Page 51 of Immune

He catches me looking and raises an eyebrow, so I look away.

“Don’t give me that thoughtful face,” he murmurs. “Makes me feel like you’re about to get up all in your feelings and ask about mine.”

“We’re in a potential ambush zone,” I remind him softly.

Ewan nods. “Yeah, that’s what I mean. It’s a really shitty time for feelings right now, X.”

Fletcher glances over his shoulder only once, and Ewan snaps his mouth shut.

I shake my head before scanning the upper floors of the apartment blocks while Fletch checks the road ahead. We’re supposed to be on a simple run. Things aren’t ever really simple. Not really. It’s just a word the compound still uses because people like to lie to themselves in small, funny ways.

The objective was pretty smooth on paper. Sweep the park district, check two old pharmacies already marked as potential losses, and confirm whether the western clinic is still accessible. We were to look for antibiotics, sutures, batteries, ammunition, fuel stabilizer, and anything useful enough to haul back to the compound. We were to avoid any unnecessary contact and noise, and return before it got dark.

Just the usual kind of run we’ve all done before.

The only problem is that the park district has been kind of weird for weeks now. There’s been too much movement, too many fresh barricades in windows. Rots have started disappearing from the streets that used to collect them in slow, dangerous herds.

Signs of looters? Maybe.

Survivors? It’s very possible.

Something organized? If we’re unlucky.

Something desperate? Only if we’re really unlucky.

Fletcher hates desperate, only because he understands it all too well. He moves to the edge of the van and studies the road closely, broad shoulders tense under his dark jacket. The light drop of rain has dampened his dirty-blond hair and makes the scar on his face look a little paler against his skin. He carries his rifle like it belongs there, but not in that showy or even casual way. Just like it’s a part of him. Which makes sense since Fletch joined the military before most people even learned what they wanted to be when they grew up. Sometimes I wonder if he even got to ask himself what he wanted to make of himself.

He taps two fingers against his thigh.

Hold.

So I hold. Same as Ewan, though a little less gracefully. His knee bounces once before he stops it with a grimace, like he’s embarrassed by his own body.

Across the road, there’s an old dental surgery that sits with its front windows smashed in. A sign in faded blue letters promises gentle care and brighter smiles, and the doorway is barricaded with overturned chairs and dead vines. Next to it, a pharmacy has been stripped completely bare, down to the very bones. Even the shelving is gone.

“Anything?” Ewan whispers.

Fletch pauses before answering, “Not yet.”

His voice is so low that it barely carries over the damp air, his words almost swallowed before I catch them.

I look up at the rooftops, just as a gunshot splits through the silence, the shot coming before the sound even makes sense. There’s a flash from high on the closest apartment block, and then gunfire cracks through the district.

All three of us turn just in time to witness a helicopter stagger into view. For a second, my mind actively refuses to place it. The world has become so ground-bound that things like that are pretty much a myth now. The sky belongs to birds, smoke, weather, and whatever deity people still pray to when they’re suddenly out of ammunition.

But my eyes aren’t deceiving me. The helicopter is as real as I am. Dark body. Tail smoking. Rotor blades hammering the air in uneven, frantic beats. It’s also flying too low, too damaged, and far too desperate.

Ewan tilts his head to the side. “That’s not standard landing procedure, right?”

Fletcher’s face suddenly hardens before he sharply commands, “Down.”

All three of us drop behind the van just as more shots crack through the air from the roofline. Not ours or our compound. They have a different rhythm. Semi-auto. Controlled enough to be intentional, but messy enough to suggest whoever is firing is scared or rushed.

The helicopter suddenly jerks sideways and my stomach tightens. “It’s not ours.”

“Ain’t ours,” Fletch agrees. “Still our problem ’til I know what it is.”

He’s right. Because not ours means unknown, and unknown means danger. Danger means whoever is inside that helicopter could be anything. Military. Raiders. Splinter cells.Lab transport. Private militia. Or even desperate survivors with enough fuel and bad luck to fly over the wrong district.