Page 156 of Immune

“Huh,” she mutters. “Don’t strain yourself too much.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, darlin’,” I tell her, only for her to glare at me.

I almost smile.

Almost.

Pain pulls at my shoulder. The compound waits not too far in the distance. Vector is still somewhere behind us. The pilot might just die before noon. And Dakota is limping, shaking, hiding, fighting, and surviving. And I’m walking next to her instead of putting myself in front.

This shit feels harder than taking the hit from that fast Rot. But maybe that’s the whole point.

At the far end of the bridge, a service door waits half-open, daylight sneaking in through the edges. Dakota reaches itfirst and she pauses. Not for long, but only long enough to glance back at me.

I give her information instead of instructions or commands. “Left side’s clear from here. Door opens inward. Could be blind space on the right, though.”

She nods, then opens it her way with her knife first, body angled, and choices all intact. I step with her, close enough to cover the blind side, but far enough that she never feels boxed in.

For now, that’s the line.

Not in front.

Not over her.

But beside her.

And if the world even considers reaching for her again, it’ll have to get through me first.

TWENTY-SIX

DAKOTA

By the time we reach the temporary shelter, I’ve decided three things with complete certainty.

One, the universe is a childish, petty little bitch wearing steel-toed boots.

Two, stairs are the actual devil and should have gone extinct right alongside electricity and fresh strawberries.

Three, Kaito Kanai is fucking bleeding again.

Not dramatically. And not in a fun, fountain-of-doom kind of way that would at least justify the amount of irritation currently crawling around under my skin. It’s just enough that the cloth pressed to his side has darkened once more, spreading in a slow but stubborn bloom of red under his jacket.

I notice because I have perfectly functioning eyes, not because I’m worried. Worry is a wasteful emotion with delicate hands and the worst timing. I notice because bleeding people slow groups down. Slow groups quickly become dead groups. And dead groups are just generally and famously inconvenient. So no, I’m not worried. I’m simply being practical with a sprinkle of irritation.

The shelter is an old road maintenance office tucked away off the staff bridge, built above the lower access road and half hidden behind a row of abandoned service vehicles. It’s not safe, because let’s be real, nothing in this world is safe anymore, but it has four walls, one lockable door, a cracked interior window, and no immediate stench of death.

On this side of the apocalypse, that’s basically like a weekend at a spa retreat.

Fletcher finds it first, because his new personality seems to include giving information rather than barking out orders like he was, and still somehow managing to be annoyingly useful.

He doesn’t say, “Get inside.”

Instead, he says, “Four walls. One entrance. Windows cracked but covered. We can hold here for ten minutes and reassess.”

Then the big, scarred bastard looks at me. Like, what, am I meant to applaud or something? I don’t.

I do, however, tell him, “Please, don’t sprain your ankle tripping over all this personal growth of yours.”

His mouth almost moves. Almost.