Page 188 of Immune

Fletcher answers before anyone else can. “Injured pilot. Vector hit his bird east of here. He’s needin’ a medic.”

The guard’s expression changes. Not a whole lot, but it’s enough. His eyes go to the pilot and he asks, “Name?”

The pilot’s head lolls against Xeon’s shoulder, and Xeon tells him, “He’s been in and out. Fever. Blood loss. Possible internal injury.”

The guard’s jaw tightens. “You armed?”

Ewan gives him a look. “I mean, we’re balls-deep in an apocalypse.”

“Are you armed?” the guard repeats more firmly.

“Yes,” Fletcher answers. “And we’ll lower weapons before entry so long as your people keep theirs steady and don’t get twitchy.”

My eyes flick sideways, because that was actually almost diplomatic. It makes me concerned.

The guard studies the scarred Alpha, then nods once to someone inside. The gate opens wider then, and the guard instructs, “Weapons visible. Slow movements. Anyone even considers reaching, and we’ll put you down.”

“Warm little welcome. All it’s missing is confetti and balloons,” I mutter.

Ewan coughs. It could be a laugh, but it could equally be terror. Maybe a healthy blend of both.

We step through the gate and the second we step across the threshold, my body instantly wants to turn around and leave. Not in a dramatic way, or with fear blaring in my ears. It’s worse. It’s quiet and bone-deep. Like every survival instinct I have is leaning backward stubbornly, digging in its heels and claws and whispering no.

Because outside the wall is danger, but inside there’s order. And order has always been better at hiding its true colors.

The compound smells all wrong. Not bad, just wrong. And that’s the problem. No rot in the first breath. No old blood baking into the asphalt from under the scorching sun. No damp mold sitting heavy in abandoned rooms. Instead, there’s woodsmoke, boiled grain, disinfectant, metal, soap, human sweat, and something almost green growing in elevated planters across the inner wall.

My mind stutters at the soap.

Actual, honest-to-God soap.

I hate it instantly.

The courtyard beyond the gate is busy. Not crowded, but alive in a way I don’t think I’ve seen in literal years. People move between buildings carrying crates, buckets, tools, and folded blankets. A woman in a white armband speaks into a radio. An actual radio. Two men are reinforcing a section of fencing with welded panels. A group of kids, shit you not, actual kids, are sitting under a patched awning, watched by an older woman with a shotgun seated across her knees and a book in her hand.

Kids.

Small ones.

Alive ones.

One of them turns to stare at us, a piece of bread halfway to his mouth.

I look away first, eyeing everything around me in quick succession, cataloging all I see and storing it in my mind. Thecompound is too clean. Not shiny and untouched, but clean in that practical way that takes effort and a whole lot of work. Paths have been swept, waste sorted, and water barrels are labeled. Guards have been posted at every corner. Laundry is strung between two buildings, sorted by size and color like the end of the world didn’t actually happen and completely ruin everyone’s sense of priorities.

A board near the gate lists names in chalk.

Patrol.

Med shift.

Rations.

Quarantine.

The last word falls harshly in my stomach. Of course they have a quarantine. It’s a sensible thing to have. Reasonable. Absolutely fucking terrifying.

“Stop there,” a woman calls. She strides toward us from the nearest building, flanked by two guards. She’s in her late forties. Maybe? Dark hair pulled tight in a severe ponytail, gray shirt tucked into cargo pants, and no visible weapons except for the pistol on her hip and the authority that oozes from her as it rests comfortably on her shoulders.