Page 134 of Immune

“Fine,” I whisper. “Mostly with a heap load of enthusiasm.”

“That’s not better, Ewan,” she complains, and something about my name coming out of her mouth damn near short-circuits my brain.

Thankfully, I’m quick on my toes, recovering quickly enough to counter, “That completely depends on how you value confidence.”

“It’s on the lower portion of the scale,” she tells me.

“Oof. Ouch. I’m wounded,” I sigh.

With a roll of her eyes I’m starting to find kind of endearing, she moves through the arch anyway. The door at the far end sticks, because apparently every door left standing after the world turned to shit has decided to develop a dramatic personality. Dakota gets one shoulder against it, but her injured arm flares. I hear it in the small hitch of her breath, see it in the way her body tenses.

I open my mouth.

Dakota looks at me.

I close it promptly.

See? Look at that. Learning. Growth. Personal evolution. Someone call a scientist, I think we just had a goddamn breakthrough.

Instead of speaking my mind, I wedge my pipe under the frame and lever the door. The lock gives with a dull snap, and Dakota pushes through like she did all the work. I allow it, because I’m a generous bastard and kind of like the idea of keeping all of my teeth intact.

The door opens into the main west service passage, and Fletcher’s rifle comes up the very second we appear. Dakota lifts her knife. And me? Well, I lift both of my hands in surrender, because I’m a very firm believer that organs should remain internal. In fact, I fully support that notion.

“Friendly,” I whisper as if it wasn’t already obvious.

Fletcher lowers his rifle by one inch, and then mutters, “You’re late.”

Dakota looks at him with the sparkling exterior of a serial killer. “Sorry. We decided to extend our trip and took the scenic route through hell.”

“You wouldn't believe me, but it’s a really busy place,” I add. “Fucking awful for parking.”

No one laughs, and I smile awkwardly.

Tough room.

Kaito is next to the pilot, pale under the red emergency light, one hand pressed tight to his side. Relief washes over his face before he can hide it, and Dakota is very quick to catch it.

She looks away immediately, muttering, “Don’t do that.”

Kaito’s eyebrows pinch together. “Do what?”

“Look so relieved. It’s weird,” she tells him.

“Okay,” he replies. Which, clearly, is a big fat lie, because the man still looks about three seconds away from personally thanking every god he probably doesn’t believe in.

I’m only distracted by Dakota as she shoves my headphones against my chest as she passes me. “Take these.”

I take them. She doesn’t look at me, and that’s fine, because she used them and that’s the most important part. Notthat I’ll say all of that out loud. After six years, I’ve kinda grown fond of living, you know? It would be a shame to waste all those years surviving only to tell the Tiny Terror something she didn’t like and catch a cold case of death for it.

As a group, we move on, but we don’t go far. We can’t. The tunnels ahead are alive with sound. Boots above us. Rots somewhere under us. Water rushing through broken pipes. Vector sweeping the station level in annoying, organized patterns that make Fletcher’s face grow colder every time I tell him what I hear.

Three sets of boots pass overhead.

Then four.

Then silence.

Then the same pattern again.