Page 91 of Immune

Fletcher nods once. “I believe you.”

That stops me in my tracks. I was gearing up for an argument, dismissal, some Alpha-flavored shit about teeny tiny survivors and big, bad, strong men with guns. Absolutely nothing could have prepared me for belief.

Fucking rude, if you ask me.

“But out there changed last night,” he continues. “Vector changed it.”

The name glides through the room very much like a blade dragging across bone. Vector. My fingers tighten around my knife before I can stop them. Kaito sees it. Xeon does too. Probably all of them, because this room is apparently full of people with eyes like hawks and absolutely no respect for privacy.

“Vector isn’t my problem,” I mutter.

It’s another lie, because it seems I’m collecting them like the apocalypse version of Pokemon cards.

Before anyone can call me on it, the pilot groans from the floor.

Xeon’s focus turns to him instantly, crouching beside him as he says, “Hey. Stay with me.”

The guy’s head rolls to the side, his face gray under the grime. His lips are cracked, lashes clumped together with sweat, and one hand claws weakly against the floor.

“Easy,” Xeon murmurs.

The pilot’s eyes slit open and for one terrible second, I think he’s looking at me. Not at Xeon, or Fletcher, but me. His gaze is unfocused, warped with fever, but something about it slithers uncomfortably down my spine.

“Cargo,” he rasps, and the room goes absolutely still.

Fletcher takes a step closer and asks, “What cargo?”

The pilot’s fingers twitch as he rasps quietly. “Took… took the case.”

“What case?” Scar pushes.

The pilot’s lips move, but no sound comes out of him, so Xeon leans in and instructs, “Take a breath first, then try speaking.”

A wet, broken sound that might have been a laugh if laughter took a trip through a grinder first comes out of the pilot’s mouth. “No time.”

“Try,” Xeon encourages gently.

The pilot swallows harshly and a weird click sounds in his throat before he tries again. “Vector… hit us… knew route...”

Fletcher’s face hardens suddenly. Ewan practically becomes a statue near the vent. Kaito’s gaze stays on the pilot while his body subtly angles toward me. Again. Between me and whatever might come next.

The pilot’s eyes drift, rolling for a second before locking back onto nothing. His words are quieter when he speaks next. “Cargo wasn’t… supplies.”

My stomach turns. Of course it wasn’t. Why the hell would anything be food, medicine, batteries, or even a sad little packet of cookies crushed by fate and poor packaging? No. Of course the helicopter had to be carrying something with a dramatic plot twist. The universe saw a crash and said, “This but with a sprinkle more emotional damage, thanks.”

“What was it?” Fletcher asks.

“Drives. Samples. Research,” the pilot says, mouth trembling.

I’m, however, frozen where I stand. A faint ringing has appeared in my ears.

No. Nope. Absolutely not.

I know the exact shape, color, sound, and weight of those words.

Research.

Samples.