ELEVEN #3
The moving pilot crawls another few inches, and I deduce that he’s alive.
Definitely alive, if only barely. He lifts his head, helmet visor cracked for all it’s worth, and one hand scrapes along the concrete sidewalk.
His mouth opens, but whatever he tries to say is quickly swallowed by his coughing.
Ewan sees him too, muttering quickly, “We’ve got a live one.”
“Noted,” Fletcher calls back. “Not the priority.”
“I didn’t say he was. Just that he’s alive,” Ewan argues.
“Ewan,” Fletch growls, and Ewan nods his head in understanding, muttering under his breath. “Yep. Fine. Terrible time for compassion. Understood. I’ll put it on the list.”
And then he shoots another Rot before Fletcher can respond.
My eyes dart back to the alley, spotting the small Omega still standing there.
No, not still standing. Frozen. The injured Alpha is close behind, body angled between them and us without blocking the alley completely.
He knows enough not to cage them, knows enough to give the small figure space.
Either he’s smarter than most Alphas, or he’s already learned what fear does to this Omega.
That thought settles uncomfortably inside me. It’s not jealousy or suspicion, but something quieter. Gratitude, maybe, even though I don’t know the guy to offer it.
Distraction comes in the form of a shrill scream from above. Human. The kind that makes even men holding rifles hesitate for half a second.
A third-floor window shatters suddenly, and a young man slams into the frame, bloody mouth parted and eyes shining with terror.
His hands claw uselessly at the sill before something yanks him back before he can fall from the balcony.
His scream cuts off suddenly as glass rains down onto the road and silence follows for a single heartbeat.
Ewan mutters under his breath, “Ah, hell.”
Fletcher’s expression turns as cold as ice. “Fast Rots.”
Just as the words leave his mouth, the first fast Rot bursts from the lobby doors of the left apartment block.
It’s too fast, hitting the road on all fours, limbs slapping against the sidewalk as its head jerks toward the crash.
Fresh. Not long turned. Muscles still strong, hunger sharpened by the terror it doesn’t understand anymore.
The softness in me grows quiet. It doesn’t disappear, merely takes a step back, because there’s no room for anything unsteady in the next breath.
My body shifts.
Gun up. Feet set. Breathing slow.
The fast Rot tears through two slower Rots in its mission to get closer, knocking one aside hard enough to crack its skull against the curb.
Another fast Rot drops from the first-floor balcony, hits the ground all wrong, and snaps its own arm, but keeps moving as if pain is nothing more than a legend it doesn’t believe in.
More emerge behind them. Basement door. Broken shop front. Apartment lobby.
Too many.
“Fast contact!” Fletch barks.
“Several!” I call back.
“Define several,” Ewan shouts, sounding slightly more alarmed now.
“More than I’d ask to dance,” I answer.
Ewan curses. “Deeply unhelpful definition, mate!”
The small Omega’s scent spikes once more, even harder than before.
This time, there’s no missing it. Fear splits through the air, sweet and vibrant and panicked under the blockers that are failing way too quickly.
It’s not a scent of invitation or heat, but pure distress, brutal and ripped out of a body trying very desperately not to be found.
Every single Alpha instinct in me turns toward the alley. Not to claim, not to corner, but to shield. A very important distinction, because whoever is hiding under that old cap and bandana already looks like they’ve spent years surviving people who didn’t bother to make one.
Across from us, Ewan’s head snaps toward the same alley. Fletcher’s rifle shifts, and a fast Rot turns toward the scent. Toward the alley. Toward the Omega. The injured Alpha notices at the same time. He moves half a step, too hurt to be fast enough but too determined to truly understand that.
The Omega’s eyes grow wide over the bandana. Pale hazel. Absolutely terrified. Angry over being terrified.
Something in my chest pulls tight.
Fletcher raises his gun once more and aims. Not at the Omega, but at the fast Rot gunning down the alley toward the Omega. They don’t know that, though, and I watch the exact moment fear wins over everything else.
They run, and the fast Rot releases a shrill scream before giving chase. The injured Alpha goes after the Omega instantly, ignoring the blood soaking through his side.
Fletch fires and the shot clips the fast Rot’s shoulder, but it doesn’t drop.
“Shit,” he snaps.
Ewan is already moving, right alongside his mouth. “Please tell me we’re not about to chase a terrified tiny scavenger through an active Rot buffet.”
