Page 68 of Immune

His jaw shifts, and I want to throttle him right then and there.

“Kaito,” I warn.

He looks at me and says, “I’ll stay far enough back that you won’t even see me.”

“That’s literally the opposite of what I told you to do,” I point out, exasperated by the wounded Alpha.

He only shrugs. “You’re heading into a building with armed strangers, Biters down below, and an unknown shooter somewhere in the district.”

“I’m also going to stab you in the thigh if you actually make me argue about this,” I warn, the threat very, very fucking real.

Apparently, not real enough, because the bastard looks like he wants to smile. With the smarts he has, he doesn’t, but it’s definitely a close call.

“Fine,” he says. “I won’t crowd you.”

“Oh my god,” I blurt, staring at him. “That’s not even the same as staying put.”

He shakes his head and pulls an “aw shucks” face that does something weird to my stomach, and then simply says, “Nope.”

“You’re unbelievable,” I grumble, glaring at the injured idiot.

“Yup,” he agrees, almost like he’s proud of it.

I hate him a little. Worse, I hate that it sits comfortably right next to something warmer. But there’s no time for that shit, because there’s a hat to nab from a group of kidnappers currently holding my most prized possession hostage.

I turn away first, analyzing the building opposite ours. Six floors, but their temporary camp is on the fourth, in an apartment with windows facing the courtyard and a side angle toward the alley. Huh, smart choice. High enough to avoid the Zeds, but low enough to escape if a fire or Runner traps the upper floors. There’s one stairwell, one fire escape, and balconies along the east wall, several broken enough to be useful if a person is small, stubborn, and lacking the basic regard for bone integrity.

Funnily enough, I happen to be all three.

Peering down, I spy the Zeds that have riddled the courtyard. Not densely, but enough to make the ground a bad idea. They weave through weeds and trample across cracked concrete planters, lured in by the crash but too stupid to realize the food has moved to higher ground. A few of them are standing near the lobby doors, noses lifted, cloudy eyes fixed on absolutely nothing.

The hat is inside, on the fourth floor, and next to the side window. Not on the sill, displayed like some prize, but visible enough to tell me they know I’m watching. They’ve known I’ve been tailing them since the Welsh Alpha snatched my hat up and took it with him. And they’ve placed it somewhere that isn’t quite bait. Not exactly. Which is the worst kind of bait.

Breathing through my nose, I shove my emotions down until my hands stop trying to do something stupid like shake. Maine’s cap isn’t just a cap. It’s not. It’s the last ridiculous piece of before I have left. It’s the last thing that touched his stupid head before it touched mine. It’s the thing I wore until it stopped smelling like fresh-cut grass, sweat, fear, and everything Maine. It’s the only piece of him I kept when Mom stopped being Mom, when the house stopped being home, and when every soft part of me became something I had to bury and forget in order to survive another day.

I’m absolutely not leaving it in a room full of Alphas, no matter how careful one of them sounded. No matter how funny the Welsh one was while he was stealing it. Or no matter how soft the one with earrings looked when he stared down the alley like he could see the very outline of my fear.

Nope.

It’s mine. And I need it back.

I wait until the patrol pattern settles. Well, I can’t really call it a patrol, but the three Alphas move around like people who can't physically stop being on guard. Scar checks the doorevery few minutes. Headphones checks the windows and angles, always with his head slightly tilted like he’s listening to the innards of the buildings. Earrings keeps his place next to the pilot more often than not, kneeling, rising, walking to the sink, coming back to do it all over again.

The pilot coughs twice, much to my surprise. The sound travels through the courtyard and past the cracked glass, almost too loud even above the soft groans of the Zeds below.

Huh. Not dead yet, then. Lucky him.

When Scar moves away from the side room, I go. I cross from our roof to the next by a narrow ledge slick with evening rain, then I drop onto the fire escape that protests my weight like an asshole. I freeze for three uneven breaths, but no shout comes. No gunshot. No sudden Alpha head popping out of the window like an apocalypse version of a jack-in-the-box.

I descend one level, swing across to a sagging balcony, and crawl over the rail. My knee officially hates me. My shoulder thinks I’m a bitch. And the entire left side of my body is currently filing a very long and comprehensive formal complaint and is awaiting review. I deny that shit as I slip through an apartment three units over from theirs.

The apartment is dark and damp, the scent of old carpet and gross air all around me. I move through the kitchen, step over a fallen cabinet, and pause at the hallway. No voices yet, which is good.

Three units is enough distance to keep me hidden, but not enough to make this easy. Hell, nothing has ever been easy in the six years I’ve lived through the end of the fucking world. Easy is literally a myth someone invented before doors started swelling shut and floorboards developed personal vendettas against everyone and everything.

Crossing the first apartment quickly, I slip through the bedroom where the ceiling has collapsed over most of the bed.A closet blocks the connecting wall, but the plaster behind it has cracked badly enough for me to tear a section loose and squeeze through it into the next apartment.

Still too far, damn it.