Page 6 of Immune

For one beautiful but brief second, I think I’ve found another untouched stash.

That second is crushed by the next when the light lands on a corpse slumped in the far corner, leaning back against the wall with one leg bent awkwardly under the other. My heart stalls for a painful moment, my eyes trained closely on the unmoving figure. Not a Zed. At least, not anymore.

The skull is caved in on the one side, a dark stain around it old enough that it’s basically become a part of the floor. A white coat hangs loose on its frame, the name badge still clipped to the breast pocket.

Rosalia Mendez.

Pharmacist.

Sighing, I whisper down at the rotting corpse. “Sorry, Rosie.”

I mean it, too, because there’s something very wrong about ransacking the pockets of a dead body. But that’s exactly what I do, holding my breath against the scent of decay and chemicals, checking each pocket for anything useful. After all, the dead don’t need keys, and Rosalia has three of them on a key ring that includes an adorable little purple cat key ring with the name San stitched into its chest.

I take them with another muttered apology, smiling awkwardly at the dead woman as though that will make this anybetter. Gripping the keys in my hand tightly, I stop the little jingle with a brief shutting of my eyes.

Bowing my thanks to Rosie, I start making my way through the storage cabinets.

Most are useless, which I expected. Bandages ruined by damp, expired creams, boxes of disposable gloves chewed by vermin, and an unopened delivery of pregnancy vitamins that make me glare at the ceiling like the universe personally stocked this room just to really piss me off.

With a glare at the stupid box, I move on to the smallest key, which happens to open a refrigerated medicine cabinet that hasn’t been cold for years. Opening the door, I freeze, my heart climbing into my throat as I peer inside.

There are rows of empty slots. Well, almost empty. At the back of the refrigerator, half-hidden behind a warped plastic tray, there are four sealed blister packs. For a long moment, all I can do is stare, my brain refusing to name them. I just know if I try to name them, it’ll hurt real bad if I’m wrong and I’m not seeing what I think I’m seeing.

With a shaking head, I reach in slowly, carefully pulling them free.

Tears immediately spring to my eyes, and I look down at the Omega scent blockers I’m holding with a reverence that even shocks myself. My knees almost buckle, forgetting how to work for a long moment, and I whisper harshly, “Holy shit.”

Turning them over like they're delicate and precious enough to handle with caution, I check the dates. I’m not surprised to find the expiry date has long since passed, because everything is expired. Hell, humanity expired and still has the audacity to keep trucking on forward. But the good thing is the seals are still intact, the pills aren’t crumbling to dust, and the foil hasn’t blistered from heat damage.

They might be weaker now, and they very well might do nothing. But they might buy me another month of being able to go about living without being snuffed out by every Alpha with a working nose.

My hand continues to shake as I tuck them into the inner pocket of my jacket, the very one I stitched myself after learning the hard way that backpacks can be stolen, dropped, grabbed, or torn away. Valuables stay on my body. Always. Non-negotiable.

Because food will keep me alive today, but these blockers? They will keep me alive long enough to see tomorrow.

Closing the refrigerator door, I sigh as I lean my forehead against it, giving myself only three seconds to be human.

One.

Two.

Thr—

A sound comes from the front of the pharmacy, and my spine straightens harshly as my eyes snap open. Voices. Human voices. Not Zeds.

Of course, because the universe gives and the universe taketh a-fucking-way. She saw me receiving a morsel of luck and decided to shit all over my parade.

TWO

DAKOTA

For one ridiculous second, I stay exactly where I am, forehead still pressed to the refrigerator door. The newly found blockers feel like they’re burning a hole in my pocket, tucked against my chest like stolen gold. For a moment, I wonder if maybe, just maybe, I can pretend I didn’t hear them.

Then one of the voices carries through the pharmacy again, reminding me what world I’m living in.

“Told you I saw smoke,” the first voice argues, clearly male with a low and rough timbre.

Great. Juuuust great. That’s literally just what I need.