ELEVEN #2
The helicopter lies on its side on the road between two apartment blocks.
The tail is twisted awkwardly against a row of parked cars.
One of the rotor blades has snapped and has buried itself through a windshield, smoke billowing from the engine in thick, coiling plumes.
I only just catch sight of a little flash of orange, something inside sparking sharply.
Two bodies lie near the wreck, both wearing flight gear and covered in blood, but only one is moving. My eyes snag the movement, the slow drag of an arm against the sidewalk. I can’t tell from here if he’s still alive or turning, but it’s far too exposed to approach him carelessly.
The moving man on the floor isn’t the only thing I notice. A duffel bag is half-trapped under the warped metal, and another pack has been thrown several feet from the open door. Anything could be in those packs. Anything or nothing at all. Maybe bait? We can’t know for sure unless we check.
Fletcher scans the rooftops first instead of the supplies, which is exactly why he’s still alive today.
“High east,” I say, keeping my voice low. “Roofline. Building four, maybe five.”
“I saw,” Fletch confirms, nodding once.
Ewan’s eyes scan across the windows before he says, “Can’t see any muzzles.”
“Don’t mean they’re gone,” Fletcher warns.
“I know,” Ewan sighs. “I was giving optimism a go. Hated it. Don’t recommend it.”
Blocking him out, I raise my gun and watch the balconies.
My father used to tell me that fear makes people look at the wrong thing.
He said we stare at what is obvious and loud, not what’s actually important.
He taught me to look where sound sends people running from, to watch an empty window beside the broken one, to notice the deathly silence after a shot.
Back then, I was only a child. I thought he was teaching me games. It was only later, when the city fell apart and we learned how fast people become victims or targets, that I understood my father had been giving me tips for when disaster struck.
The crash is loud.
The bodies are loud.
The bags are loud.
Even the quiet roofline is loud. It’s important.
Fletcher signals for Ewan to cover left, me right. We move as a single unit into the road, not fast enough to be considered reckless or slow enough to become easy pickings. I keep my gun raised and eyes constantly moving.
That’s when I see him. A small figure crouched near the mouth of the alley opposite the wreck, partially hidden behind the corner of the building.
A scavenger, maybe? Young Beta male from the look of him, slight and narrow under the oversized clothing.
Old cap pulled low, bandana covering half of his face, and jacket several sizes too big.
He carries a backpack strapped tightly against him, carries a knife in one hand, and every line of him is pulled so tight that it looks like one gust of wind could snap him in half.
And he’s not alone.
An Alpha stands behind him. Dark hair. Injured, if the sight of his posture is anything to go by. His position is one of protection, but he’s not claiming space around himself. He stands close enough to help and far enough not to trap. That’s what I notice before anything else.
I watch the small scavenger lean just enough to see the wreck, their movements careful and clever, if not a little too still. I don’t lower my gun, but I don’t aim it at him either.
Ewan notices my attention and shifts his gaze, spotting the same thing before he whispers, “Company.”
“I see ’em,” Fletch assures, his voice changing to something flatter instead of louder.
The scavenger reacts before we move, his body locking tightly, but not at the sight of our weapons.
Not exactly. But the fear comes a hiccup later, sharp enough that even before the wind changes, I can see it.
I see it in the way his shoulders pull in, the way his fingers tighten around his knife, and the way his body prepares to run before his feet move an inch.
Fear has a shape. I’ve seen it in children pulled from raider houses. In women hiding medicine under floorboards. In Betas who flinch from every command because someone once claimed orders as protection but actually meant ownership.
This fear has a history.
Then, suddenly, the wind shifts and everything in me comes to a startling halt.
That scent isn’t clean. Not at all. It’s almost buried under smoke, rain, rot, and grime.
Almost hidden beneath old fabric, the bitter tang of blockers, and the coppery spike of blood.
It should be next to impossible to catch among all this filth, especially with the crash burning beside us and Rots already dragging themselves closer to the burning heap of metal.
Still, it slips through.
Faint, sweet, terrified.
Omega.
