Page 194 of Immune

Valeria gestures to the medical building. “This way.”

We’re escorted across the courtyard and every step inside the compound feels louder than it should. People are watching from doorways, windows, and workstations. Not exactly hostile, but not friendly. Curious, maybe. Afraid. Definitely suspicious. I know that look because I’ve worn it so often that I’m considering charging it rent.

A little girl peeks from behind a stack of crates, and her eyes land on my bandana. Then my hat. Then my torn sleeve. I pull my jacket tighter and she disappears behind the crates again. Good.

The medical building used to be something official from the looks of things. A clinic, maybe. White walls under the grime. Clean plastic curtains. Handwritten signs taped next to doors.

TRIAGE. SURGERY. ISOLATION. SUPPLY.

Isolation.

My eyes analyze and catalog everything. Two exits visible. One front, one side hall. Windows are barred but the hinges are old. Vent is too small. Ceiling panels maybe removable if I stack the furniture. Four guards in immediate reach. Three medics. One radio on the desk. Cabinet with gloves. Locked cabinet behind it.

Possibly medicine.

Possibly blockers.

My pulse steadies around the inventory. Problems. Problems are good. Problems don’t give a shit if you breathe funny.

Valeria leads us to a triage area that is separated by curtains. The pilot disappears through double doors toward the back, the red-haired medic calling for blood, saline, instruments, and Ellis again.

When the door swings shut, the words go with him.

O’Reilly.

Immune.

Marker.

I take one step after him and a guard blocks me. I stop, but not because of him. Because Fletcher’s voice, low and steady, says, “We need him alive to answer questions.”

I look at him and he holds my gaze. He’s right, which is really inconsiderate of him.

Valeria points toward the curtained bays. “You’ll be checked one at a time.”

“No separating us,” Kaito cuts in.

Valeria, bless her soul, finally runs out of patience. “You don’t set the terms here.”

Dakota, don’t say it.

Dakota, be smart.

Dakota, think about the blockers.

“Neither do you,” I say.

Oh yeah. Nailed it.

Hale appears behind us like a fucking ghoul in tactical gear, his expression carved from tired authority. “I set the terms here.”

I look at him, and he looks at me. His nostrils flare slightly and my blood turns to ice. Not enough to know. Not yet. But it’s certainly enough to remind me that blockers aren’t exactly the cure to all of my problems. They’re not magic, and fear is fucking loud. Blood is louder. And I’m standing in a goddamn clinic surrounded by people trained to look too closely.

Fletcher steps half a pace to my side. Again, not in front. Hale’s gaze shifts to him, and Fletcher says, “Look, we’ve been hunted, boxed in, and baited with Runners.”

The way he uses my term for those speedy shits is so effortless I almost miss it. But I don’t, and something weird happens to my chest. Because it separates us from them. It draws a line, even if he doesn’t mean it to.

“He doesn’t trust closed doors,” he continues. “None of us do. Check us in the same room. Curtains open. Guards outside the line instead of crowding.”