Page 20 of Immune

I keep my eyes moving, running my gaze over the street. Houses are tricky, you see. People think they’re safer than the open streets because walls offer a false sense of protection. What most fail to realize is that walls only help if you know what’s inside them. Houses hold Zeds in bathrooms. Dead people locked in bedrooms. Traps in kitchens. Memories in places they have no right to linger.

But this house, I know.

Two stories. Blue siding long since turned gray with the weather. White trim peeling from the windows. A porch with a broken step and a wind chime made of shells that jingle softly whenever the breeze whooshes by. I found this house three days ago while I was scouting, cleared it yesterday morning, and know the layout like the back of my hand already. I know the back door sticks, the upstairs bathroom window opens onto the porch roof, and there’s a crawl space under the kitchen big enough for me to fit into if I need to disappear quickly. There’s a pantry with two cans of corn I didn’t take since I was planning on returning, and a bedroom closet that holds a false panel where someone once hid jewelry, cash, and a handgun with no bullets.

Not perfect, no, but it’s better than most.

I pass the house without slowing, and Kaito follows. I make it to the end of the street, double back through the overgrown yard next door, cut through a gap in the fence, and circle around behind the blue house. The backyard is a mess of knee-high weeds and brambles, fallen branches, and a rusted grill that has miraculously remained upright.

Stepping over a tripwire I set yesterday, I’m careful not to disturb the line hidden in the grass. As soon as I’m clear, I slip through the back door. I’m immediately assaulted by the smell of dust, old wood, and mildew that fills the kitchen. Faded blue curtains hang simple on either side of the window above the sink, only wafting gently in the breeze that sneaks through the crack in the frame. The counter is cluttered with stuff people before me left behind. There’s an empty coffee tin, a cracked mug, a stack of mail ruined by damp, and a ceramic bunny cookie jar that looks way too chipper given the circumstances.

I hate the stupid thing instantly.

“You’re judging me. I know you are,” I whisper to the white rabbit with the pink nose, glaring at it like it’s offended my life now and every past life before it.

The bunny looks back, judging, and I huff as I close the door behind me without latching it. Then I move through the kitchen and into the hall. I manage to avoid the third floorboard from the left after learning the fucker will scream like a dying seagull if stepped on. I avoid the next two, too, because although they creak a little less dramatically, it’s still enough that I consider it rude.

In the living room, I duck behind the couch and tug my gun from its holster, reminding myself I have two bullets. Only two, because one was wasted and buried in the pharmacy ceiling, taking down the world’s most inconvenient encounter.

Great. Love this for me.

Sighing, I run my gaze over the living room. It’s trapped in a dusty sadness, furniture covered with sheets that have yellowed with age. A bookcase is pressed against one wall, only half-filled, the remaining paperbacks wrinkled with moisture. It pains me to look at, so I tear my eyes away, only for them to land on the family photos that hang above the fireplace, faces faded behind cracked glass. A mother, father, two kids, and anadorable golden retriever with its tongue lolling out the side of its mouth.

The dog gets me.

People don’t.

Keeping my back against the wall beside the doorway, I slow my breathing and wait. Outside, silence stretches far past the houses surrounding the one I’m standing in. Kaito’s good, I’ll admit that much. He doesn’t barge straight in like a man with more confidence than brain cells, though I do worry he’s lacking in that department since he’s followed me all the way here. Instead, he circles first. I hear almost nothing, but the house thankfully hears it for me. The faint shift of weeds near the porch, the whisper of a boot on concrete, the pause near the kitchen window. He checks the back door, then stops, and I can picture him studying it. I envision him noticing the latch isn’t set, the disturbed dust on the threshold, noticing the fact that I want him to know I came this way.

Good. Let’s see what you’re made of, Alpha. Let’s see just how stupid you are.

Sure enough, with painstaking slowness, the back door opens. There’s no dramatic creak, because I oiled the hinges yesterday with rancid cooking oil vile enough that I spent the entire task gagging behind my bandana. It was worth it, but it’s definitely not something I wish to repeat anytime soon.

Kaito steps into the house, and I remain exactly where I am. I hear him pause in the kitchen, and I know the moment he spots the floorboards. There’s a slight shift in his breathing, a careful and deliberate redistribution of his weight, and then he avoids the screaming board entirely.

My eyebrows pinch.

Well, shit. That’s fucking annoying.

He moves through the hall slowly, one hand likely near a weapon of some sort, though I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t havedrawn it yet. At least, if he has any survival instincts at all. I can smell him from here, the scent of blood, rain-damp fabric, Alpha, and something warmer under it all.

Burning wood.

Worn flannel.

Strangely, the scent is choppy and familiar in a way it has absolutely no right to be, like a lone shelter in the middle of a thunderstorm. My Omega notices instantly, and that fickle bitch can kiss my ass.

Kaito stops at the living room doorway, and I move in behind him silently, right before pressing the barrel of my gun to the back of his head. For one weighted and painfully long second, neither one of us breathes. Then, with every ounce of caution within him, he says, “Okay, that’s fair. I deserved that.”

“You think?” I question lowly, prodding the back of his dark-hair-covered head with my gun just to really drill home the precarious situation the Alpha has found himself in.

Nodding slightly, Kaito’s hands raise slowly, palms open in surrender. There’s an appreciation there for how he doesn't whirl around immediately, and it’s quickly followed by annoyance and a deep-rooted hatred for appreciating anything about this guy to begin with.

“You followed me,” I start, throwing the accusation out there with the bluntness it deserves.

“Yup. I did that,” he agrees easily.

“Didn’t I tell you to leave?” I prod, keeping my hands steady and my breathing slow and calm.