Page 7 of Immune

Clicking my flashlight off, biting my lip in annoyance at the sound it makes, I sink into a crouch, easing the storage door closed slowly until only a sliver of light remains. It’s an honest miracle the door doesn’t groan as it shuts, but it’s enough to slow my heartbeat in a way it does when the fear gets too sharp. It’s as if my body decides panic is inefficient and stores it for later. NOVAC, maybe? Trauma? Fuck me, it’s more than possible.

Either way, I’ll take the calming effect it has on my rapidly beating heart, my body stilling and my breath slowing enough that I don’t feel like my designation poses a threat to my well-being.

Leaning toward the small gap in the door, I listen to the voices out front.

“Told you I saw smoke,” the first voice argues, clearly male with a low and rough timbre.

“Everyone saw smoke, dumbass,” the second snaps. “Doesn’t make you a genius. Doesn’t mean anything good’s left, either.”

“Maybe whoever set it is still nearby,” the first counters.

A pause follows before a third voice speaks, amused in a way that makes my knife hand twitch. “Then we find them, too.”

Yeah, I don’t think so.

Ducking back a little, I focus on the footsteps, counting them as I pick apart the rhythm through the floorboards and the hallway. Definitely three. Quite possibly even four. Heavy boots. Careless with their movements. It sounds like one of the idiots kicks glass across the floor, the sound so loud and jarring in the silence that I almost flinch.

Whoever they are, they’re clearly not worried about Zeds yet, which tells me two things.

They’re fucking idiots.

And they have to be armed enough to survive being idiots.

Easing back from behind the door, I scan the storage room. There aren’t any windows, there’s no back exit, and no ceiling vents big enough unless I plan to fold myself in half like an Omega-shaped origami. That seems a little excessive, even for me.

The only way out of here is through the idiots.

I sigh. I hate my life.

Swiping my tongue across my top teeth, I listen to the voices as they move closer.

“Storage back here,” one calls, and I grit my teeth against the volume he chooses to speak at. Fucker will draw the Zeds here with a sentence alone, the stupid bastard.

Slipping the keys into my pocket, I replace them with my knife, carefully maneuvering to stand behind the door. I push my back flat to the wall, or at least however much my backpack will allow. I’m cursing myself for not hunting for bullets so I could actually use my gun, which is feeling pretty damned useless right now. Alas, the knife will have to do.

Quiet. Close. Personal.

Three of my least favorite things.

I love that for me.

Sadly, I don’t have much time to wallow in my misfortune, because in the next breath, the door opens and a man steps into the storage room. He’s broad and filthy with a rifle hanging loose in one hand, and the scent that comes from him makes me want to gag. Sweat, leather, and Alpha.

The moment the scent hits me, my body knows before my brain does. Recognition tears through me, sharp and horrible, every buried Omega instinct inside me going deathly still all at once.

Not safe.

Not safe, not safe, not safe.

His head turns slightly, nostrils flaring, and for one single moment, I wait for the blockers to finally fail me. They hold. Well, mostly. But his brow furrows, and that’s enough.

I’m moving before he can even understand why. My knife slams into the inside of his wrist, not deep enough to kill, but deep enough to make his fingers spasm open. The rifle drops, and I catch it swiftly with my boot before it clatters to the floor, right before I slam my elbow into his throat and shove him backward into the shelves.

He wheezes, so I hit him again, and the bastard goes down hard. Much to my annoyance, he hits every fucking shelf on the way down, knocking over several boxes in the process.

“Dale?” someone calls from the hallway.

Fucking Dale. Of course that’s his name. He even looks like a Dale.