Page 143 of Immune

Fletcher’s eyes narrow, blue eyes turned hard. Too steady. “My problem is keeping this group alive.”

“I’m alive because I don’t let men like you decide where the fuck I stand,” I snap.

His expression shifts then. It’s not much, but enough to tell me my words have hit something. Maybe understanding, maybe offense. Hell, maybe both.

“Men like me,” he repeats, voice low and controlled.

“Loud,” I tell him. “Armed. Bossy. Pretty big on formation.”

“Formation keeps people alive,” he argues.

“Freedom keeps me alive,” I counter, fury bleeding into my words.

“Freedom gets people killed when it turns into ego,” he volleys.

Heat flashes through me, furious and loud. “You think this is ego?”

“I think you hear an order even when someone is only giving you a warning,” he answers, avoiding the actual question I’ve asked.

I scoff. “Oh, and you think barking it makes it better?”

“I think hesitating ends up messy,” he says, avoiding the actual question once more.

“That why you never do it?” I throw at him, spitting venom at the bastard.

His mouth closes then and for a second, I see it. A flicker behind his eyes. Something colder than anger. But then it’s gone.

“Medical station,” he says. “Now.”

The smile I release behind my bandana isn’t a pretty one. It’s certainly not nice.

“Say please.”

Ewan whispers loudly, “For the record, I actually support this really bad idea.”

“Ewan,” Fletcher snaps, finally losing the tight grip on the reins of his control.

The Welshman holds his hands up in surrender, muttering, “Fine. I retract my support. But only emotionally. Spiritually, it remains.”

Just then, a sound scrapes somewhere outside the room. It’s not coming from the tunnel we entered, but from the other side. Everyone freezes, and Fletcher’s rifle lifts instantly. Ewan tilts his head, and I turn toward the far wall.

There.

A service door half-hidden behind collapsed shelving.

The scrape comes again, followed by a low, wet groan. Zeds. Because naturally they would make an appearance while I’m trying to teach an Alpha basic manners.

Fletcher looks at me then. “Medical station. Now.”

This time, it doesn’t come out as a command. Instead, it’s about timing, and I hate that I can even tell the difference. But I move anyway. Not because he said so, but because he’s right, and I actually can’t stand the inconvenience.

The medical station is mounted behind a cracked plastic cabinet. I pry it open with the tip of my knife while Fletcher covers the room. The lock snaps with a metallic clack, and I start shoving supplies into my bag with only one hand. Bandages. Gauze. Two rolls of tape. One sealed packet of sutures. Antiseptic wipes. Burn gel. A foil emergency blanket.

No blockers, though, because of course there aren’t any. After all, the universe isn’t afraid to keep me humble and afraid, the rotten bitch.

Behind us, Xeon lowers the pilot onto a crate, one hand steadying his shoulder. Kaito guards the door we came through, his posture far too rigid and tense. Ewan stands near the shelving, eyes half-closed as he listens past the groaning Zeds.

“More than two,” he informs.