Page 69 of Immune

I hear something here, though. Not words, just the low murmur of voices floating faintly through the walls and broken ventilation grates. Male voices, one deep, one soft, and one with a dramatic slope to it that makes me want to bite something just on principle alone.

That has to be the Welsh one. No doubt.

This apartment is worse than the last, water damage turning the hallway floor soft. I stick to the walls where the boards are less likely to give me away. The living room has a balcony door hanging open, rain sneaking in through the torn, billowing curtains. Across the courtyard, Zeds are loitering like they’re waiting for someone to drop a dinner bell. Not my problem.

Yet.

I find the laundry closet near the shared wall exactly where it should be, because apartment buildings are all about repetitive layouts, like they’re proud of being boring. The plaster around the old pipes is damp and soft, rotted from years of leaks.

Just one unit over now, and suddenly I can hear them.

Voices drift faintly through the wall and I pause to listen.

“...fever’s climbing,” the soft one says.

A lower voice answers. Southern. Pretty sure that’s Scar. I think his name is Fletcher. I only know because his name was uttered enough times while they were moving through the courtyard. “Can he talk?”

“Not clearly,” the soft one replies, voice gentle, like the calm in a storm.

“Luuush,” the Welsh one groans dramatically, right before muttering, “Just love it when random pilots choose to beall mysterious and unconscious and shit. Very on brand for the day we’re having.”

Ewan. His name was also used enough that I remember it, attaching it to the bastard who has my hat.

My fingers curl around my knife, but not for him. Well, maybe. I don’t actually know.

I keep moving, though, because I have one mission right now.

The shared wall between this apartment and theirs is also damaged near the laundry closet much like the last apartment, the plaster practically falling apart around the old pipes. I found the weak spot an hour ago while scouting, waiting for the sun to go down enough to act. See, people trust doors a little too much, even in an apocalypse. Doors are loud. But walls? Walls are quieter if you know where to find the parts of the building that are dying. It also helps that the apartment before highlighted how easy it would be to travel through the walls rather than concocting some elaborate plan that could get me caught or killed or both. I discovered through the third unit that the best way to get to where I need to go is through the shared walls where the laundry rooms live.

Cutting through the softened plaster with my knife, I go about prying pieces away slowly and carefully, taking each piece by hand. Dust coats my gloves pretty quickly, and my nose itches something fierce, but I refuse to sneeze. Dying by dust-induced stupidity is a whole new low I’m not willing to stoop to. That would just be embarrassing.

Voices continue on the other side and I track them by their timbres.

Scar is near the front room.

Earrings is still by the pilot.

Headphones is currently moving.

Damn it.

I wait, half-crouched in the laundry closet with one shoulder pressed up against the cold, wet pipes, listening to his footsteps. He keeps them light and irregular, but not sloppy. It’s like he’s purposely keeping it casual, making it harder to track than I’d prefer.

His footsteps approach the kitchen, and then he pauses.

I hold my breath.

“What? Don’t look at me like that,” I hear Ewan grumble, voice slightly muffled. “I’m not actually eating the last protein bar. I’m just, you know, emotionally considering it.”

Fletcher says something too low for me to catch.

“Okay, fine, mun,” Ewan grouches. “Maybe I was physically considering it, too. But I haven’t acted on the impulse, have I?”

Then I hear a drawer open, a crinkle of paper, and then the sound of Ewan moving away. I exhale through my teeth, waiting for a brief moment before climbing through the gap once it’s wide enough.

Their flat seems warmer than the others, though only because bodies have been breathing in it. The kitchen is dark save for a battery lantern set low on the floor in the living room, the glow turned toward the wall to keep from spilling out of the window like a shining beacon. Smart. Also annoying.

The hat still sits on a small table under the side window and my chest stalls harshly at the sight of it. It’s right there. Faded. Wonky brim. Black stitches over the strap where I fixed it last winter with numb, shaking fingers and half a needle.