EIGHT
DAKOTA
Leaving before the sun fully rises is easy.
That’s something many don’t understand. Disappearing isn’t magic. It’s not even a talent, really. It’s simply timing, patience, and the ability to make a choice before your feelings try to crawl out of whatever shallow grave you buried them in.
I leave while the sky is still gray, the house still creaking with sleep, and Kaito’s breathing finally evens out behind me. This time, I know he’s asleep after watching his body do those weird twitching motions of someone finally succumbing to slumber.
During my exit, I tell myself repeatedly not to look back. It won’t do me any level of good to look and, for the most part, I listen to myself. I only look back once, and the image of him stitches itself into my memory like a blanket woven of tales of my life.
Kaito is stretched out on the bed, one hand resting near the bandage I stitched into place, dark hair messy against a pillow that probably contains several diseases.
The sharpness of his face has faded slightly in sleep, giving him a younger look.
Still dangerous, still much too big for the room, and still very much Alpha with instincts I don’t particularly trust, but it’s almost quiet in a way that hurts something in my chest.
And that is exactly why I leave.
Slipping through the window, I close it behind me until only a sliver of air remains, crossing the wet roof without leaving more than the barest smudge behind.
The rain is on my side, and so is the cold, the world damp enough to swallow sound and smear tracks.
That means, for once, the universe and I are finally on speaking terms.
By the time the sun has climbed high enough to morph the clouds from iron gray to fluffy white, I’m already several streets away. I’m alone again, as I should be. Like I’m good at.
With every step I take, I’m reminded of the ache in my knee. My injured arm persistently throbs under my sleeve, and the place where Kaito’s fingers wrapped around my wrist last night keeps pulsing as though his touch alone has left a bruise under my skin without even leaving a mark.
Not that it can leave a mark. I mean, that’s ridiculous, even if my Omega disagrees. What does she know? She’s a sentimental dumbass who is currently on probation.
Ignoring my designation as I’ve learned to, I focus on my surroundings.
I’ve found myself standing in a jungle that was once a park, surrounded by residential blocks and neatly tucked between rows of squat apartment buildings and old community businesses that managed to live on before the apocalypse.
This place must have been one of those little neighborhoods where people went to dentists, walk-in clinics, pharmacies, laundromats, and those tiny bakeries that always charged too much for cupcakes just because they added edible glitter to them. Before the world ended, that is.
Now? Now it’s a mess of cracked sidewalks, sunken roofs, rusted cars, and trees that have decided roads are now merely a suggestion.
Apartment blocks guard the park like stone sentinels, each one standing six stories tall.
Beige brick has long since turned black with mold, balconies have broken, curtains have rotted behind shattered windows, and vines crawl up the walls with an overwhelming amount of greenery.
And in the middle of it all is a sprawling park that is so overgrown that I could lose myself in the wild grass that has grown tall enough to hide bones, bodies, and the occasional bad decision.
But there’s something specific I’m looking for.
The clinics.
According to the old community board leaflet I found stuck under a pile of trash in a bus stop a few blocks back, the clinics should be situated on the far side.
At least, that’s what the address claimed.
I’m sure most people wouldn’t have bothered with a place like this after six years.
Anything obviously valuable would have been looted within the first year, and anything useful would be long gone.
But clinics hide things differently. Just like the pharmacy before, clinics don’t hide stuff on pretty shelves that people would have rummaged through first. There won’t be painkillers behind counters or bandages in cabinets.
The good stuff sometimes ends up in staff lockers, supply closets, basements, locked fridges, dead storage rooms with labels those desperate enough won’t bother to read properly.
And, if the leaflet is to be trusted, this neighborhood has surgeries.
Not big ones. More like women’s health clinics, fertility or hormone clinics.
Places that might have carried suppressants, blockers, emergency heat medication, or anything close enough to being useful enough to keep my body from becoming a beacon to Alphas everywhere.
Just the possibility alone keeps me moving despite the agony in my knee and arm.
I cross the street, keeping low and fast, sticking close to the abandoned cars.
