Page 64 of Immune

“That one is also following us,” Fletcher points out, as if we could forget.

Xeon gestures his head toward me before responding. “That’s because Ewan is currently carrying something that matters to them.”

My fingers curl against my side before I can stop them. I don’t even know why they do, either, but it’s almost like the hat is burning a bloody hole in my jacket.

Fletcher looks at me and I lift both brows at him, holding a finger up like it matters. “For the record, I did save it from becoming Rot confetti. Give me credit, at least.”

“You took it,” Fletch argues again.

“I rescued it,” I contradict, giving the big miserable fuck a smile I know will piss him off.

He doesn’t bite, though, so I drop it with an eye roll as he points out, “You’re carrying it in your jacket.”

I nod, because he’s not wrong. I very much am carrying it there, but I don’t give him the satisfaction of hearing the words. Instead, I tell him, “I’m providing temporary hat-based foster care, you inconsiderate bitch. Have some compassion. It’s an orphan right now, waiting for his family to come back for him. Jesus Christ.”

Fletcher does nothing but stare, and I nod.

“Yep. Fine. You’re right. That one sounded better in my head,” I concede, giving him another smile that’s more awkward now.

“No,” Fletch bluntly says. “It didn’t. It was just as bad.”

Oh, ouch. Rude. I mean, true, but rude.

Before we can continue this little back and forth, another raving Rot screams from somewhere behind us, distant but moving quickly enough that all three of us shift at once. The pilot flinches, almost collapsing, so Xeon tightens his grip on him, muttering something too low for me to catch. The pilot coughs wetly, a sound that isn’t the least bit promising.

“We need height,” Fletcher snaps.

“Upper floors,” Xeon offers in agreement.

I look at the nearest apartment building. Six floors, beige brick, half the windows broken, and a fire escape hanging off oneside like it gave up halfway through a thought. I can relate. What comes out of my mouth, though, isn’t my relatable emotions toward a wrung-out ladder. Instead, I say, “Oh, yeah, because the buildings have had a strong outpouring of hospitality today. Very welcoming, these flats.”

Fletcher points to the side entrance. “There.”

Of course. I sigh. Fucking dick.

Side entrances are always either locked, blocked, bolted, or full of something that wants to peel the skin from my face. This one is currently blocked by a big fuck-off metal filing cabinet, two shabby chairs, and the dried remains of something I’d rather not actually identify because I’ve had enough emotional fuckery in my day already.

Still, I help shift the cabinet while Fletcher covers us and Xeon helps the pilot remain upright. Our shadow above grows quiet, too. A little too quiet, because they’ve stopped moving. They’re listening. Watching. Waiting to see where we go next.

“Still there?” Fletcher asks.

“Oh yeah, mate,” I answer, nodding. “Probably up there judging the shit out of us right now.”

“Can they hear us?” he wonders.

“I dunno, maybe?” I say casually. Fletcher gives me that look again and I shrug. “What? It’s not like I’m going to insult them behind their back if they’re close enough to stab me over it. I have principles, mate. Please respect that.”

“Since when?” he challenges, still giving me that dirty look.

I give him one that calls him stupid without needing the words. “Uh, hello? Since being stabbed became an actual possibility.”

Thankfully, we get the door open, ending the conversation at hand. The inside smells like damp carpet, mold, old cooking, and the kind of death that settled in years ago andeven signed a lease. The lobby is narrow with mailboxes hanging open along one wall. On the far side, someone has spray-painted HELP US in red, and I don’t look at it for too long.

We clear the ground floor quickly, Fletcher taking the lead, me behind him, and Xeon with the pilot following behind. We find two Rots in the stairwell, slow ones thankfully. Fletch handles the first and I take the second with my knife, because Fletcher has already made enough noise for today, and if I hear another gunshot inside this coffin of echoes and despair, I might actually start biting people for the hell of it. Fletcher will be first.

We climb the stairs, going from the first floor to the second. With every step, the pilot grows heavier. Or maybe he just decided to become less cooperative about having bones. By the third floor, Fletcher is breathing hard through his nose and Xeon’s jaw has practically fused itself shut. Neither one of them complains, though. Obviously. Complaining is my job, and I take great pride in my work.

“I’m loving this,” I whisper, breathless despite the workouts I do regularly. “Mystery aircraft, trauma, and cardio all in one day. Did someone say wellness package? Fuck me, I’m dying.”