic, at least. I drop to one knee, dutifully ignoring the throb it sends through my bad leg, and pull my picks free. My hands are shaking like an angry vibrator, but it’s not enough to stop me. It’s enough to irritate me, sure, but we move on in a world set out to kill us.

“Steady,” Ewan says, and I glare up at him.

Only, he’s not looking down at my hands. He’s looking at the door behind us, a random pipe suddenly in his hands, and his body angled between me and whatever comes through.

“I swear on all that is baked and delicious, if that was some kind of emotional support, I’m going to stab you the moment I have this door open,” I warn.

“Noted,” he says.

The lock sticks, and I breathe through my nose, which happens to be yet another bad idea. Apparently I’m full of those these days. My scent is still all levels of wrong, heat, fear, pain, and sweetness mingled together under old blockers. My body seems to have decided that enclosed tunnels, Runners, and separation from the others is a glorious recipe for biological betrayal.

“Fucking A,” I whisper.

Ewan starts humming then, and I freeze.

“What are you doing?” I blurt, eyeing him like I’ve been stranded with the crazy Alpha of the group. Hell, I very well could be. That would be just my luck.

“I’m being incredibly normal, thanks for asking,” he volleys, right before he continues to hum like we’re not in a predicament that might see us eaten.