Page 89 of Immune

So, I sit in the far corner with my back against damp concrete, my knife balanced over my knees, and Maine’s hat still tucked in my jacket.

The room still smells of rust, old water, blood, smoke, rot, and Alpha. Too much Alpha. Four different scents pressing in on me in a small space I can’t get out of yet. They’re rubbing against my blockers like the world’s itchiest sweater. The pills are still working for the most part, but kind of in a way that a broken umbrella still kind of works in a storm if you stand very still and lie to yourself about how wet your socks are getting.

Kaito remains seated close to the door, still making sure I’m not fully blocked and trapped in this hellhole. He has one knee bent, one arm resting loosely over it, while his other hand is pressed against his side where my stitches are probably clinging to his skin with the same level of desperation as someone trying to carry all the grocery bags inside at once to save them the extra trip. He’s pale under the dirt and dried blood, jaw tight with pain he’s doing an awful job at hiding.

He’s doing it quietly, though.

Burning wood and worn flannel twine through the coppery tang of blood. It’s become familiar now, which isincredibly offensive to my senses. A person shouldn’t grow familiar so quickly. There should be steps. Paperwork, maybe? Definitely a waiting period. At least one strongly worded letter of objection.

Fletcher guards the actual door. He sits with his back against the wall next to it, rifle across his thighs, eyes half-lidded but not sleeping. Every few minutes, I watch as his gaze tracks the hinges, the blocked handle, the vent, the ceiling, me, Kaito, the pilot, Xeon, Ewan, and then back to the door.

It’s a sequence.

A rotation.

A system.

A man built of protocols and bad news.

I can smell cedar and leather under the smoke and blood, Scar’s scent heavier than Kaito’s. More solid somehow. It doesn’t pull at me like Kaito’s does. It makes me want to check the exits. So, naturally, I check the fucking exits.

Door ahead. Vent above. One rusted access hatch behind the boiler tanks that might or might not open into a crawlspace, a wall cavity, or a personal invitation to tetanus.

Can’t argue that it’s not ideal, but it’s not exactly nothing.

Xeon kneels at the pilot's side, back straight and head slightly bowed as he checks the man’s pulse with steady fingers. He’s been doing that all night. Pulse, bandage, fever, breathing, pressure, water on cloth, quiet words when the pilot groans. Ice and steel. Cold, clean, controlled. It should make me want to draw my knife higher, but it simply sits under the room's filth like something sharp enough to shred panic into itty bits on the floor.

Ewan is closest to the vent, headphones wrapped around his neck, one ear tilted to the ceiling like he’s listening to the building as it dreams. He hasn’t stopped listening all night. Every time something scrapes in the walls, his eyes move towardit. Any time a Zed groans too close, his fingers tap once against his knee. Not from nerves. He’s counting. And I hate that I’m noticing these things.

I hate more that none of them are using my exhaustion against me.

No one asks why I’m still awake. No one tells me to rest again after Kaito’s single attempt earned him a heartfelt wish that involved drainage infrastructure. No one moves toward me. No one tries to take my knife. And no one even comments when my hand trembles once after a Runner screams somewhere above us, the sound thin and furious even through layers of concrete.

It’s rude, honestly.

They’re supposed to be easier to hate than this. It shouldn’t be such a struggle.

The pilot mutters something around the darkest part of night.

Xeon leans closer and asks, “Say that again.”

The man’s lips, cracked and bloody, move slowly. Nothing clear comes out, though.

“His fever is climbing,” Xeon informs quietly.

“Can we last ’til morning?” Fletcher questions with that no-nonsense tone.

“He doesn’t really have much of a choice,” Xeon answers.

“That’s not an answer,” Scar points out flatly.

“No,” Xeon says. “It’s not.”

Ewan glances at the door then, quietly calling out, “Still got movement outside the room. Not right against us, but I’m thinking lower passage maybe. It’s a slow drag, so maybe two or three.”

“Rots?” Fletcher asks.

“Unless the looters have started shuffling for added dramatic effect, yeah. They’re Rots,” Ewan answers like a smart-ass.