Page 197 of Immune

Then I step toward the science wing, counting each and every fucking exit as I go.

THIRTY-ONE

DAKOTA

The science wing reeks of bleach and bad decisions.

Not old bad decisions, either. Not the kind left to rot in abandoned buildings, soaked into carpets and forgotten under collapsed roofs. Oh no. These are fresh ones. Organized ones.

The hallway beyond the door is cleaner than the rest of the medical building. Too clean. The floor has been scrubbed to within an inch of its life, so thoroughly I’m convinced the tiles almost remember they were once white. Plastic sheeting covers parts of the ceiling, and wires run across the walls in neat bundles, taped down and labeled with black marker.

LAB ONE.

COLD STORAGE.

SAMPLE PREP.

ARCHIVE.

The last one catches under my ribs with a particularly interesting hook.

Archive.

That’s a shitty word, because archives mean records. Names. Histories. People reduced to folders because someone with a badge decided paper was safer than memory.

A guard walks ahead of us. Valeria follows at my left, close enough to redirect me if I bolt but not close enough to touch. Commander Hale brings up the rear with two more guards, because apparently nothing says welcome to Haven Ridge like a hallway parade full of armed suspicion.

Fletcher is at my right, not in front or behind, just right there. I know he’s doing it on purpose, too. I hate that I even know, but I hate that I don’t actually hate it more.

Kaito trails a little behind, his side patched but not fixed, moving with that quiet stubbornness that makes me want to scream into a cushion. Xeon stays just close enough that his scent cuts through the chemical stink when the air shifts. Ewan has one side of his headphones lifted, eyes sharper than his mouth wants people to believe he’s capable of.

No one says anything, because the walls have windows. Not normal windows, either. Observation windows. Narrow panels of thick glass set into doors, all of them showing slices of rooms I don’t want to be anywhere near. I spy metal tables, locked cabinets, and microscopes. Gloves drying on racks. Whiteboards covered in writing. Refrigerators humming behind safety locks.

Science.

I used to think that word meant my dad smelling like coffee and ink, kissing my hair while his mind races twelve equations ahead of the room. Then science became NOVAC. Then NOVAC became bodies in the street. And then the world shit itself and ended, taking whatever soft meaning the word had left.

My palms sweat inside my gloves, and I flex my fingers once. Not in fear, but in preparation. Obviously.

A woman in a lab coat passes us with a tray of sealed vials. She sees the Alphas first, and her gaze skips over them quickly and cautiously. Then it lands on me. On my bandana and hat, my too-big clothes and then my injured arm. The tray rattles once and I smile under the fabric. She looks away then. Good.

“Super friendly place,” I mutter.

Ewan leans in close by half an inch. “I mean, I’ve been to worse.”

“The bar is in hell.”

He snorts. “I said worse, not better.”

Valeria glances back at us and asks, “You always talk this much?”

Ewan points at himself. “Who? Me or the angry raccoon?”

“I’m not angry,” I argue with an angry frown.

Four men say absolutely nothing with a really impressive volume that speaks for itself. Filthy little traitors.

The guard stops at a set of double doors marked RESEARCH ACCESS. Valeria scans a card against a panel and something buzzes right before a lock clicks. Just one click, then another, and then a third. My spine stiffens with each one.