THIRTY
DAKOTA
The gate opens like it actually hates us.
Metal groans and chains scrape. Locks shift one after another from the other side, too many of them, and each sharp sound crawls under my skin and rattles old instincts awake.
Open gates should feel good. This one, though? This one feels like I’m facing the end head-on. Like I’m facing a mouth that is ready to swallow me whole.
“Hands where I can see them,” the guard calls from above.
He has a rifle trained on us from the watch post, and another guard stands behind the bars with one hand on the gate mechanism and the other on his sidearm.
Two more appear along the wall, their weapons angled down and faces half-hidden behind masks and hard expressions.
Not Vector masks, though. Compound masks. Which doesn’t comfort me as much as it probably should.
I keep one hand raised. Only the one, though. The other stays low, near my thigh, close enough to my knife that I can pretend the distance doesn’t even matter. Fletcher notices, because of course he does, but he doesn’t tell me to raise both hands.
He stands next to me instead of in front of me, rifle lowered but not dropped.
Ewan holds both of his hands up, palms open, and mouth shut for once.
Kaito looks one stiff breeze away from falling over and still somehow manages to look dangerous.
Xeon keeps the pilot upright with quiet strength, his face calm despite the barrel aimed at his chest.
The guard behind the gate looks us over.
Four Alphas.
One injured pilot.
One small masked survivor tucked among them like a little suspicious afterthought.
His gaze lingers on me for a little too long, but that’s no surprise. Most men’s eyes always do, but not always because they know. Sometimes it’s because they want to know, and sometimes it’s because a body buried under layers makes people curious in the same way locked doors make people stupid.
“State your business,” the guard commands.
Fletcher answers before anyone else can. “Injured pilot. Vector hit his bird east of here. He’s needin’ a medic.”
The guard’s expression changes. Not a whole lot, but it’s enough. His eyes go to the pilot and he asks, “Name?”
The pilot’s head lolls against Xeon’s shoulder, and Xeon tells him, “He’s been in and out. Fever. Blood loss. Possible internal injury.”
The guard’s jaw tightens. “You armed?”
Ewan gives him a look. “I mean, we’re balls-deep in an apocalypse.”
“Are you armed?” the guard repeats more firmly.
“Yes,” Fletcher answers. “And we’ll lower weapons before entry so long as your people keep theirs steady and don’t get twitchy.”
My eyes flick sideways, because that was actually almost diplomatic. It makes me concerned.
The guard studies the scarred Alpha, then nods once to someone inside. The gate opens wider then, and the guard instructs, “Weapons visible. Slow movements. Anyone even considers reaching, and we’ll put you down.”
“Warm little welcome. All it’s missing is confetti and balloons,” I mutter.
Ewan coughs. It could be a laugh, but it could equally be terror. Maybe a healthy blend of both.
We step through the gate and the second we step across the threshold, my body instantly wants to turn around and leave.
Not in a dramatic way, or with fear blaring in my ears.
It’s worse. It’s quiet and bone-deep. Like every survival instinct I have is leaning backward stubbornly, digging in its heels and claws and whispering no.
Because outside the wall is danger, but inside there’s order. And order has always been better at hiding its true colors.
The compound smells all wrong. Not bad, just wrong.
And that’s the problem. No rot in the first breath.
No old blood baking into the asphalt from under the scorching sun.
No damp mold sitting heavy in abandoned rooms. Instead, there’s woodsmoke, boiled grain, disinfectant, metal, soap, human sweat, and something almost green growing in elevated planters across the inner wall.
My mind stutters at the soap.
Actual, honest-to-God soap.
I hate it instantly.
The courtyard beyond the gate is busy. Not crowded, but alive in a way I don’t think I’ve seen in literal years.
People move between buildings carrying crates, buckets, tools, and folded blankets.
A woman in a white armband speaks into a radio.
An actual radio. Two men are reinforcing a section of fencing with welded panels.
A group of kids, shit you not, actual kids, are sitting under a patched awning, watched by an older woman with a shotgun seated across her knees and a book in her hand.
Kids.
Small ones.
Alive ones.
One of them turns to stare at us, a piece of bread halfway to his mouth.
I look away first, eyeing everything around me in quick succession, cataloging all I see and storing it in my mind.
The compound is too clean. Not shiny and untouched, but clean in that practical way that takes effort and a whole lot of work.
Paths have been swept, waste sorted, and water barrels are labeled.
Guards have been posted at every corner.
