Page 8 of Immune

I snatch the rifle from the floor, checking it over by quickly running my hands over it. I almost smile when I find the safety, thanking the universe for the small mercy of the thingbeing loaded. Maybe the universe and I can be friends again after all.

Just as that thought crosses my mind, a second man appears in the doorway. The rifle is pointed at his chest before he can take his next breath, and he freezes. He’s younger than Dale, with a scruffy beard that appears patchy as hell, his eyes widened enough to display his alarm. I inhale, trying to scent what he is, and when I can’t smell anything but the rancid stench of decay mixed with damp chemicals and Dale’s Alpha stink, I deduce that he very well might be a Beta.

“Move a single inch and I’ll decorate the walls with you,” I warn lowly, roughened by the bandana and six years of practicing. It took some work getting my voice to sound like a little Beta boy, and the disuse helps. Other than talking to myself, I haven’t spoken above the lowest decibel imaginable in I don’t even know how long.

It’s a good thing right now, though, since it’s making me look small and pitiful. Armed, yes, but unimpressive. Clearly not worth the trouble, that’s for sure.

The man lifts his hands slowly, eyes dropping to the rifle pointed at his chest before he looks back up at me. Behind him, a third voice asks, “Who the fuck are you?”

“No one,” I answer roughly. “Someone who’s leaving.”

“That your fire down the road?” the guy I’m holding hostage asks with a heavy dose of caution.

I pause before answering. “Nope. I’m just a really big fan of community arson and decided to check out the latest bonfire.”

Silence answers me right before the third guy laughs, and a shudder works its way down my spine. Another follows when the guy steps in behind my hostage Beta, and somehow the room suddenly feels a whole lot smaller.

Alpha. Fuck.

He’s bigger than Dale. Meaner looking, too. That smile alone churns my stomach enough that I almost gag. He has a mean-looking scar that runs through his eyebrow, a sawed-off shotgun in his hands, and his dark eyes drag over me a little too carefully for my liking. Because he doesn’t eye my face, nor the rifle. Oh no. This creep eyes my body, my clothes, the way I’m holding myself, my bandana, the hat secured to my head. It’s like he’s trying to look through the layers.

I keep the rifle aimed at the Beta, but every important part of my attention is trained on the Alpha behind him. I’m locked in on the bigger threat in the room.

“Cute little thing, aren’t you?” he asks, his head tilting slightly as he makes a show of sniffing the air.

My jaw tightens and a fierce anger rushes through me.Thing. That’s all I am to him. Not a boy. Not a man. Not even a human. A thing. With everything in me, I hate him with a passion that could burn cities to the ground.

“Move,” I demand shortly.

“Or what?” the Alpha challenges, narrowing his eyes on me.

I jerk my head over to where Dale remains sprawled on the floor and tilt my head in a mirror image before I say, “Or Dale here bleeds out while you debate whether or not I’m bluffing.”

Dale, bless his heart, makes a garbled sound that I believe is a weighted dose of offense. It’s a wet sound, a clear indication of what state he’s in, and the scarred Alpha’s smile thins. For maybe half a second, I think he’s going to let me pass.

But then his nostrils flare. Slowly. Deliberately.

And suddenly, my blood runs as cold as ice.

The blockers are good, and the bandana helps. The room reeks of chemical rot, blood, dust, Dale, fear, and mold. But,despite my efforts, I’m afraid. And fear? That shit sharpens scents.

And I watch the very moment my life is about to grow real fucking difficult.

The scarred Alpha’s pupils widen and I react before either man in the room can catch their next breath. I fire the rifle before the recognition rapidly becomes certainty. Not at him or the Beta, but at the ceiling, the sound exploding through the tiny room with a brutal and deafening intensity. Plaster bursts all around us, the two men in front of me flinch hard, and every Zed within hearing distance answers my shot with a chilling chorus of groans and shrieks.

“Are you insane?” the Beta damn near screams.

I nod only once and answer shortly, “Clinically. Thank you for noticing.”

And then I swing the rifle at his face, shove through the gap as he drops, and sprint like my life depends on it.

Behind me, the scarred Alpha curses right before I hear the horrifying blast of a shotgun. The wall near my shoulder explodes, plaster spitting everywhere, and I flinch away from the splinters that bite through my jacket and spread fire across my upper arm. I don’t stop, though. I continue to run, because stopping is how people die. Stopping is how girls in oversized clothes become Omegas trapped in cages.

Without hesitation, I vault over the pharmacy counter. I grit my teeth when I skid onto the glass-strewn floor, hissing a breath when pain shoots up my knee. I don’t have time to assess the damage, though, because in the doorway that is only a mere twenty feet away, a Zed appears.

Looks like my ceiling shot worked a little too well.

“Fuck,” I hiss, and before I can think better of it, I throw the stupid damned rifle at its legs.