Page 54 of Immune

I don’t let myself stare long enough to make that realization appear as a threat, even as Fletcher’s nostrils flare once. Only once. It’s the only outward signal he releases, but I know him. I catch the tension that enters his jaw, the way his rifle lowers only half an inch away from the alley without actually lowering at all. He’s caught it too.

Ewan’s eyes flick to me, and under his breath, he says, “Xeon.”

I nod. “I know.”

The words barely leave my mouth, because I don’t know anything, not really. I have no idea who they are, why they’re dressed like a Beta boy, or why they’re with an injured Alpha. I don’t know why their scent is buried under blockers harsh enough to sting, or why the first clear thing I can read from them is terror so potent that it almost looks like discipline.

But I know what that scent is, and I know what the world does to Omegas.

Suddenly, every ugly lesson the apocalypse has taught me comes racing to the forefront of my mind. Cages. Trade routes. Compound raids. Men who redefined the word protection into something else, expecting gratitude in exchange for chains. Omegas hidden until their bodies betray them. Omegas bought and sold, hoarded or lost.

My hands tighten around my gun before I can think better of it. The anger isn’t directed at the Omega, but toward everything else. Because the first thing they need from us can’t be want. Can’t be awe. Can’t be questions. It has to be space.

Fletcher says something to us, but I only catch the hint of command under the crackle of fire. He shifts his stance, placing himself where he can see the wreck, the alley, and the nearest stairwell. Ewan moves left to cover the road, no longer laid back, loose, and half-amused. His whole body has become alert now, because we’re not the only ones who heard the crash.

Proven as much when the first wave of Rots reaches the road. They come from the park entrance and apartment courtyards, drawn by the impact of the crash and gunfire that followed. They’re slow, broken, but relentless. Some drag broken legs, some crawl, some are missing body parts, and some stumble with their heads tilted at angles that are all wrong, their mouths opening and closing around nothing.

Their groans meld together into one wet, hungry sound, and the closer they get to the wreck, the more I realize the scent vanishes under the rot and decay for half a beat.

Then fear bursts from the alley again, only stronger this time.

The Omega is panicking.

My Alpha surges toward it, but I force myself to keep my feet planted where they are. I can’t go toward them, not now.Not like this. Need is not permission, and fear isn’t ever an invitation. The part of me that wants to bolt across the road and put myself between that small figure and the whole world may be loud and blaring, but loud doesn’t mean it’s the right thing to do.

Fletcher fires the first shot, drawing me back to myself in time to watch a Rot drop near the bumper of a trashed car. Ewan fires next, a clean shot through the eye socket of one Rot that has half of its jaw missing. I take out the one behind it, then the one crawling under the tail of the helicopter.

The crash site suddenly erupts with gunfire, smoke, sparks, and bodies hitting wet pavement with hollow thuds.

“Left side!” Fletcher snaps.

I turn, catching three Rots pushing between two cars. I shoot the closest, step around the second, and drive my knife through the third when it gets too close. Its skull caves under the blade with a sickeningly wet crack, and I kick it away before pivoting back toward the wreck.

The moving pilot crawls another few inches, and I deduce that he’s alive. Definitely alive, if only barely. He lifts his head, helmet visor cracked for all it’s worth, and one hand scrapes along the concrete sidewalk. His mouth opens, but whatever he tries to say is quickly swallowed by his coughing.

Ewan sees him too, muttering quickly, “We’ve got a live one.”

“Noted,” Fletcher calls back. “Not the priority.”

“I didn’t say he was. Just that he’s alive,” Ewan argues.

“Ewan,” Fletch growls, and Ewan nods his head in understanding, muttering under his breath. “Yep. Fine. Terrible time for compassion. Understood. I’ll put it on the list.”

And then he shoots another Rot before Fletcher can respond.

My eyes dart back to the alley, spotting the small Omega still standing there. No, not still standing. Frozen. The injured Alpha is close behind, body angled between them and us without blocking the alley completely. He knows enough not to cage them, knows enough to give the small figure space. Either he’s smarter than most Alphas, or he’s already learned what fear does to this Omega.

That thought settles uncomfortably inside me. It’s not jealousy or suspicion, but something quieter. Gratitude, maybe, even though I don’t know the guy to offer it.

Distraction comes in the form of a shrill scream from above. Human. The kind that makes even men holding rifles hesitate for half a second.

A third-floor window shatters suddenly, and a young man slams into the frame, bloody mouth parted and eyes shining with terror. His hands claw uselessly at the sill before something yanks him back before he can fall from the balcony. His scream cuts off suddenly as glass rains down onto the road and silence follows for a single heartbeat.

Ewan mutters under his breath, “Ah, hell.”

Fletcher’s expression turns as cold as ice. “Fast Rots.”

Just as the words leave his mouth, the first fast Rot bursts from the lobby doors of the left apartment block. It’s too fast, hitting the road on all fours, limbs slapping against the sidewalk as its head jerks toward the crash. Fresh. Not long turned. Muscles still strong, hunger sharpened by the terror it doesn’t understand anymore.