Page 12 of Immune

The first Biter reaches for them, and they drop beneath its arm, slicing the back of its knee as they pass. The Biter buckles, and the stranger pivots before driving their knife up under the Biter’s jaw. They rip the blade free before the body is even finished falling, dodging another Biter that comes from the side. The stranger ducks behind a beat-up car, using the open door to slam it backward and trap the Biter’s arm. It snarls, jaw snapping like a vicious beast, until the stranger stabs through its temple with a brutal little twist.

Small.

Quick.

Quiet.

Kind of terrifying.

A Beta, maybe? The slight frame and lack of scent point toward a little Beta. They look like one. They smell like one. Well, almost, though I do wonder how much work the blockers are doing. It could also be the smoke distorting my senses, or the fact that they’re half-drowned by rot and blood. Their voice is low enough to pass as male, their small figure buried in layers, hair hidden beneath a ball cap. Maybe a boy, but there’s something about the way they move that makes that assumption feel fundamentally wrong in my head.

Another Biter lunges for my left side, reminding me that I’m still very much standing in the middle of a clusterfuck, and so I shove all other thoughts away before driving my own blade into its eye. I yank it out with a grunt, the sickening squelch almost too loud to my ears as I tear its eye straight from the socket.

Pain tears through my side again, brutal enough that my vision blurs around the edges, and I grit my teeth as I force myself upright. It’s by pure will and devotion that I keepmyself from completely collapsing, my side pulsing with agony. All the while, the stranger is clearing a path between us with an alarming competence. Sadly, competence doesn’t change the fact that there are way too many Biters in a narrow alley and I’m bleeding everywhere like I’m offering them an invitation to take a bite.

“Behind you,” I yell, voice filled with alarm.

The stranger doesn’t look back. They don’t need to, because the Biter reaching for them takes one more step before the stranger spins, knife flashing only briefly as they split open the Biter’s throat. That cut alone won’t stop it, but the follow-up blade through the ear certainly will. And, sure enough, the Biter drops hard, dropping to the ground with a meaty thud before it twitches once and then grows still.

“Little busy here,” the stranger bites out, voice rough and deliberately low, muffled by the fabric of their bandana.

Male, my brain finally decides, even if my instincts are in full disagreement. Not a loud disagreement, not clearly, but enough to make irritation prickle under my skin. This isn’t the time for my biology to become all philosophical and shit.

Two Biters are left between us, another three dragging themselves from the end of the street, drawn to the noise. The stranger notices at the very same time, their gaze flicking over at the approaching dead, at the narrow alley, the rusted gate still at my back, my blood that paints the ground, my mockingly empty gun, and the blade in my hand.

I can visibly see them calculate faster than most people breathe, their brain working rapidly enough that I’m forced into feeling impressed all over again.

“Can you run?” the stranger suddenly asks.

I don’t actually know, but I nod anyway. “Yeah.”

As if they can hear the lie in that single word, the stranger’s eyes narrow. It’s not a total lie. I can run for a little while if I need to. Probably. I think. I hope.

A small sound leaves the stranger, not a scoff exactly, and not quite a sigh. “Of course.”

Pulling another knife from somewhere on their belt, the stranger flips it with practiced ease and throws it into the skull of the closest Biter. It’s a beautifully clean hit, and the body drops instantly.

That’s two knives gone and counting. I’m keeping track because anyone who survives six years of a zombie apocalypse will notice weapons. The stranger notices me noticing, and they point a warning finger at me. “Don’t steal my shit.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I rasp back, holding my free hand up while the other clamps tighter on my bleeding side. “I’m bleeding, though.”

“That’s not an excuse,” they counter.

Despite the pain I’m in, the dead, and the fact that I’m pretty sure my side is actively trying to split open further just out of pure spite because of my poor choices, a laugh still somehow manages to scrape its way up my throat.

The stranger glares at me. Or, at least, I think they do. The cap hides their face in a wash of shadow, while their bandana covers the rest. Yet, somehow, I can still feel the heavy disapproval. I mean, it’s loud enough that I can practically hear it, let alone see it with my own two eyes.

Thankfully, a distraction comes from the last Biter between us, the thing rushing toward me with a little more coordination than the others. I step forward, proving I can still function on my own two legs, and catch it by the shoulder before driving my knife into its skull while the stranger slices through the tendons behind its knee. The Biter collapses between us and,for the first time, we stand close enough that I can actually see their eyes.

Light hazel with a ring of gold wrapped around the pupil. Sharp. Afraid. Not of the Biters, I realize. But of me. I don’t know why that does something weird to my chest, but it does, and my eyebrows pinch with the strange feeling that comes with it.

The stranger takes a step back, knife raised and body angled away from me as if they’re preparing to bolt at any second. It doesn’t escape my notice that they’re not packed with the same knives they sacrificed, and I wonder if they picked those up while I was getting rid of the last Biter.

Inhaling, a faint trail of a scent slips through the smoke, and my Alpha suddenly grows silent in a way I have never felt before the moment I smell the sweetness sharpened by fear. There’s nothing calm about it, nothing relaxed. But my Alpha becomes focused. Alarmingly so, and the stranger’s eyes flare the moment they see my reaction as it shows on my face without my say-so.

They know. Not that I know who or what they are, because I don’t. Not fully. But this stranger definitely knows I smelled something I probably shouldn’t have. They know I know there’s something not quite right here.

More Biters suddenly groan from the end of the street, and the moment fades as the stranger uses the distraction without hesitation, turning away from me completely before falling into a full sprint toward the school wall.