Fletcher reloads his gun with brutal efficiency. “We ain’t chasing. We’re keeping a fast Rot off a civilian.”
“Right. Okay,” Ewan volleys. “Love the wording. Makes it sound a little less cursed.”
I’m moving before either of them finishes whatever the hell they’re doing.
There are Rots between us and the alley, too many to simply sprint past, so I shoot one and shoulder past another. I slash my knife through the temple of a third, my mind narrowing to distances. Fast Rot speed. Omega injury status unknown. Injured Alpha slowing. Fletcher behind me. Ewan to my left.
The fast Rot gains too much ground, but the Omega is fast despite the subtle limp.
Too fast for how injured they look. Smart, too, because they don’t run in a straight line.
They cut across the alley mouth, yank a trash can behind them with one hand to create a hurdle for the fast Rot, forcing it to leap over it.
It loses half a second, which doesn’t seem like much but it definitely matters.
I take the shot and the bullet hits the fast Rot in the back of the skull. The body drops hard, momentum carrying it forward until it skids across the sidewalk and crashes into the trash can.
Silence stretches for one breath before the world and the rest of the horde remind us they still exist.
Rots groan, fast Rots screech, and the helicopter sparks once more.
Somewhere above, another human cries out before it’s cut short, sending chills down my spine.
The Omega stops at the far end of the alley, half-turned and knife in hand, shoulders heaving.
The injured Alpha reaches them, one hand pressed to his side, the other lifted as if he’s asking permission to come closer now.
The Omega looks past him.
At me.
For the smallest moment, our eyes meet. I don’t see a Beta boy.
I see fear wrapped in oversized clothing and wielding a knife.
I see someone who has survived by making themself smaller than the world would expect, sharper than the world deserves, and lonely enough that the scent of it reaches me even through the smoke.
I want to tell them we’re not the danger but I don’t, because it’s always the people who pose the worst threat who claim to not be the danger they’re always ready to display.
Fletcher then fires again, and the moment slips away like it never existed in the first place.
“Xeon!” he snaps, and I turn back in time to spot three fast Rots emerging too close.
The quiet inside me becomes deadly focus, and I raise my gun. Breathe out. Fire.
The first Rot drops, but the second leaps over it like it’s playing a game of leapfrog. Ewan takes that one through the throat, then curses when it keeps gunning toward us. Fletch steps in and smashes the butt of his rifle into its face before firing point-blank into its skull.
The third fast Rot comes for me, and I let it. Two steps. One. I pivot at the last second, catch its arm, use its momentum to drag it past me, and drive my knife up under the base of its skull. Warm blood spills over my hand just as the body collapses at my feet.
Yanking the blade free, all I can hear is the sound of my own breathing for a heavy moment. Then Ewan breathlessly utters, “I liked this place a whole lot more when it was just depressing.”
“We’re leaving,” Fletcher declares without looking at him.
“The pilot?” I ask, and Fletch’s jaw tightens once more.
As if to remind us of his existence, the pilot coughs again near the wreck. Certainly still alive, then.
The Omega is gone, and so is the Alpha, but their scent lingers in the air. Sweet under the smoke and fear. Fletcher looks toward the alley they disappeared into, and I already know what he’s thinking, because I’m thinking it too.
An Omega hidden in Beta clothes. Blockers failing. An injured Alpha with them. A crash site full of Rots and fast Rots. Unknown shooters above us. No straight answers and nothing but danger.
“We grab the pilot if we can,” Fletcher commands. “Then we move.”
“And the tiny terror?” Ewan asks, already nicknaming the Omega.
Fletch’s mouth tightens and I look down the alley where the fast Rot lies dead next to the spilled trash can, the scent of fear still clinging to the concrete and damp brick.
Keeping my eyes on the alley, I quietly mutter, “They’re not small. They’re scared.”
Neither one of them answers, and another fast Rot screams from inside the apartment block. Fletcher lifts his rifle and bluntly says, “Then let’s make sure everything chasing them stays busy, yeah?”
I raise my gun again, ignoring the smoke that burns my throat. My Alpha paces under my skin with a restless fury that keeps it awake in a way I’ve never felt before, but my hands remain steady. My aim is clean.
And when the horde hits, I become exactly what I need to be.