Page 48 of Immune

Of course, my words would be a lot more believable if I wasn’t beelining straight for the crash.

“And yet?” Kaito prods from behind me, reminding me that he’s following after me like a lost puppy I can’t seem to shoo away.

“And yet,” I snap, ducking under a low branch while feeling annoyed with myself, the situation, the whole fucking world. “There could be supplies.”

His boots follow closely behind me, trudging over the wet grass. “What, like medicine and stuff?”

“Among other things, like weapons, radio shit, food. Anything. Maybe blockers, if we’re lucky,” I blurt, only to internally cringe at my stupid self for uttering the last words before I can soften them.

Kaito hears it, obviously. I know he does, because the air suddenly changes between us, if only by half a degree. It’s not enough to be obvious, but it’s enough to prove he’s listening very, very intently. He doesn’t say anything, though, validating that he’s just as smart as he’s slowly proving to be, even if some of his choices thus far have been questionable.

Which is good, because I don’t have the room for questions right now, nor do I have room for the answer either.

I have smoke rising behind apartment blocks. I have an empty gun. I have a knee that feels like it’s being chewed from the inside out. And, somewhere ahead, possibly buried in the twisted metal and burning fuel, I have the tiniest, stupidest, most impossible chance of finding something that might actually keep my body quiet enough for a little while longer.

The word blockers sits heavily between Kaito and me, ugly and alarming, another piece of myself I didn’t mean to hand over. He probably already knows too much as it is. He clearly knows I hide my scent. Knows I use blockers. He’s very aware that I panic around Alphas, but not in the general way people panic over danger. He knows my name, even though I told him not to use it. He knows my hands are smaller than my voice pretends, that my body turns to stone when closeness sneaks up on me, and that I can stitch a wound in the dark and disappear before dawn.

Kaito knows enough to be considered dangerous. Yet, when I look back, he’s not looking at me like I’m prey. He’s looking at the streets. He’s checking every corner, counting threats, and making sure the path is clear without running up my ass the entire time.

And that only makes him dangerous in a completely different way. A way I don’t know how the fuck to stab.

We leave the park through a gap in the side fence, avoiding the main gate where two Zeds are already dragging themselves toward the noise. The road is cracked and kind of flooded in some places, lined with parked cars that have become planters for weeds and wildflowers. The apartments stand menacingly tall ahead, smoke curling up from behind them, and somewhere in the distance is the sound of shouting. Human shouting. Several voices all yelling over one another.

And then there’s a gunshot.

Followed by another.

My pace quickens rather than slowing, every single survival instinct within me screaming at me to turn back around and run in the opposite direction. But that’s the thing about survival instincts, though. People act like they’re clean, like they show up with instructions and a helpful little map. Mine never do. My instincts are in a perpetual state of argument. One says run, the other says hide. One says supplies and blockers, the other says men. One says don’t let the bleeding Alpha behind me see me notice I’m scared, and every single one of the fuckers is loud as a foghorn in my mind.

And not a single one of them is actually helpful.

Kaito keeps up with me without comment, which is actually pretty impressive since he looks like one gust of wind will tear open my stitches out of sheer stubbornness. We dart across the road, dip through a narrow alley between a pharmacy and a bakery, then hurdle over a drooping fence in a courtyard almost swallowed whole by trash cans, weeds, and the rusted skeleton of a kid’s climbing frame.

As we pass the pharmacy, I notice a sign that hangs in the corner, swinging softly with the breeze. The windows are smashed, shelves stripped bare, and a faded poster near the door shows a grinning woman wearing workout gear and holding a bottle of vitamins.

GET A BOOST IN YOUR ENERGY TODAY!

Apparently the apocalypse has developed a liking for irony. Fucking A.

The deeper we move between buildings, the thicker the smoke grows. And then the smell hits me next. Burning fuel, scorched metal, hot oil, and blood. But under it all is the rotting, sour scent of Zeds starting to gather, the smell spreading through the air like its very own virus.

My stride slows as I reach a corner, and I drop into a crouch the moment I come to a stop. Kaito stops behind me, not touching or crowding, but close enough that the heat of his body presses against the wet air at my back.

Peeking around the corner, I take in the sight before me. The helicopter has landed in the road between two apartment blocks. It’s on its side, tail bent awkwardly, and one rotor blade snapped and buried through the windshield of an old, beat-up car. Smoke is pouring from the engine in a waterfall of thick, gray billows, and the cockpit is crushed beyond repair. One door hangs open by the skin of its teeth, and something inside sparks with angry little flickers of light.

Bodies lie near the wreck, two in flight gear but only one is moving. I can’t tell if he’s alive or turning. It’s too hard to tell from where I’m crouched.

But my attention is drawn away by a duffel bag that lies under a broken section of the door, straps caught on twisted metal. Another pack sits a few feet away, probably launched out of the helicopter on impact. The mere sight of them both makes me a little greedy, but the practical part of me sharpens to a point.

I could try and get one. Maybe. I mean, if I moved fast enough and if the bodies around the crash didn’t move faster. It’s only that thought that keeps me pinned to the corner that keeps Kaito and me hidden for now. After all, this crash isn’t just a crash anymore. It’s turned into bait, and whether the people who fired it down know it or not, everything with teeth, lungs, or enough desperation is going to be drawn here.

Then movement passes my peripheral from the far side, and I turn my head enough to spy three men stepping onto the road from another angle. Each of them armed, and each of them Alphas. I know it before my brain fully understands how I know.

The first is tall, broad, with dirty-blond hair cut short. He’s wearing black camouflage pants tucked into heavy-looking combat boots, and a scar cuts across one cheek. He carries himself like a weapon that was taught discipline from a very young age, and my brain instantly goes to military. Not the costume kind, or the swaggering dumbass with a stolen vest and a dream, but the real, trained, tightly controlled kind. The dangerous kind.

His gun is raised, though his finger isn’t recklessly hovering over the trigger. I watch as his gaze sweeps windows and balconies, the wreck and bodies, and then the mouth of the alley. It’s like he sees the whole place as a map, but not because he’s afraid of it, but because he’s already deciding how to survive it.

The second Alpha is tall, too, but leaner. His black hair is damp against his forehead, and brown eyes scan the crash with a quiet kind of focus. Hoop earrings catch the faint light when he turns his head, the silver glistening slightly with every turn of his head. His movements are softer than the first, but not weaker. There’s something careful about him, something almost gentle in the way he watches the wreck before raising his gun. It doesn’t make him safe, that’s for sure. Gentle things make you lower your knives.