Page 97 of Immune

The district is awake.

Vector is out there.

NOVAC is out there, too.

And maybe, buried somewhere under cargo, blood, old research, and every bad decision the world has ever made, there is something that belongs to my father. Maybe something that explains my mother. Maybe something that points to Maine.

I step into the passage before any of the Alphas can, because I’m not following them.

Absolutely not.

I’m simply heading in the same direction.

Temporarily.

EIGHTEEN

DAKOTA

I still remember a time when rain used to be pretty.

I remember thinking that when I was younger, back before the world violently expired and took every scrap of common sense with it. Rain against my bedroom window. Rain on the school bus. Rain making the yard smell green and new while Mom complained about the laundry she’d left outside and Dad would laugh into his coffee like that was the greatest tragedy of that day.

It was sweet. Wholesome. A deeply irritating memory to remember right now, especially considering the rain currently falling feels less like weather and more like a targeted attack on my entire survival strategy.

The first drop hits the brim of Maine’s hat just after we leave the tunnels under the apartment blocks, and I stop dead.

Kaito notices, to absolutely no one’s surprise. His head turns slightly, dark eyes finding me from under his damp strands of hair turned almost black from the rain. He’s walking only roughly three steps ahead with Fletcher, helping carry the unconscious pilot between them, but he still manages to keep checking over his shoulder like I might evaporate if he stops watching for too long. It should be impossible for him to keep checking on me every few seconds, but apparently he’s decided impossible is a lifestyle suggestion more than anything.

Very considerate.

Very thoughtful.

Very worthy of being stabbed.

Another drop lands on my sleeve. And then another. And then the sky opens.

“You absolute bitch,” I whisper.

Ewan, walking behind me as a rear guard, looks up just as rain starts falling harder over the ruined street. “Huh. That’s… atmospheric.”

I glare at the clouds like they’ve become the bane of my life and grumble, “I hate atmosphere.”

“Valid,” he responds like it’s totally reasonable.

Xeon is a few steps ahead and to my left, rifle low while his attention sweeps through the dilapidated shopfronts and broken doorways. Not close enough to crowd me, but close enough to react if something comes bursting out of the ruins. Which, obviously, I hate. Because apparently everyone has decided to become useful today.

Rain turns the broken road slick in mere seconds, darkening cracked tarmac and washing through six years of dirt, ash, blood, pollen, old rot, and long-dead hope. It runs down broken windows, drips from rusted signs, and gathers in potholes deep enough to drown a boot if the boot was stupid enough to trust puddles.

I don’t trust puddles.

Or weather.

Or men.

Or my own stupid biology, which has just started perking up like it heard someone call its name across a crowded room.

The rain turns every bruise into a blaring complaint. And to make matters worse, my knee throbs with every step, sharp enough to make my jaw tighten whenever I try to put too much weight on it. My upper arm is aching fiercely under my damp sleeve, and the old cuts from the pharmacy are pulling tight under the bandage like they’re personally offended by the weather.