Page 81 of Immune

The girl looks like she’s considering stabbing him.

Kaito looks as if he might smile despite the bleeding.

Xeon looks tired down to his very bones.

And me? I look toward the dark passage, the blocked door rattling harshly behind us, the stolen cargo gone, and the dying pilot whispering a name on his tongue that means this whole shit show just got a truckload messier.

Because this ain’t a scavenger fight.

Not anymore.

SIXTEEN

DAKOTA

There’s a handful of things in this world I’d never want to experience again.

Packless heats.

Watching my mother’s dead eyes snapping open.

A Runner trying to chew through a maintenance door like it’s developed a personal vendetta against hinges.

And, apparently, being trapped in an underground service passage with four Alphas, one unconscious helicopter pilot, no bullets, a pulsing knee, a stitched-up rogue, and my brother’s hat shoved under my jacket like my ribs have become the security-deposit box that will keep it safe.

It doesn’t escape my notice how much the universe loves variety. It seems it’s also a big fan of humbling me more now than ever. Whatever birthed the universe should have swallowed.

Behind us, something slams into the blocked door with enough force to make the entire passage tremble. Dust rains from the ceiling and somewhere in the pipes above us, water drips in a rhythm so steady and cheerful I want to throat-punch it.

I hate it. I hate the passage. I hate the blocked door. I hate how the word Vector still lingers in the air like a dead opossum someone carelessly tossed onto the dinner table. I hate the way Fletcher’s eyes sharpened when the pilot said it. I hate the way Xeon went quiet. And I hate the way Ewan stopped joking for all of three seconds, which somehow made the situation feel so much worse.

But mostly, I hate that I’m still here with them. All of them.

Kaito stands closest, but not too close. One of his hands presses against his bleeding side, while the other is braced against the damp wall as if he’s trying to convince his body that now isn’t the time to collapse. His face has grown pale under the grime, sweat, and blood, his dark hair is slick with sweat and stuck to his forehead, and his jaw is clenched tight with a pain he’s now doing an awful job at hiding from me.

Fletcher stands near the front with his rifle raised, broad shoulders filling half the passage as if he was designed to block doors and ruin escape routes. Scar looks even bigger down here, all controlled violence and cold attention. His blue eyes move from the shaking door to the ceiling, then to the limp pilot, and then to me. Not to my face, I notice. To my hands. My knife, more specifically. The angle of my feet. He watches like he’s clocking every way I might run and every countermeasure he can think of to stop me if he had to.

Hm. Love that. Ten out of ten, would absolutely recommend being scrutinized and assessed like a feral raccoon with a suspicious nature and a blade.

I fucking hate it here.

Xeon crouches next to the pilot, his body angled in a way that keeps him between the injured man and the door without looking as if he’s guarding anything at all. His black hair is falling into his eyes, hoop earrings catching the weak lantern glow Ewan must have switched on at some point. The soft Alpha moves with a calm I don’t trust, and not because it seems fake. It isn’t. And real softness still contains sharp knives if you don’t look close enough. It makes you forget to even check for them.

Then there’s Ewan, leaning one shoulder against the wall with his headphones hanging around his neck, gun in hand, knife in the other, and his face doing this thing where he lookslike he’s one minor inconvenience away from saying something stupid enough to earn a knife in the thigh.

I might do it, too. For stress-relieving purposes.

Another slam hits the door, spoiling my plans, and the bent pipe Kaito shoves through the handle squeaks. It still holds, though. At least for now.

“Oh, nice,” Ewan mutters. “The door has started making noises now. I love it when insentient things start developing personalities. No time like the present, right? Even in an apocalypse. It really boosts the atmosphere down here.”

“Quiet,” Fletcher says bluntly.

Ewan looks dramatically offended. “Excuse me for emotionally supporting the door.”

“Support it quietly,” Scar snaps.

My own fingers tighten around my knife before I remind myself that stabbing one of them will make it harder to leave. Not impossible by any means, but definitely harder. There's four of them and one of me, and while I like to believe my spite could bench-press a truck if I’m properly motivated, my knee is currently sobbing with enough pain to make me want to remove my whole leg and launch it into the nearest body of water.