Page 150 of Immune

“Can you move?” I ask shortly.

“Yes,” he answers.

“Be honest. Can you truthfully tell me you can move?” I push.

“Yes, ma’am,” he says again, holding my gaze intently, causing my brain to hiccup right along with my stupid, betraying heart.

I narrow my eyes on him. “If you bleed through that, I’m making you carry the ruined gauze around with you.”

“Understood.”

“Good,” I murmur, turning before he can see anything else on my face that might reveal the pure chaos that is currently wracking my body. Before he can see that anger is actually easier to handle than fear is. Before he can see that I’m not only angry that he got hurt. I’m angry because, for one awful second, when that Runner hit him instead of me, the world made a shape I finally recognized.

Someone leaving.

Someone bleeding.

Someone choosing danger so I wouldn’t have to.

And honestly? I don’t survive that kind of shape very well.

I head for the loading access and Fletcher falls into step just behind me. Not ahead of me, not beside me, and not ordering me around. He walks only two steps behind, close enough to guard and far enough to let me pretend he’s not.

I hate that.

I hate him.

I hate that I don’t even tell him to move.

TWENTY-FIVE

FLETCHER

Dakota walks like she’s daring her wounded knee to make itself useful and kill her.

It’s a damned irritating thing to watch, and not because she’s slow. She ain’t. Even hurt, exhausted, and running on whatever scraps of stubbornness she’s keeping stored under that hat and oversized jacket, she’s moving better than half the trained soldiers I’ve known.

She’s good, and that’s a part of the problem.

People who are bad at surviving listen when you tell them what keeps them alive. They might panic, argue, freeze, or do something colossally stupid, but eventually fear will take over and they follow the person with the plan.

Dakota doesn’t do that.

Fear doesn’t make her follow blindly. It makes her sharper. Wilder. More likely to turn a warning into a fight because something in her hears control where I mean caution.

I adjust the strap of my rifle and feel the pull across my shoulder before I remember why it even hurts. Pain slices hot under the bandage, but I make sure to keep my face completely unmoving.

Across the loading passage, Dakota’s eyes flick over to me. It’s only once, and it happens quickly enough that I could convince myself I’m seeing things, and then she looks away just as quickly.

She saw. Of course she saw. The woman misses nothing except her own need to sit the hell down.

The old loading access lets us out into a lower maintenance road under the station district, wide enough forservice carts and narrow trucks. The ceiling dips in places, cracked concrete reinforced by rusted beams still holding strong after all these years. Long-dead fluorescent lights are hanging above us like lit bones, and on one side, pipework runs along the wall in thick, black lines. On the other side, metal doors lead into storage cages, staff rooms, electrical closets, and probably every single bad idea the apocalypse has left waiting in the dark.

Ewan walks at the rear, one of his headphones pushed back so he can listen to his surroundings. He hasn’t said all that much since the supply room, which means he’s either focused or he’s readying himself to become a problem later. Both options are more than possible, and with Ewan, it’s probably both.

Xeon helps the pilot move next to Kaito. The pilot’s feet drag worse than before and his fever continues to climb. Every hour we’re not at the compound is an hour closer he gets to dying with the answers still trapped in his skull.

Kaito is walking like blood loss is only a rumor he doesn’t want to believe in or dignify.