Page 130 of Immune

“You’re literally humming Danger Zone in a murder cupboard,” I complain.

“If you want to be technical,” he counters, “it’s actually a maintenance cupboard.”

“Ewan,” I groan, praying for patience I don’t think I’ll receive in time before I stab him in the thigh.

Thankfully, the Welshman senses it, and he tells me honestly, “It’s an old song. Helps me count.”

The Runner body slams the door again, and the shelving unit shifts. Ewan keeps humming under his breath, low and steady. Not too loud or distracting.

Rhythm, I realize.

Four soft beats. A pause. Four more.

It dawns on me what he’s doing two seconds before my hands realize. They steady almost instantly. Not completely, but it’s enough to get the job done. I turn the pick, lift the pin, and the lock clicks. The far door opens into a crawl-like utility passage with a low ceiling and a strip of long-dead emergency lights above.

I look at Ewan and he stops humming.

“That wasn’t for me,” I say carefully.

“Of course it wasn’t,” he agrees lightly.

“Good.”

“I was simply serenading the generator,” he informs, and my eyes close for a split second.

“The generator is dead,” I point out, as if he didn’t already know.

Ewan nods. “Yeah, I know. It’s a tough crowd. Getting a lot of those these days. Business is tough.”

Before I can react to his words, the shelving unit comes crashing down behind us, and we both bolt through the door.

The utility passage slopes downward. Too far downward for my liking. It empties into a service tunnel under the main delivery route, where steam pipes line both walls and the air is warmer, damp enough to stick to my skin.

My body chooses that moment to react, and heat rolls under my clothes. For the love of God, not now. Please, not now.

I press my free hand against the wall for one second, letting the cold condensation bite into my palm. Ewan stops several feet ahead, not turning fully and not staring. He simply waits because he notices my footsteps have stopped.

“I’m fine,” I tell him.

“Sure,” he answers. “I was just admiring the pipework. Very good craftsmanship.”

“Try a little harder,” I mutter.

“I mean, it’s very emotional pipework, you know?” he tries.

I shake my head once, shutting my eyes tightly. “Try a little less.”

The Runner screeches behind us before Ewan can attempt more conversation, and we’re forced to keep running.

The lower tunnel is worse. Sound folds back on itself until the distance becomes completely meaningless. The Runner could be ten feet behind us or fifty. Zeds could be above, below, or inside the fucking walls at this point, and that thought sends my pulse slamming so hard that I feel it in my teeth.

Ewan grabs onto my sleeve again. Not my skin, but my sleeve. He lets go just as quickly before pointing to a side recess.We duck into it as the Runner shoots past the main tunnel, way too fast to stop, claws scraping over concrete as it misses the turn.

For one stuttered breath, the Runner is in front of us rather than behind. Good. That’s better.

I step out and throw my knife, the blade sinking into the back of its skull. The Runner drops mid-movement, skidding across the wet floor until it hits a pipe with a wet clang, right before silence falls. Not a real silence, but enough.

Ewan looks at the body, then he peers up at me before muttering, “You know, some people simply scream in these situations.”