Page 131 of Immune

“Those people are pussies,” I counter without putting much thought into it.

His lips twitch but he doesn’t smile, simply nods and agrees, “Oh, absolutely. Amateurs, if you ask me.”

The Zeds are still coming from behind, slower than the Runner, but their groans spill through the tunnel like dirty water. We retrieve my knife, because there’s no way in hell I’m leaving another blade behind unless the universe pries it from my rigor mortis-riddled, cold, and violently annoyed fingers. Then we keep moving forward.

The tunnel finally opens into a staff locker corridor, faded signs pointing toward WEST LOADING and CAR PARK ACCESS. Somewhere beyond the walls, I hear voices.

Fletcher, maybe? Kaito, definitely, because he says my name like he’s trying his best not to tear the whole building apart with his bare hands.

A normal person might find that kind of touching.

I’m not normal.

Also, he’s fucking injured and should be saving his energy on something more important. Something like, oh, I don’t know, not bleeding?

I open my mouth to call back, only… nothing comes out. Because my body catches up with everything all at once.

The Runner.

The lock.

The tunnel.

The heat. The scent. The fact that Ewan saw all of it.

My hands start shaking properly then. Big, ugly, violent tremors that run through each finger.

I turn toward the nearest row of lockers and pretend to inspect a faded notice about staff parking permits from six years ago. Very important reading material, but I don’t see a word of it, because my breathing is coming too fast. I slow it, but it speeds up again.

I hate fear after danger. During danger, that fear has its uses. It sharpens things, maps exits, and moves feet. But after? After, fear is just the body being a dramatic bitch because it missed its cue.

Ewan stops several feet away. Not beside me or behind me, but away.

Good.

Bad?

I don’t even know anymore.

“You can go,” I tell him, my voice a little strained even to my own ears.

“I could, yeah,” he responds.

“Then do that,” I command, the bite losing its effect with the way my voice shakes a little. Fuck my life. Fuck it all to hell in a handbasket.

“I could also just… not,” he mutters nonchalantly.

I close my eyes. “Ewan.”

“Dakota,” he counters, matching my energy, though his is far more effective than mine.

“I’m fine.”

“Right,” he says. “But I was going to tell you there’s dust on your hat.”

My hand flies to the brim before my brain fully forms the thought to do so, my fingers touching it before I can stop myself. Ewan’s expression changes, only barely, but it’s enough to tell me he notices. He knows the hat matters, but he doesn’t know why. No one does.

Good.