Page 144 of Immune

Fletcher’s voice drops. “How many?”

“Five. Maybe six. Slow, though,” Ewan answers.

The hidden service door bangs, and dust falls from around the frame.

“Exit?” Fletcher presses.

I shove the last of the supplies into my bag and look around before muttering, “Back the way we came.”

Ewan’s head snaps left before he shakes his head. “Nope. Company that way too.”

Kaito’s blade raises higher while Fletcher curses under his breath.

I scan the room faster. Shelves. Dead batteries. Crates. Ceiling too low. No vents big enough. The hidden door with Zeds behind it. Our entry tunnel with something approaching. Another shutter at the far right side, half-covered by hanging plastic strips.

“There,” I point out. “Loading access.”

Fletcher looks over and asks, “Can you open it?”

“Yes.”

“Then do it,” he orders.

My teeth grit, but then I do it, even if the lack of please or can-yous have pissed me off something chronic. I know it’s not the time. I really do know that. But knowing something and feeling it are two different kinds of animals, and mine are currently biting one another.

I move anyway, because dying in a supply room in a maintenance tunnel would just be embarrassing, even for me.

The shutter crank is rusted, jammed halfway into the wall. I grab it and pull. Nothing.

“Of course,” I hiss, just as the service door buckles.

Zeds push through in a tangle of arms and teeth, one falling to its knees just as the door gives way. Fletcher fires once, and the sound slams through the room with a sharp brutality. The first Zed drops. Xeon fires next, quieter and cleaner. Kaito slams his blade into one that gets too close to the pilot and grimaces so hard I feel it from across the room.

Ewan grabs a metal tray and hurls it sideways. It clatters over the floor, drawing two of the Zeds toward the noise.

“See? I’m useful,” he announces.

“Yeah, congratulations,” I snap, hauling on the crank.

It moves half an inch. Amazing. Just great. Fucking incredible. A miracle small enough that I want to slap it into next month.

Fletcher backs toward me, firing again. “Status?”

“Winning emotionally,” I grind through clenched teeth.

“Dakota.”

“Jammed,” I answer truthfully. He reaches past me for the crank, and I jerk away. “Don’t.”

His eyes flash. “Move.”

“No,” I snap.

“Move,” he repeats.

“I said no,” I throw back at him, fury and something else bleeding into my words that I don’t want to analyze.

Just then, another Zed lurches closer. Fletcher shoots it in the face without looking away from me, blood spattering all over the floor. Then he points out, “Your arm is injured.”