TWENTY-FOUR
DAKOTA
We move before dawn.
Not because dawn means much of anything down here.
There are no windows in the west service tunnels, no pale flash of morning light sprawling over rooftops, and no sky changing color to tell the world has somehow survived yet another night.
There’s only concrete, damp, red flashing emergency lights, and the grim collective mood of five people who haven’t slept anywhere near enough.
Six, if we’re going to be technical and include the pilot.
I’m trying really hard not to, because counting him makes him feel like a responsibility, and I already have too many of those as it is.
My knee. My arm. My hat. My failing blockers.
My knives. The stupid flutter in my stomach every time one of the Alphas gets a little too close and my body reacts like it’s been asked to vote in a really painfully inappropriate election.
Ewan’s music is still stuck in my head. Not the words, because I barely remember those now. Just the crackle of it. The weak little thread of a sound. The ridiculous softness of it in a room full of weapons and fevered breathing.
The headphones are back around Ewan’s neck now, because I handed them back before we moved. I didn’t thank him, obviously, but he didn’t expect me to. Which, honestly, is probably why I didn’t stab him.
Small mercies and all that jazz.
Fletcher is leading us, because of course he is.
He moves like he owns the tunnels, like they belong to him just because he’s decided they should.
His rifle is up, shoulders are squared, and his voice is low every time he gives out directions.
Every word is clipped, precise, and annoyingly confident.
“Stay tight,” he says. “No drifting.”
My jaw tightens, and behind me, Ewan makes a sound under his breath. It’s not quite a laugh, and that makes him a smart man at this moment.
Kaito walks near the pilot, paler than he should be, and side wound hidden under a fresh cloth and stubborn denial.
Xeon stays close enough to help if the pilot drops, his quiet attention sweeping over all of us in that gentle way that makes me want to accuse him of something.
The pilot is mostly upright between Fletcher and Kaito, which is actually a very generous description for a man currently being held together by spite, fever, and the horrifying possibility that his brain contains the answers I need.
His boots scrape the ground every few steps. It’s too loud, but everything is too loud down here.
We left the security office twenty minutes ago after the boots above finally moved east and Ewan declared the tunnel ahead “less of a ballache,” which is apparently Welsh for not currently full of armed bastards.
I’m still trying to decide whether or not to trust that particular scale.
“Supply room’s through here,” Fletcher says, pausing at a junction with a half-broken sign bolted to the wall. “Old station maintenance. Medical kits if we’re lucky. Water if we’re even luckier. Maybe even batteries.”
“Maybe a fucking unicorn and a rainbow with a pot of gold sat at the end of it,” I mutter under my breath.
His head turns slightly toward me. “You got something useful to add?”
“Nope,” I answer.
“Then keep watch,” he barks.
And there it is. The tone. Short, commanding, and assumptive. Like I’m just another piece on a board he gets to move around because he has the deepest voice and the biggest shoulders.
My skin prickles and the tunnel narrows around me. Not physically, but worse. Inside.
Maine used to tell me what to do and I listened because I trusted him.
Because he was my brother. Because he knew how to keep us alive without making me feel owned by the instructions.
Dad used to instruct in a distracted way, all science and love and gentle explanations.
Mom, before EMD completely hollowed her out, would ask more than tell.
Since then? Orders usually come from men who thought my body was something they could claim if they only got close enough to breathe me in.
So no. I don’t do well with orders. Especially not from Fletcher, who smells like cedar and leather and walks around like a wall who somehow learned how to use a rifle.
“I’m not one of your soldiers,” I point out.
He faces forward again. “Didn’t say you were.”
“Then why are you talking to me like I am?” I push, irritated beyond belief.
“I’m talking like we’re on hostile ground,” he answers shortly.
“Everything is hostile ground,” I remind him, as if he hasn’t seen the outside world in the past six fucking years. There isn’t neutral ground on this godforsaken Earth anymore.
He’s quick with a reply, and I grit my teeth as he says, “Then you should know better than to wander.”
My hand tightens around my knife just as Ewan whispers loudly from behind me, “Oh yeah, a beautiful morning for a little sprinkle of group tension.”
“Not now,” Fletcher warns.
Ewan backs down instantly with a retort. “Gotcha. Scheduling conflict. I get it. We’ll talk later or something.”
Xeon’s eyes flick between us with that sharp calm that makes my hackles rise, and Kaito says nothing, which is somehow worse.
Fletcher pushes through a half-open metal gate that leads into a storage area.
