Page 52 of Immune

Unknown also means whoever shot them down is still here somewhere, and that could be worse.

The helicopter clips the upper corner of an apartment block with a screech of metal. Glass bursts outward, the tail swings wide, and for one long, terrible second, the whole machine hangs crooked against the gray sky, dragging smoke behind it.

Then it drops behind the buildings, the crash shaking the road under our feet. A black plume billows upward from beyond the apartments, and for a moment, everything pauses.

It only lasts a moment before the district answers.

Rots groan from every direction. Not one. Not two. Dozens. The sound of the crash moves through the dead like a hand through water, spreading until each one in the vicinity answers its call.

Fletcher is already standing, eyes scanning sharply. “Crash site. Move.”

Ewan looks up at the smoke rising behind the buildings with a pinched brow. “Lush. Random aircraft, gunfire from the rooftops, and now a whole lot of teeth. Proper luxury outing, this, huh?”

“We need eyes on it,” Fletch says.

“I’d actually argue we need less of whatever that is,” Ewan counters lowly, still watching the smoke.

Fletch shakes his head. “Need to know who shot it down, what was inside, and whether any of it will follow us home.”

Ewan sighs, but his gun is already in his hands, ready to go like it’s inconvenient but inevitable. “Fine. But if there’s so much as a whiff of another helicopter, I’m putting in a formal complaint. This is mad, mun.”

Ignoring him completely, Fletch starts forward and I follow after.

The closer we get to the site, the louder the district becomes. Smoke grows between the apartment blocks, cloying enough to sting the back of my throat. A faint rain still hangs in the air, more mist than actual weather, turning ash into black smudges on the sidewalk. Somewhere ahead, someone shouts, and another voice answers. Then a chilling scream cuts off abruptly.

Fletcher raises his hand again, and we all stop at the mouth of an alley. He stops to listen, and so do I, already hearing the Rots that amble from the park and side streets. Feet drag over broken glass and nails scrape horribly over brick, because the crash has called everything slow and hungry within earshot.

But under all of that, there’s more.

A fast scrape. A wet breath. Something moving behind the walls of the apartment block to our left.

I glance up, spotting several windows on the lower floor boarded up from the inside. It’s clearly a rushed job, the fresh wood boards badly pinned in place with nothing more than clean rope and a sheet tied across one broken pane. Someone must have been living there recently. Who’s to say they’re still not there? Though, I can’t imagine they’ll be there for much longer.

Fletcher catches where my eyes have traveled and his jaw tightens.

“Failed hideout?” Ewan asks quietly.

“Maybe,” I answer.

“Huh,” Ewan says. “Lovely. Those are always a barrel of laughs.”

A groan suddenly pours out from the stairwell ahead, and Fletcher wastes no time in stepping around the corner first with his rifle already raised. Ewan and I follow closely, just as the crash site appears in all its depressing and intense glory.

The helicopter lies on its side on the road between two apartment blocks. The tail is twisted awkwardly against a row of parked cars. One of the rotor blades has snapped and has buried itself through a windshield, smoke billowing from the engine in thick, coiling plumes. I only just catch sight of a little flash of orange, something inside sparking sharply.

Two bodies lie near the wreck, both wearing flight gear and covered in blood, but only one is moving. My eyes snag the movement, the slow drag of an arm against the sidewalk. I can’t tell from here if he’s still alive or turning, but it’s far too exposed to approach him carelessly.

The moving man on the floor isn’t the only thing I notice. A duffel bag is half-trapped under the warped metal, and another pack has been thrown several feet from the open door. Anything could be in those packs. Anything or nothing at all. Maybe bait? We can’t know for sure unless we check.

Fletcher scans the rooftops first instead of the supplies, which is exactly why he’s still alive today.

“High east,” I say, keeping my voice low. “Roofline. Building four, maybe five.”

“I saw,” Fletch confirms, nodding once.

Ewan’s eyes scan across the windows before he says, “Can’t see any muzzles.”

“Don’t mean they’re gone,” Fletcher warns.