A Zed drags itself near the old park gates, one leg grimly twisted backward while the other carries most of the work.
It bumps into the fence with a hollow rattle, pauses like it’s trying to remember why gates are rude, then keeps ambling along mindlessly.
It’s only when its back is turned that I finally pass, keeping light on my feet and barely making a sound. What little I do make is thankfully drowned out by the low groaning the Zed makes, its own shuffling loud enough that any sound I make is washed away.
The first clinic is useless. The front windows have been smashed, the door torn right off its rusted hinges.
Everything inside has been gutted, leaving nothing behind.
Across the reception wall are words that have been spray-painted in red.
NO GOD NO CURE. A little dramatic for a place that probably used to call people about smear tests, but okay.
The second building is just as useless, having been burned years ago, leaving nothing behind but the brick.
The third building is locked, and my attention is grabbed instantly. Locked means someone didn’t get in. That, or something didn’t get out. Either way, this building holds enough interest that I can’t leave it without checking.
Above the door hangs a crooked sign, the lettering faded under grime and dirt, only the very end of the name visible. After some effort, I finally make out the words Women’s Health & Family Surgery, and my heart thumps harshly in my chest.
“Calm the fuck down, Kota,” I whisper to myself. “Don’t get your hopes up.”
Advice I should listen to, because hope is dangerous. It makes people loud. It makes my hands shake. And it makes you forget floors can rot under your feet when they’re bored and ceilings can come down just for shits and giggles.
I circle the building first. The front door is chained from the inside, the windows reinforced with metal boards.
The side entrance has collapsed under part of the roof, bricks spilling across the alley like broken teeth, and the back door sits half-hidden behind a wall of ivy and a toppled dumpster, not quite open but not closed either.
With the frame warped, it leaves a gap wide enough for someone small, hungry, and bitterly determined to squeeze through.
Lucky for me, I just so happen to be all three.
Pulling my bandana higher, I check the street before sliding between the dumpster and the wall.
Ivy does its best to cling to my jacket, catching on buckles and straps that quickly become the bane of my existence.
I pull myself free slowly, aware that fast movements make too much noise, and noise attracts Zeds, men, and consequences I’m not willing to face.
Heading for the door, I wince when it scrapes softly across the floor as I push my shoulder against it. Annoyingly, it’s not enough, and I exhale through my nose as I shift my weight and push again. The gap widens with a damp groan, and I glare at the stupid thing. “Now, don’t be a bitch, yeah?”
Naturally, the door continues to be a bitch, but eventually I manage to make it through the gap sideways. My backpack brushes roughly against the frame, a zipper catching on a string of ivy just to add an obstacle to this already hellish world I live in, but I make it with no other hiccup.
Inside, the smell hits me with all the force of a meteor crashing into Earth. Mold, rot, old chemicals, and death. Not the fresh kind, though. Well, mostly. I freeze in the back hallway the moment I scent it, knife in hand as I listen.
Somewhere nearby, a pipe ticks, water dripping steadily behind a wall. The building cracks and groans with a long, depressed sigh, but I don’t hear footsteps. There’s no dragging of bodies, wet breathing, or hungry growls, and that’s good enough for me.
The hallway leads past a staff room, two exam rooms, and a narrow stairwell that heads down.
I ignore the stairs for now, because basements are where people go when they’re interested in becoming nothing more than a tale told to children to scare them into behaving.
The exam rooms, as expected, have been picked over but not completely.
I manage to find a sealed packet of gauze wedged in the back of a drawer, two alcohol wipes inside a cracked plastic tub, and a pair of scissors tucked behind a sink faucet.
Not particularly what I need, but useful nonetheless.
In the staff room, someone left a mug on the table with the words NUMBER ONE NURSE printed around the side in bold, joyful pink lettering.
The chair beside it has been toppled over, dust and grime gathered on the back that now lies on the floor.
Dark stains mark the floor near the lockers, old enough to appear almost black.
Not promising, but I check them anyway.