Laundry is strung between two buildings, sorted by size and color like the end of the world didn’t actually happen and completely ruin everyone’s sense of priorities.
A board near the gate lists names in chalk.
Patrol.
Med shift.
Rations.
Quarantine.
The last word falls harshly in my stomach. Of course they have a quarantine. It’s a sensible thing to have. Reasonable. Absolutely fucking terrifying.
“Stop there,” a woman calls. She strides toward us from the nearest building, flanked by two guards.
She’s in her late forties. Maybe? Dark hair pulled tight in a severe ponytail, gray shirt tucked into cargo pants, and no visible weapons except for the pistol on her hip and the authority that oozes from her as it rests comfortably on her shoulders.
It’s on sight that I don’t trust her. And not because she looks mean, even though something tells me she could be if she wanted to be. But it’s because she looks competent, and competent people know how to ruin your life while holding a clipboard.
Her gaze moves over us quickly, cataloging wounds, weapons, postures, and threat levels. When her eyes reach me, they pause.
I keep my chin down.
Small Beta boy.
Small Beta boy.
Small Beta boy with a very unfortunate height problem and a perfectly reasonable desire not to be sniffed out by strangers.
The woman stops a few feet away before introducing herself. “I’m Valeria Reyes. Acting perimeter lead.”
Acting. So that means there’s someone above her. Great. A fucking hierarchy. Just my favorite kind of ladder to be pushed from.
“Fletcher Rhodes,” Fletcher says, and it’s the first time I’ve heard his full name in all the time I’ve known the guy.
The woman looks at him like the name means absolutely nothing to her, though.
That’s good. Or bad? I don’t actually know.
It’s hard to tell. “This is Ewan Wells, Kaito Kanai, and Xeon Song.”
Huh. Song. He’s Korean. I mean, not that names really mean much of anything anymore, but some things still hold on like ghosts who can’t quite be put to rest.
Fletcher gestures to each of them, then at the pilot. “Pilot needs treatment. We were bringing him here before Vector boxed the route.”
Valeria’s face hardens at the word Vector, and there’s that recognition I’ve been waiting for. The fear tucked under discipline.
“What did they hit?” she asks.
“Helicopter,” Fletcher tells her. “Came down east of the residential towers.”
Another guard curses under his breath, but Valeria ignores him, instead asking Fletcher, “Cargo?”
My skin prickles at that, but Fletcher doesn’t look at me. Good man. He continues to look at the pretty but kind of scary-looking woman as he says, “Recovered some.”
“Some?”
“Enough to know Vector wants it.”
Her eyes sharpen. “Where is it?”
“Secure,” Fletcher tells her, his voice curt and direct. I have to say, I almost admire the response. Inwardly, of course. I’m not a total idiot.
Valeria’s attention then sweeps over all of us again. This time, her gaze latches onto my backpack, my torn sleeve, and the hand I haven’t fully moved away from my side. She jerks her head toward me and asks, “What about him?”
Him.
Oh yeah, that’s good. I love a bad assumption, especially if it keeps me breathing for another day.
Fletcher answers, “Survivor.”
“Name?”
Everyone goes still in that small way people do when they’re trying not to look at me, so I answer before anyone can make it weird. “Kota.”
My voice comes out rough behind the bandana. Low. Practiced. Incredibly unfriendly.
Valeria watches me. “Just Kota?”
“Just tired, actually,” I answer shortly.
One of the guards snorts, but our girl Valeria doesn’t. Instead, her eyes dip to my arm and she comments, “You’re bleeding.”
“So is every other fucker here. We gonna start bonding over it?” I volley with a little bite to my words that doesn’t go unmissed.
Ewan mutters under his breath, quiet enough that only I catch it, “Hell yeah. There you are.”
Valeria’s expression remains completely unreadable, especially when she demands, “Everyone goes through medical clearance before they enter the main compound.”
“Yeah, no thanks,” I mutter lowly.
“It wasn’t an offer,” the woman counters, and my pulse kicks.
Fletcher shifts next to me, and I feel the movement without even needing to look over at him. Valeria seems to notice it too, because her eyes cut to him and she demands, “Problem?”
“Depends,” Fletcher says. “What does this medical clearance involve?”
“Bite checks. Fever screening. Wound assessment. Basic infection control. No one enters population areas without the necessary clearance,” Valeria explains in clipped sentences.
“That include removing masks?” I ask bluntly.
“Yes.”
“No.”
The word slips out a little too quickly. A little too sharp. And I notice several weapons raise half an inch for it.