My Alpha wakes so fast it feels like a hand closing around my throat. Beside me, Fletcher turns utterly motionless. Ewan stops breathing entirely.
And then the world sharpens into a single point.
Not because the scent is strong, because it isn’t.
It’s hidden, strangled under chemicals and mud and fear.
It’s hidden well enough that I would have missed it had the wind not turned, if the fear hadn't knocked through the blockers, and if every instinct in my body hadn’t been waiting for one impossible note in the air.
Omega.
Here. Alive. Afraid.
The small scavenger backs up a little too quickly, and the injured Alpha lifts his hand as if to steady him, only to stop before making contact. Something in me releases by a mere fraction at the sight. The Alpha knows better than to grab, knows better than to make fear smaller by force.
It’s only then I notice the body beneath the disguise doesn’t quite fit the shape it’s trying to sell.
They’re too slight. Hands too small wrapped around the knife.
Movements too controlled in a way that feels different from a boy trying to appear strong and more like someone trying to scrub away every soft line they own.
Not a boy, then.
At least, I don’t think so.
I don’t let myself stare long enough to make that realization appear as a threat, even as Fletcher’s nostrils flare once.
Only once. It’s the only outward signal he releases, but I know him.
I catch the tension that enters his jaw, the way his rifle lowers only half an inch away from the alley without actually lowering at all. He’s caught it too.
Ewan’s eyes flick to me, and under his breath, he says, “Xeon.”
I nod. “I know.”
The words barely leave my mouth, because I don’t know anything, not really.
I have no idea who they are, why they’re dressed like a Beta boy, or why they’re with an injured Alpha.
I don’t know why their scent is buried under blockers harsh enough to sting, or why the first clear thing I can read from them is terror so potent that it almost looks like discipline.
But I know what that scent is, and I know what the world does to Omegas.
Suddenly, every ugly lesson the apocalypse has taught me comes racing to the forefront of my mind.
Cages. Trade routes. Compound raids. Men who redefined the word protection into something else, expecting gratitude in exchange for chains.
Omegas hidden until their bodies betray them.
Omegas bought and sold, hoarded or lost.
My hands tighten around my gun before I can think better of it. The anger isn’t directed at the Omega, but toward everything else. Because the first thing they need from us can’t be want. Can’t be awe. Can’t be questions. It has to be space.
Fletcher says something to us, but I only catch the hint of command under the crackle of fire.
He shifts his stance, placing himself where he can see the wreck, the alley, and the nearest stairwell.
Ewan moves left to cover the road, no longer laid back, loose, and half-amused.
His whole body has become alert now, because we’re not the only ones who heard the crash.
Proven as much when the first wave of Rots reaches the road.
They come from the park entrance and apartment courtyards, drawn by the impact of the crash and gunfire that followed.
They’re slow, broken, but relentless. Some drag broken legs, some crawl, some are missing body parts, and some stumble with their heads tilted at angles that are all wrong, their mouths opening and closing around nothing.
Their groans meld together into one wet, hungry sound, and the closer they get to the wreck, the more I realize the scent vanishes under the rot and decay for half a beat.
Then fear bursts from the alley again, only stronger this time.
The Omega is panicking.
My Alpha surges toward it, but I force myself to keep my feet planted where they are.
I can’t go toward them, not now. Not like this.
Need is not permission, and fear isn’t ever an invitation.
The part of me that wants to bolt across the road and put myself between that small figure and the whole world may be loud and blaring, but loud doesn’t mean it’s the right thing to do.
Fletcher fires the first shot, drawing me back to myself in time to watch a Rot drop near the bumper of a trashed car.
Ewan fires next, a clean shot through the eye socket of one Rot that has half of its jaw missing.
I take out the one behind it, then the one crawling under the tail of the helicopter.
The crash site suddenly erupts with gunfire, smoke, sparks, and bodies hitting wet pavement with hollow thuds.
“Left side!” Fletcher snaps.
I turn, catching three Rots pushing between two cars. I shoot the closest, step around the second, and drive my knife through the third when it gets too close. Its skull caves under the blade with a sickeningly wet crack, and I kick it away before pivoting back toward the wreck.