Page 38 of Immune

“Calm the fuck down, Kota,” I whisper to myself. “Don’t get your hopes up.”

Advice I should listen to, because hope is dangerous. It makes people loud. It makes my hands shake. And it makes you forget floors can rot under your feet when they’re bored and ceilings can come down just for shits and giggles.

I circle the building first. The front door is chained from the inside, the windows reinforced with metal boards. The side entrance has collapsed under part of the roof, bricks spilling across the alley like broken teeth, and the back door sits half-hidden behind a wall of ivy and a toppled dumpster, not quite open but not closed either. With the frame warped, it leavesa gap wide enough for someone small, hungry, and bitterly determined to squeeze through.

Lucky for me, I just so happen to be all three.

Pulling my bandana higher, I check the street before sliding between the dumpster and the wall. Ivy does its best to cling to my jacket, catching on buckles and straps that quickly become the bane of my existence. I pull myself free slowly, aware that fast movements make too much noise, and noise attracts Zeds, men, and consequences I’m not willing to face.

Heading for the door, I wince when it scrapes softly across the floor as I push my shoulder against it. Annoyingly, it’s not enough, and I exhale through my nose as I shift my weight and push again. The gap widens with a damp groan, and I glare at the stupid thing. “Now, don’t be a bitch, yeah?”

Naturally, the door continues to be a bitch, but eventually I manage to make it through the gap sideways. My backpack brushes roughly against the frame, a zipper catching on a string of ivy just to add an obstacle to this already hellish world I live in, but I make it with no other hiccup.

Inside, the smell hits me with all the force of a meteor crashing into Earth. Mold, rot, old chemicals, and death. Not the fresh kind, though. Well, mostly. I freeze in the back hallway the moment I scent it, knife in hand as I listen.

Somewhere nearby, a pipe ticks, water dripping steadily behind a wall. The building cracks and groans with a long, depressed sigh, but I don’t hear footsteps. There’s no dragging of bodies, wet breathing, or hungry growls, and that’s good enough for me.

The hallway leads past a staff room, two exam rooms, and a narrow stairwell that heads down. I ignore the stairs for now, because basements are where people go when they’re interested in becoming nothing more than a tale told to children to scare them into behaving. The exam rooms, as expected, havebeen picked over but not completely. I manage to find a sealed packet of gauze wedged in the back of a drawer, two alcohol wipes inside a cracked plastic tub, and a pair of scissors tucked behind a sink faucet. Not particularly what I need, but useful nonetheless.

In the staff room, someone left a mug on the table with the words NUMBER ONE NURSE printed around the side in bold, joyful pink lettering. The chair beside it has been toppled over, dust and grime gathered on the back that now lies on the floor. Dark stains mark the floor near the lockers, old enough to appear almost black.

Not promising, but I check them anyway.

Sure enough, there’s a whole load of nothing inside the lockers. Well, unless you can count a moldy cardigan, a packet of cookies that have turned into a gross-looking science experiment, a mysterious blob in the corner that looks like it used to be an apple, and a curled photo of a baby taped to the inside of the door.

I close that locker with more caution and gentleness than the others, whispering lowly to no one in particular, “I’m sorry.”

A groan of a tired building answers me, and when dust sifts from somewhere in the ceiling, I consider leaving. For a moment, I imagine walking away with only the gauze, scissors, and small scraps of luck I’ve already found.

Then I notice the sign screwed into the wall right next to the stairwell.

Basement Storage.

But of course.

For a full ten seconds, I do nothing but stare at it, a tremulous barrage of thoughts and feelings rolling through me as I trace the words with my lip tucked between my teeth. Then I sigh and whisper, “I actually hate you.”

The sign doesn’t give a shit, not that I expected it to, and so I pluck up my nerves and courage before taking the stairs carefully. I test each step with a caution that impresses me, making sure each one can take my weight before continuing down. The further down I go, the worse the smell gets, stale dampness blending with a chemical sharpness that itches the back of my throat despite the bandana that still covers my nose and mouth.

As soon as I reach the last step, I pause as I look around. The basement is bigger than I anticipated, with storage shelves lining the walls. Some have fallen, some remain standing. Cardboard boxes sag miserably with water damage, a dead refrigerator unit is pressed against the back wall with its doors hanging slightly open, and metal cabinets stand near the far side with several still locked.

Oh, shit.

My heart thumps again, and I internally curse, hating the way hope does its best to niggle its way through my barricades.

I’m slow crossing the room, checking corners as I go. My pulse skitters when the floor above creaks and, somewhere upstairs, glass tinkles delicately in a frame. The whole building feels like it’s holding its breath, waiting to finally sneeze itself into shitting itself before falling apart.

Fighting back hope, I check the first cabinet, which happens to be empty. The second holds records swollen with musty water that have fused together to make one super folder. The third cabinet has a busted lock and, when I try to pry it open with my knife, I find three packets of suppressants jammed behind a tray of expired syringes.

“Oh, shit,” I whisper, my breath catching in my lungs at the sight of them.

Two packets are ruined, the foil ballooned a little, tablets crumbling into powder. The third is expired, but it’s actuallysealed and the foil is fully intact. Could be useless, but maybe not. In my world, maybe-nots are basically an attempt at seduction.

I tuck the sealed packet into the hidden pocket on the inside of my jacket before moving on to the next cabinet that gifts me ruined blockers, heat-damaged and cracked. The capsules have split open, leaking powder that has now clumped from moisture. My throat tightens, useless anger burning hot under my skin. “Fucking great. Love that for me.”

Still, I take the least damaged strip, because desperation hasn’t ever given a shit about dignity or pride before. Why start now, right?

Continuing my search, I find a half-full bottle of iodine, a roll of medical tape, surgical gloves, and three sealed packets of suture thread that instantly make me think of Kaito’s side and the small floral kit I have tucked in my backpack.