Page 108 of Immune

Fletcher and Xeon lower the pilot onto a sheet of insulation board, and Xeon checks his wound straight away. “He needs proper medical care.”

“How long?” Fletcher prods.

“Less than we have,” Xeon answers.

Ewan peers through a crack in the shed door. “No movement on the roof behind us. Streets below are busy, though. Rots drifting east.”

Dakota stands near the opposite wall, arms folded, wet braid hanging over one shoulder, and knife still in hand. Herbandana is secured in place, her hat sits low, and her shoulders are locked tightly.

Even if I hadn’t kissed her, I’d still know she’s shaking. Not in a visible, obvious way. Certainly not in a way others can call out without losing at least three fingers. But I know. Her scent trembles under the blockers, thinned by the rain, scared, and angry at itself for being scared.

I stay near the door. Not between her and it, but beside it. Close enough to block the wind from the gap in the frame, but far enough that she can leave if she wants.

Her eyes flick to me. She notices, of course, and her gaze narrows. She doesn’t say anything, though.

Small mercy, right?

I look away first, and that is the second choice.

The pilot groans and everyone’s attention shifts to him. His eyes flutter under swollen lids and his hands twitch against the board, his fingers scraping against it weakly.

“Hey,” Xeon says, leaning closer. “You’re safe.”

The pilot’s lips crack open. “No.”

Fletcher crouches on his other side. “You said Vector. Cargo. NOVAC. What else?”

The pilot shivers hard enough to make Xeon press his hand to the man's shoulder. With a whisper, he says, “Case. Need… case.”

“Where is it?” Fletcher pushes.

“Split. Took… black case. Silver stayed,” the pilot breathes.

Ewan looks at Fletcher. “Silver?”

The pilot’s breath rattles harshly in his chest. “Drive. Samples. O’Reilly…”

Dakota goes painfully still.

There it is. Not a guess anymore.

Her fingers tighten around her knife. I see it, Xeon sees it, Fletcher definitely sees it. Ewan’s gaze cuts to her, and then away just as fast. Then the pilot’s head rolls toward Dakota and he rasps, “Doctor's daughter… His research…”

The room seems to stop breathing with her. Her scent spikes, and I move one step without thinking, only to stop before the second. I start repeating a chant in my head the moment I still. Don’t corner her. Don’t expose her. Don’t make this worse.

The pilot’s eyes are barely open now, feverish and unfocused. There’s every chance he might not be seeing what’s even in front of him. He might be seeing a memory. A file. A ghost. But then he whispers, “Immune.”

And the shed falls silent in a way that is borderline horrifying. Dakota’s knife lifts by an inch, but not toward him. Toward the room.

My blood turns cold. Fletcher’s expression locks down. Xeon’s hand stills on the pilot’s shoulder. And Ewan literally stops breathing for half a second. Dakota’s eyes are wide and terrified above the bandana, all pale hazel and panic.

Then the pilot falls unconscious again, as if dropping grenades in small spaces is perfectly acceptable bedside manner. His head lolls to the side while rain hammers the roof, and not a soul speaks for long enough for the tension to spread like its own virus.

Dakota moves first.

She turns toward the shed door, but I’m beside it. I’m not blocking it, simply standing next to it, but she stops anyway before issuing a sharp command. “Move.”

I step away immediately, the word barely leaving her mouth before the path is completely clear for her to walk down.