The room is large, square, and windowless, with rows of metal shelves bolted securely to the floor.
Most have been toppled or picked clean, and some still hold boxes, plastic crates, old maintenance supplies, sealed buckets, dead batteries, and dust-covered tools.
One wall has a medical station with a cracked green cross sign and my whole body locks in on it.
Medical supplies. Maybe painkillers. Bandages. Antiseptic. Fresh tape if the universe has decided to be hilariously generous before deciding to punch me in the teeth.
“Clear in pairs,” Fletcher orders. “Xeon, pilot. Kaito, door. Ewan, sound check. Dakota, with me.”
A laugh bursts out of me. It’s sharp, it’s wrong, and it holds so little humor that Ewan almost recoils from it.
Everyone looks at me, but I only have eyes for Fletcher, staring a hole into his face as I demand, “How about you try that again.”
He frowns. “What?”
“Try it again, Scar. But this time, choose your words a little better,” I repeat.
“We don’t have time for this,” he retorts blandly.
“No,” I agree. “We don’t. So you best choose those words with haste, and make sure they’re the fucking right ones.”
His jaw flexes.
Well, would you look at that. He’s pissed.
That makes the two of us.
“Dakota,” Xeon tries softly.
I point my knife at him without even looking over at him, continuing my staring competition with the scarred Alpha barking orders at me like he has every right. “Don’t even think of gentle-parenting me right now.”
Ewan chokes, but Fletcher steps closer. Not too close, but close enough that cedar and leather sneak through the damp concrete and old blood. “You’ll sweep the medical station with me.”
“No,” I volley.
“This isn’t a request.”
The room goes very still at that, and my pulse suddenly becomes a blade under my skin.
“That,” I say quietly. “That right there is your problem.”
Fletcher’s eyes narrow, blue eyes turned hard. Too steady. “My problem is keeping this group alive.”
“I’m alive because I don’t let men like you decide where the fuck I stand,” I snap.
His expression shifts then. It’s not much, but enough to tell me my words have hit something. Maybe understanding, maybe offense. Hell, maybe both.
“Men like me,” he repeats, voice low and controlled.
“Loud,” I tell him. “Armed. Bossy. Pretty big on formation.”
“Formation keeps people alive,” he argues.
“Freedom keeps me alive,” I counter, fury bleeding into my words.
“Freedom gets people killed when it turns into ego,” he volleys.
Heat flashes through me, furious and loud. “You think this is ego?”
“I think you hear an order even when someone is only giving you a warning,” he answers, avoiding the actual question I’ve asked.
I scoff. “Oh, and you think barking it makes it better?”
“I think hesitating ends up messy,” he says, avoiding the actual question once more.
“That why you never do it?” I throw at him, spitting venom at the bastard.
His mouth closes then and for a second, I see it. A flicker behind his eyes. Something colder than anger. But then it’s gone.
“Medical station,” he says. “Now.”
The smile I release behind my bandana isn’t a pretty one. It’s certainly not nice.
“Say please.”
Ewan whispers loudly, “For the record, I actually support this really bad idea.”
“Ewan,” Fletcher snaps, finally losing the tight grip on the reins of his control.
The Welshman holds his hands up in surrender, muttering, “Fine. I retract my support. But only emotionally. Spiritually, it remains.”
Just then, a sound scrapes somewhere outside the room. It’s not coming from the tunnel we entered, but from the other side. Everyone freezes, and Fletcher’s rifle lifts instantly. Ewan tilts his head, and I turn toward the far wall.
There.
A service door half-hidden behind collapsed shelving.
The scrape comes again, followed by a low, wet groan. Zeds. Because naturally they would make an appearance while I’m trying to teach an Alpha basic manners.
Fletcher looks at me then. “Medical station. Now.”
This time, it doesn’t come out as a command. Instead, it’s about timing, and I hate that I can even tell the difference. But I move anyway. Not because he said so, but because he’s right, and I actually can’t stand the inconvenience.
The medical station is mounted behind a cracked plastic cabinet.
I pry it open with the tip of my knife while Fletcher covers the room.
The lock snaps with a metallic clack, and I start shoving supplies into my bag with only one hand.
Bandages. Gauze. Two rolls of tape. One sealed packet of sutures.
Antiseptic wipes. Burn gel. A foil emergency blanket.
No blockers, though, because of course there aren’t any. After all, the universe isn’t afraid to keep me humble and afraid, the rotten bitch.