TEN #4
I watch as the scarred Alpha says something to the others, and I hate that I can’t hear the words over the crackle of fire that has ignited in several places of the helicopter.
I do, however, see the shape of command in his body.
I catch the one with earrings glance toward the apartment above them, and the one with headphones shifts his position, the humor now gone from his face.
They work together, evidently not strangers or a loose group, but a unit. A team. A dangerous group of Alphas I have no business being anywhere near.
One Alpha can be avoided. Three Alphas who move like they’re one being and can understand one another’s blind spots? That’s a whole other problem wearing a different coat and rain boots.
Before my brain can function properly, however, the first wave of Zeds reaches the crash site.
They pour in from the park entrance and apartment courtyards, drawn by the impact and gunfire.
It’s mostly Rotters at first, slow and damaged and missing limbs, dragging themselves over ruined sidewalks, through the overgrown greenery, and between rusted cars.
There have to be dozens of them, if not more, their groans blending together all wet and hungry and gross.
The three armed men turn toward the threat and they fall into action like a well-oiled machine. The dirty-blond one barks something I can’t hear while the one with earrings raises his gun and aims. The one with headphones fires first, and suddenly the crash site erupts in a cacophony of chaos.
Gunshots crack across the road, echoing off concrete and shattered glass.
Rotters drop, but more replace them, pushing forward with hunger in their empty, clouded eyes.
Smoke coils all around the wreck, and something inside the helicopter pops and spits sparks, sending a brief flare of orange through the gray morning.
The moving body near the wreck jerks at the sound and my eyes snap to it.
Alive.
Fuck.
He drags one arm under himself, trying to crawl away from the helicopter. His flight suit is ruined, and blood runs slick down the side of his helmet. One of his legs is bent all wrong, sickeningly so, and the guy only manages to crawl roughly three inches before collapsing again.
My stomach twists uncomfortably, because if that guy really is alive, that means he could have information. Supplies. It means he might know who shot them down.
Kaito grabs my wrist suddenly and, this time, I barely flinch. Barely. It’s enough of a reaction that his fingers loosen immediately, and he whispers lowly, “We need to get out of here now.”
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.