Page 50 of Immune

I nod, agreeing even though it pains me. But just as I give him my agreement, a bone-chilling scream sounds from the apartment block above us. Not dead, and not old. Human.

A window suddenly shatters outward from the third floor, right before a body slams against the frame, fighting something behind it. For a weighted second, I see a face. A young man with a bloodied mouth, eyes crystal clear with nothing but terror.

Then… something drags him back.

The scream cuts off.

And the glass below rains down onto the road.

Kaito’s expression hardens and mine grows utterly cold as I whisper, “Oh, no.”

Because I finally understand. The crash didn’t only call the dead, but it woke the living. Or, what’s left of them. And what’s left is enough to chill the bones in my body, my blood turning to ice in an instant.

From the apartment buildings, Runners start to emerge. Not one. Not two. Several of the fuckers. They spill from broken lobby doors, basement entrances, shattered windows, moving on all fours and two legs. They’re too fast, too eager, and too newly ruined to be anything but freshly infected. Failed survivor hideouts, no doubt. Or looter nests gone bad. People who lasted six years only to become something much worse in the dark.

My breath stops at the sight of it all.

The first Runner hits the road and tears through three Rotters just to get closer to the crash. Another drops from a first-floor balcony, landing wrong and snapping its own arm at an awkward angle. It keeps moving, though, as though it’s no inconvenience that its arm no longer works. A third Runner sees the three Alphas. And a fourth? That fucker turns toward our alley. Toward me. Toward Kaito.

And my panic fucking detonates in the worst way imaginable.

My scent spikes harder than it did before and Kaito’s head snaps toward me. Across the road, all three unknown Alphas turn fully this time. The one with earrings inhales sharply, the one with headphones says something I don’t hear over the chaos, eyes fixed in our direction.

The scarred one raises his weapon.

Not at me, but at the Runner gunning straight for us.

Still, my body can’t tell the fucking difference. Not with three unknown Alphas nearby, too many Runners, Kaito standing too close, and no bullets left. My blockers are officially cracking under the pressure, fear rendering them utterly useless, and for one horrible second, the whole world narrows down to nothing more than scent, teeth, and the very knowledge that every living thing nearby has just become painfully aware of me.

Then the Runner screams before launching itself down the alley.

And I fucking run like my life depends on it.

ELEVEN

XEON

The first thing I notice is how quiet the streets are.

Not the broken windows, sagging balconies, or the rusted cars that line the sidewalk with weeds reaching through the frames like the city is trying to grow bones. I don’t even notice the old playground in the distance, where one swing moves gently with the wind without a child or Rot near it.

The quiet.

Ruined cities are never really silent.

The first city I remember was definitely never quiet. Seoul always seemed to have a pulse even through apartment walls, with traffic and voices and footsteps all stacking up on top of one another until the quiet felt like a myth, like something from a completely different planet.

I used to hate how loud it was.

Now I think I’d give up just about anything to hear it again.

Because apocalypse cities? They kind of breathe in strange ways now. Pipes rattle loudly inside empty walls, loose signs creak hauntingly, glass hides under stale, old rain, and Rots drag their feet through places they don’t even remember anymore.

This quiet, though? It’s waiting. And Fletcher feels it, too.

He lifts a fist in the air, and Ewan and I both stop behind a delivery van toppled on its side, faded letters peeling from the side panel. Fletch doesn’t look back at us when he gives the signal, because he doesn’t need to. Six years of runs have madewords unnecessary for the easy things and too dangerous for the hard.

Crouching beside me, Ewan pushes one headphone slightly off his ear, even though there hasn’t been music playing through them since before we left the compound. He says he wears them because silence is rude. Fletch would say it’s because he likes pretending not to hear orders. Personally, I think it’s because sometimes the world is a little too much to deal with, and having something between him and everything else makes breathing a little easier for him.