Page 62 of Immune

I don’t relent. “It’s warmer than I thought it would be. Pretty welcoming. Kind of like a porch swing in human form.”

Fletch gives me a look over his shoulder and I smile at him. Then I hear it again. Not a footstep, but the smallest scrapeof material against stone. Above us, left side. Second, no, third floor.

Whoever it is keeps height where they can. Honestly, it’s smart, because the streets belong to the Rots now. The roofs belong to survivors with either enough skill to keep living or enough stupidity to have a death wish. Sometimes it’s both. The small scavenger moved like that. Fast even though they had a very clear limp. Smart enough to use obstacles. Tiny enough to slip through places built to keep three whole grown men out.

Or grown Alphas, apparently, because the universe does love a cheeky insult every now and then.

My fingers brush the hat tucked inside my jacket. It’s old and faded, damp from the rain and the mud from the courtyard. I managed to snatch it off the ground before the Rots could trample it, because the Tiny Terror looked at it like they’d just dropped their heart on the ground.

It’s not just a hat, that much is very clear. I didn’t have a whole lot of time to think about it then because the Rots were pressing in, the pilot was bleeding a river of blood all over the ground, Fletcher was barking directions, and Xeon went quiet in that creepy, terrifying way he does when he’s about to become one with violence in a way that would take a surgeon to separate.

So a quick decision had me grabbing it and tucking it in my jacket. I think it was a good decision, but the jury is still out on that one. Time will tell, I guess.

The thing about doing the right thing in an apocalypse is that, more times than not, it looks exactly like doing the stupid thing until hours later, when you’re either alive enough to justify it or dead enough that no one will think to complain.

The hat is pressed against my ribs now, heavier than a small amount of material has any right to be. I don’t like that at all.

“Fletch,” I mutter lightly.

His head turns only half an inch. “What?”

“We’ve got a shadow,” I inform casually.

The air changes then. Not dramatically. Like, Fletcher doesn’t just stop dead all of a sudden, and Xeon doesn’t spin around all crazy-like, and nobody announces anything theatrically, which is actually a shame. I kind of enjoy a little bit of theatre when it’s not trying to eat me. Both of them hear me, though. Xeon’s gaze slowly moves to the rooftops first, then to the apartment balconies.

Fletcher keeps walking as he asks, “How many?”

“One,” I answer easily.

“You sure?” he pushes.

I pull a face at the back of his head, muttering, “I hope you know how much that just emotionally, psychologically, and spiritually wounded me.”

“Ewan,” he practically growls, and I roll my eyes.

“One that I can hear,” I correct, dropping the amusement since grumpy guts isn’t in the mood for it. “Could be more, but there’s one clever little nightmare above and behind us, and they’re actually doing a pretty beautiful job of not sounding like they’re even there.”

Xeon looks up toward the upper floors. “The possible Omega?”

Fletcher’s jaw tightens at the word. Not Omega. The possible part. Because it’s doing a whole lot of work. I mean, we all scented it. Not fully, and it was bogged down by a chaotic clusterfuck of scents and almost buried by blockers, blood, and grime. But it was there, cutting through whatever the Tiny Terror in a mask is using to erase themselves from the world.

But it was there.

Omega.

Terrified.

Alive and hidden under Beta clothes. The kind of discovery that makes every instinct in an Alpha body come to life so fast that it knocks over the alarm clock on the way up.

Fletcher mutters, “Likely.”

Xeon’s voice is soft as he says, “Could be the small scavenger.”

I stare at him, and then Fletcher, and then I place my eyes back on Xeon.

“Ever consider it could be both?” I ask, because apparently I enjoy being the one to state the very obvious horror. “You know, because the universe is like that. It’s all about being a dramatic bitch.”

Neither of them laughs, which is actually dead rude, because that was a good one. The pilot laughs, at least. Well, he actually groans, and I’m pretty sure it’s from the pain he’s probably in. But it counts.