Page 168 of Immune

Ewan lifts his hand between us and says, “I’m in full support of that legal framework.”

“Shut up and listen,” I whisper, the words having far less bite in them than they would have yesterday or the day before.

He does as he’s told, though. And so does Kaito. That’s how I know something is wrong.

Ewan turns his head slightly toward the lobby behind us. Kaito’s eyes lift to the ceiling above the maintenance stairs. And honestly? It ruins my fucking day in an instant.

Fletcher’s rifle shifts, just as he whispers, “What?”

Ewan points back at the way we came, and Kaito points up the stairs.

Great. Just great. We’ve got ourselves a full-service nightmare, just as I anticipated. Stupid stairwells. Stupid Zeds. Stupid Vector. Stupid goddamn apocalypse.

I listen harder. Behind us, somewhere close to the lobby, metal creaks. Above us, something drags across concrete.

Ewan whispers, “One above. Maybe two.”

“Behind?” Fletcher asks.

Kaito’s voice lowers as he says, “Human.”

My skin goes cold, not because humans are worse than Zeds. But because humans always end up bringing decisions with them. And those decisions always end up ruining my whole week, month, and maybe even the entire year.

The lobby door squeaks a little wider, and a man’s voice drifts through the service hallway.

“...fresh track.”

“Could be them,” another voice replies, and my stomach sinks at the same time my hand tightens around the handle of my knife.

Them.

That’s what we are. I can't say I much care for being a them. Especially because I don’t know exactly what part of us they even want. Could be the pilot. The cargo. O’R. Omega.

No. No way. They can’t possibly know that. Not unless someone scented me through everything. Not unless the blockers are failing worse than I even realized. Not unless the world has decided to upgrade from an inconvenience to full-blown actively malicious.

Fletcher leans close enough for me to hear him without his voice carrying, “Options. Back through them, up through the maintenance stairs, or stay here and get pinned.”

I look at the locked gate. It’s an old lock with no windows. It’s a me kind of problem, so I whisper, “Cover the noise.”

Ewan grins faintly. “With pleasure.”

Then he pulls a loose screw from an exposed wall bracket and tosses it down the service hallway, letting it skitter loudly toward the lobby. The sound pings and clatters across the tiles and behind us, the voices stop. Right before one of them asks, “What was that?”

While they look away, I work on the lock. It’s stiff but not overly complicated, and it should only take me roughly twelve seconds to get it open.

I get it open in eleven, though no one is actually timing it.

We take the maintenance stairs fast, but not loud. The steps are made of grated steel, cold even under my boots, and every small scrape sounds like the deepest betrayal. The pilot’s breathing turns wet halfway up, and Xeon mutters something to him, too soft for me to catch. Fletcher keeps one arm around the pilot and one hand on his weapon, because apparently being inconveniently competent is just a part of his tragic little personality.

At the top, the second floor access door opens into a residential hallway lined with apartment doors. Some are open, some have been barricaded as I expected. Some have been scratched up from the outside, and some from the inside, but I refuse to think about that.

On one door, there’s a kid’s drawing taped to the front, faded to almost white. I can still make out the five stick figures standing under a corner-drawn sun, and I force myself to look away.

The covered walkway should be at the far end, so we move toward it, as quiet as we can with one fevered pilot, two bleeding men, and my knee still trying to draft its resignation letter that includes several words that would get it fired before it could quit.

Halfway down the hallway, I see it.

A metal canister wedged under a radiator.