Page 128 of Immune

“Oh, lush,” Ewan says. “Looks like we’re both geniuses.”

“You’re pushing your fucking luck,” I warn, trying to focus on the path ahead rather than the Zeds behind us and the way my knee keeps screaming with every step I take.

“Luck disappeared a long time ago, love,” he tells me. “We’re working with pure charm and a heavy dose of denial and determination.”

“That’s actually terrifying,” I point out just as we bolt to the left.

This tunnel is narrower than the one before, only barely wide enough for two people. The walls are painted with old delivery numbers and arrows pointing toward loading bays that likely don’t even exist anymore. Our footsteps ricochet everywhere, bouncing around until it sounds like a whole group is still with us rather than just Ewan and me.

Love this for us.

A Zed lurches from a side alcove so suddenly that I slam into it before it can fully turn, driving my knife up under its jaw. Bone gives way with a wet crunch, and I tear the blade free right before I shove the body back into the alcove like it’s just another day of surviving.

Ewan skids to avoid tripping over its legs, and he mutters, “That was efficient.”

“Leave me a review on Google,” I mumble back.

“Five stars,” he jokes. “Bloody awful customer service, though.”

“Still counts.”

We keep moving, and the sounds behind us change. The Zeds are still there, staggering into the left branch, but there’s a sound that comes from under their dragging feet.

Something fast.

Something light.

Something wrong.

My stomach drops, my pulse skyrocketing under my skin. Ewan hears it too, and he stops so suddenly I almost run into him.

Runner.

The word isn’t spoken out loud, because it doesn’t need to be. Somewhere in the darkness ahead, something skitters over concrete. There’s a click of nails. A pause. Then… nothing.

My grip tightens around my knife as Ewan slowly lifts one finger and points toward the ceiling. I stop and listen. At first, I only hear water and the distant horde behind us. Then I hear another skitter. This one from above us. Wait, no. Not above us. It’s coming from the pipework.

The tunnel walls are broken into sections, giving access to service crawl spaces and cable runs. Plenty of places for something fast and hungry to move through without staying where eyes can follow.

“Oh, slay,” I whisper. “Ventilation with claws and teeth. Love this for us.”

Ewan’s mouth barely even moves as he tells me, “Left wall. Ten feet.”

I put my trust in the information before I decide whether I even trust him, and just in time, because the Runner explodes from a broken service opening exactly where Ewan said it would.

I’m already moving.

The Runner hits the wall where my throat was only mere seconds ago, and Ewan swings a rusted pipe he picked up at some point, cracking it into the Runner’s ribs. The impact knocks it sideways, but it doesn’t drop it. Of course. Runners never have the manners to die on cue with the perfect amount of dramatic flair.

The fucker twists and shrieks, an ear-splitting sound that pinches at my eardrums, but I drive my knife toward its eye. It jerks back at the very last second, and my knife slices through its cheek instead.

“Oh, you bitch,” I hiss.

“Again with that top-notch customer service,” Ewan mutters, backing up as the Runner scurries forward, blood pulsing down its cheek now.

One glance behind me tells me the horde of Zeds are closer now. A little too close for comfort.

The tunnel has one narrow door on the right. MAINTENANCE ACCESS 3B. The handle is rusted beyond measure, but the frame still looks like it’s in working order.