Page 173 of Immune

“Marker,” he whispers.

Fletcher goes still. “Tracking marker?”

The pilot’s eyelashes flutter as he breathes, “Blood marker. NOVAC marker. They can follow… reaction.”

Then he passes out again after delivering a single ominous warning or threat. I can’t tell which it is, and neither can the others.

Silence drops between us, heavy and ugly.

Marker.

“What the hell does that mean?” Ewan asks.

No one answers, because no one knows. Except, maybe I do. Maybe my father’s name is still knocking faintly from inside a locked room. Maybe O’R was never just about the pilot’s cargo. Maybe Vector isn’t only tracking what he carried. Maybe they’re tracking what reacted.

Blood.

Scent.

NOVAC.

Me.

I shove that thought down so hard it should break, but it doesn’t. Fletcher looks at me, not ordering or accusing, simply seeing too much.

“We move through the garages,” he says, only to catch himself. “Best cover from here. Bad corners. Tight space. Your call if you see a better option.”

My call.

Man, I hate him a little for that, because I hate that it works more.

I wipe Runner blood from my knife onto my torn sleeve and look toward the garages. It’s tight, dark, and horrible, but it’s better than being herded into the open. So, with a single nod, I say, “Garages. But we don’t follow the obvious channel. They want us predictable, so it’s our turn to become the most irritating assholes they’ve met.”

Ewan exhales slowly, nodding like he’s readying himself. “Oh yeah. It’s my time to shine.”

Despite absolutely everything, my mouth actually twitches under my bandana.

Then another noise canister starts screaming from somewhere in the tower, and every Zed nearby answers. We run before the first body spills into the alley.

Behind us, Vector’s trap collapses into pure chaos.

Ahead of us, the compound waits behind a route that doesn’t even exist.

And somewhere in the middle of it all, the word marker keeps scraping around inside my skull like a key looking for the wrong damned lock.

TWENTY-EIGHT

DAKOTA

So, the garages are actually worse than they look. Which, if you ask me, is pretty impressive really. They look like the sort of place hope crawled into six years ago, took one sniff, and just straight-up died from something that could have been prevented.

Rust-eaten doors. Collapsed roofs. Oil-stained concrete. Weeds thick enough to hide ankles, teeth, tripwires, and every other delightful little surprise the apocalypse likes to tuck into places you wouldn’t think to look.

The first garage is empty except for a long-dead car with no wheels and a family of rats that scatter from the backseat when Ewan taps the doorframe with his knife.

“Oh, lush,” he mutters. “Very cosy. Homey. All it needs is cushions.”

“We don’t say cushions,” I warn.