TWENTY-NINE #2
The next roof crossing is ugly but quiet.
A sagging plank bridge spans the gap between buildings, probably left by scavengers before scavengers became mostly corpses or worse.
Ewan crosses first, light on his feet. Then Kaito, jaw tight with every step he takes.
Xeon and I manage the pilot between us, slow enough that my neck and shoulder prickle the entire time.
Dakota is the last to cross, but not because anyone tells her to. It’s because she makes sure no one comes up behind us, and I can understand that. I understand it all too well.
On the second roof, the maintenance hatch sticks hard at first. Dakota drops next to it, pulls a narrow tool from her sleeve, and starts working at the latch before I can even ask if she can open it.
I let the question die, because she can. That much is very obvious.
Kaito keeps watch toward the tower we came from, Ewan listens toward the compound, and Xeon lowers the pilot against a vent and checks the bandage at his ribs.
I take the roof edge. From here, the outer perimeter fills more of the world.
I can see movement along the wall now. Guards.
Three on the nearest platform, one in the corner tower, and another shape standing behind the metal gate.
Disciplined enough to rotate positions, hungry enough to stare out too long.
And that’s what worries me.
Hungry guards make mistakes.
Comfortable guards make worse ones.
The compound is bigger than I expected. Old hospital grounds, maybe.
Or maybe one of those city buildings people used to stand in line inside and hate every second of it.
Several connected buildings sit behind the barricade, surrounded by patched walls and container stacks.
Solar panels cover one roof, and water barrels line another.
Smoke rises from controlled burn pits, and it’s enough to show me people live there. Not just survive.
That should feel good. It doesn’t. Because organized people come with organized rot.
Rules. Rotations. Factions. Men with keys.
Women with secrets. Kids raised to think walls are the same as mercy.
Leaders who start with hard choices and end with softer names for cages.
I’ve seen enough compounds to know safety always has a price.
Sometimes it’s labor.
Sometimes it’s loyalty.
Sometimes it’s leaving your weapon at the gate.
Sometimes it’s your body, your silence, your designation, or your future.
My gaze slips to Dakota again. She’s still working the hatch, brows pinched from under her hat, all her focus narrowed down to the lock.
She looks too small against the compound wall in the distance.
Not weak. Never that. Just small enough that men like the ones who build rules might look at her and think they know what to do with her.
My grip tightens around my rifle, and I force myself to ease it. That right there is the danger. Not the instinct, but the shape it wants to take. I can’t turn my fear for her into another set of bars she’ll want to be free of.
The hatch pops at that second, and Dakota lifts her head, eyes bright with a victory she instantly buries under annoyance. “Unlocked.”
Ewan raises his hand like an eager puppy. “Can I just say, I never doubted you once.”
“I feel like you were emotionally doubting me,” she counters flatly.
“Oh, yeah, that’s constantly,” Ewan chimes, his eyes lit with amusement. Something I’m seeing a whole lot more of these days, especially when he’s sparring with the Omega who didn’t want anyone to know she’s an Omega.
Kaito opens the hatch carefully, and a stale breath of air wafts at us from below. Not dead. Not fresh either. Just old building, dust, damp, and metallic.
Dakota leans close, listening, and so do I. Nothing moves from below, but that doesn’t mean nothing is waiting.
“It drops into an access room,” she informs. “Maybe eight feet.”
I look at the pilot. Eight feet might as well be eighty with this guy.
“There’s a ladder,” Kaito says then, shining a flashlight through the gap. “Half-broken, but better than nothing.”
“Of course it is,” Dakota mutters. “Anything fully useful would upset the theme the universe has set out for us.”
“We can lower him,” I suggest. “One at a time. Quiet.”
Dakota glances at me. “That your polite way of telling me not to jump first?”
I meet her stare. “No. That’s me saying lowering the pilot first keeps us from spending ten minutes arguing while Vector catches up.”
She eyes me closely, studying me in a way only she somehow manages. Then she huffs. “God, you’re so annoying when you’re being reasonable.”
“We went over this. Been told I’m charmin’.”
“By who?” she snorts. “Hostages?”
Ewan coughs into his fist, and I almost break with a smile. Almost.
We lower the pilot first with strips of torn cable and old rope Ewan finds close to the vent. He groans but stays quiet enough. Xeon goes down after him. Then Kaito, moving stiffly. Ewan follows.
Dakota waits at the hatch with me and, for one breath, we’re the only two left on the roof. Wind drags smoke across the distance. Below, the compound gate opens just wide enough for two armed guards to step out and drag a body away from the perimeter.
Not a Rot body, either.
A human.
Alive or recent enough that it still bleeds.
Dakota sees it and her entire body grows still. The guards haul the body behind a stack of concrete barriers. One looks around before the gate shuts again.
“Did you see that?” she asks.
“Yeah.”
“Prisoner?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe,” she repeats, and there’s not an ounce of humor in it this time.
I keep watching the gate. “Could be injured. Could be infected. Could be punishment.”
“We just love a welcoming community,” she says, her voice flat enough to cut.
I look over at her, then look away again before it becomes too much. “That wall doesn’t make them safe.”
Dakota’s eyes remain on the compound. “It doesn’t. It makes them confident.”
Smart girl. Too smart. Too familiar with how bad things can dress themselves up as shelter.
I want to tell her we won’t let anyone put her in a cage.
I want to tell her if that compound tries anything, I’ll burn the path back out myself.
I want to make promises big enough to cover the fear I saw in her down in that tunnel.
But I don’t.
Promises are easy to make, but choice is harder.
So I give her the only thing that doesn’t ask her to believe me.
“We get the pilot inside if it’s the best medical option,” I tell her. “We gather what we need. We watch the people as much as we watch the walls. And if it feels wrong, we leave.”
Her head turns slowly, and I see the gears turning behind her eyes. “We?”
“Yeah.”
“You planning to ask my opinion on wrongness?”
“Certainly ain’t planning to enjoy it.”
That earns me something. It’s not a smile, not that I would see it from anywhere but her eyes. It’s not even trust, because that’s too much. But the look she gives me is less blade and more question. “You’re getting weird again, Scar.”
I shrug. “It’s been a rough day.”
“You always get rough days,” she mutters.
“Then at least I’m consistent.”
She watches me for another moment, then she crouches by the hatch. “Fine. But if your compound friends try to separate us, I reserve the right to stab someone.”
“They’re not my compound friends.”
“Potential compound acquaintances, then,” she snarks.