Page 345 of Immune

“Three active bonds,” the bored man says. “Not half.”

“Four Alphas around her.”

A pause right before the first man laughs. “Greedy little thing, isn’t she?”

My fingers twitch. Only barely and not enough for them to see. It is enough for me to know I am still in here, though. Disgusted by what’s left of the population and furious that once again, my distrust in humanity’s leftovers has been proven.

“Don’t start,” the woman says. “Omegas with attached Alphas are dangerous cargo.”

There it is again, stripping me of my humanity and identity and whittling me down to nothing more than a thing to be possessed.

Cargo. Not a girl or woman. Not a person.

Fucking cargo.

I breathe in through my nose slowly, willing my patience to remain strong. It only works because I take in the rancid chemical scent that seems to swarm around me with no vent to escape from.

“You saw the cages downstairs,” the bored man mutters. “They’re all dangerous until they break.”

My stomach turns.

Cages downstairs.

Others.

They’ve done this before.

Of course they have. I shouldn’t really be surprised, because people don’t generally build a chair like this for just a single, random bad idea they’ve thrown together.

A door opens somewhere to my left, followed by the roll of wheels. Something squeaks. A cart, maybe? Bottles clink. Plastic rustles. Then a woman asks, “Where are the NOVAC drives?”

“Separate cargo,” someone answers from nearby. “Moving at dawn with the older samples.”

Older samples. Two words that turn the blood in my veins ice cold.

“Medical wants the Omega logged before transport,” the bored man mutters, sounding like he wants to be anywhere else but right here. Like, damn. I’m sorry my kidnapping is sooo inconvenient for you, asshole. It’s not exactly a skip through a weed-infested, Zed-pond-filled park for me either.

“No blood draw yet,” the woman replies. “Leader’s orders. Visual assessment first. Scent response. Heat markers. Bond reactivity. Then samples.”

My pulse stumbles.

No blood draw.

Oh good. That’s good. That means they really don’t know. They don’t know about Mercer’s vial. About potential immunity. About my body being a creepy little NOVAC-shaped question mark with trauma issues.

They know that I’m an Omega. They suspect I’m unusual. I mean, yeah, that is bad, but it’s not the worst. Not yet, anyway.

I let my head loll slightly to the side and the room swims. White lights overhead. Metal ceiling beams. A wall lined with cabinets. A row of cages beyond a plastic curtain, all empty from what I can see, though one has a blanket twisted in the corner and dark stains on the floor.

A camera watches from above the door.

Two guards.

One woman in gray medical gear.

One man near my left side with a shock baton clipped to his belt.

One man by the door with a rifle.