Page 99 of Immune

Idiot.

Useful idiot.

I hate those kinds of idiots.

The street ahead is blocked by three toppled cars and a tangle of old fencing. Beyond it, a cluster of Zeds drag themselves through the rain, drawn by some sound deeper in the district. Their jaws hang loose, their clothes cling to ruined bodies, and water slicks their cloudy eyes until they almost look alive. At least, from a distance, anyway.

That’s just the universe’s favorite way of being cruel.

Fletcher gestures left. “Cut through here.”

“Here” is a row of old stores with broken awnings and one partially collapsed roof.

“Bad idea,” I mutter with a shake of my head. Scar looks over at me, and I nod toward the water, explaining, “Water is running into that building, not out of it. That means the floor will be rotten.”

He studies the shopfront, and then nods. “Alternate?”

I blink. He’s doing that thing again. Listening. It’s weird as hell.

I point across the road. “Arcade. Back exit links to an indoor market. Market has roof access if the stairs aren’t gone.”

Ewan squints through the rain from behind me and asks, “And you’ve obtained this knowledge how exactly?”

“This may shock you, but I actually pay attention to these things,” I answer bluntly.

“What?” he says. “To collapsing buildings?”

I raise an eyebrow. “To things trying to kill me. Collapsing buildings are just a convenient byproduct.”

“Huh. Love that,” he mutters.

We cross quickly, avoiding the Zeds as they drift toward the distant sounds. Rain hides smaller noises but it makes everything smell more alive. Wet concrete. Rust. Rot, blood, and Alpha.

Kaito’s scent clings despite the rain, burning wood and worn flannel, smoke-warm under the blood and cold water. The kind of scent that should make absolutely no sense in the middle of a drowning city, yet somehow it does.

My Omega leans toward it, and I mentally drag her back by the hair. Absolutely not. Not happening.

The arcade door hangs open like a mouth with a broken jaw. Inside, old gaming systems and machines line the walls, screens dead and plastic guns hanging from zombie shooting games that feel a little tasteless now, even if I can admire the irony.

“Really?” I grumble at one machine where a cartoon undead thing grins under the title ROTTING RAMPAGE III.

Ewan stops beside it. “Wow. Insensitive much?”

“Just a bit,” I mutter.

“Reckon it still works?” Ewan wonders, eyeing it with interest.

I blink. “If it does, I’m leaving you here alone.”

“Harsh,” he says. “But I get it. No offense taken.”

Fletcher gives us both a look, and I smile behind my bandana. “What’s wrong, Scar? Are we disrespecting the tactical arcade?”

“Move,” he bluntly retorts.

And so we move.

Rain drums heavily through holes in the ceiling. Water spills in steady sheets near the back wall, turning the psychedelic patterned carpet into a swamp of mold and childhood germs. I lead them around the worst patches, stepping over fallen signs and half-drowned prize tokens. A plastic claw machine sits cracked open near the counter, stuffed animals inside collapsed into sad, wet little corpses of youth. One doggy bear stares at me with one remaining button eye, looking particularly wrung out and over it all.