TWELVE
DAKOTA
I run.
There’s absolutely no grace to it. There’s no clever little plan forming in the back of my mind.
No smug internal narration about angles and exits and how much smarter I am than everyone around me.
There’s nothing but my boots hitting cracked sidewalk, my fucked knee screaming in agony, my lungs choking on smoke-filled air, and the Runner behind me making that horrible wet shrieking sound that hits every panic button my body possesses.
The alley blurs around me as I run, my vision catching nothing more than the blur of brick walls, broken glass, and a rusted trash can that I topple behind me.
Kaito’s footsteps follow somewhere behind me, too heavy and uneven.
Gunfire explodes from the road, and I hear the three Alphas shout to one another, voices breaking through the chaos.
I don’t have a clue what they say, nor do I care.
The words don’t even matter when my body has passed the point of deciding what every Alpha voice means.
Danger.
Hands.
Teeth.
Cages.
My scent punches through the blockers once more, panicked and bright enough that there’s no way it doesn’t catch someone’s attention.
I hate myself so hard for it, too. So much so that I could actually scream if it wouldn’t draw more unwanted attention.
Instead, I clamp my jaw shut tight, swallowing the sound until my chest aches fiercely.
The Runner suddenly reaches the alley mouth behind me and something fires.
A bullet slams into the brick wall near my shoulders, close enough that fragments hit against my jacket.
Logically, I know the bullet wasn’t meant for me.
I know it because the Runner behind me jerks sideways with an inhuman screech, one shoulder jerking back harshly with the impact.
I know because the scarred Alpha has his gun raised at the thing chasing me, not at my back.
My body, though? That bitch doesn’t care. My body hears the gunshot and decides betrayal has officially entered the chat.
I cut left before the Runner can recover, throwing myself through a narrow gap between two apartment blocks.
Kaito curses behind me but continues to follow, because of course he does.
Only, the others do, too. At least, they try their best. I hear boots pound against the sidewalk, hear someone shout, hear the scarred Alpha’s voice split through the air low and commanding through the chaos.
No.
No fucking way.
Absolutely not.
There’s no way I’m being followed by four Alphas right now, running through a very active Zed swarm while my blockers decide to take the day off. That can’t possibly be the situation I’m currently in, because that would actually be a funeral that included cardio.
Shoving a hanging sheet of metal to the side, I duck under it into a passage that runs behind the apartment block.
The metal clangs back into place and Kaito grunts when it almost collides with him.
Then the sound of something heavier hits it a second later, and my chest loosens ever so slightly.
Not enough to ease me, but enough that my chest doesn’t feel like a python is constricting around it.
This is good. They’re delayed. All of them.
The passage stinks of damp brick, mold, piss, and old cooking oil that leaks from toppled trash cans.
Zeds have gathered at the far end, drawn in by the chaos of the crash and gunfire, slow bodies gathered together like one giant headache.
That headache becomes a migraine when cloudy eyes turn toward me, mouths hanging open, groans spilling down the narrow space like dirty water.
“Fuck me legless,” I gasp. “Love this for me.”
I hear the Runners behind me scream again, only highlighting the absolute shit show I’ve found myself stuck in.
Zeds up front.
Runners at the back.
It’s very clear the universe has decided to humble me once again, presenting me with a buffet of fucking awful options on cracked plates.
My mind works quickly, and I decide that up is probably my best bet.
A rusted fire escape clings to the side of the apartment block, the ladder folded up just a little too far out of reach.
I waste no time jumping for it, my wounded knee blazing with pain.
It’s worth it, though, because my fingers catch the bottom rung of the ladder.
Pain rips through my shoulder as my weight slams down suddenly, but I tighten my grip, kicking at the wall until my boot finally reaches a windowsill.
At that very moment, the Runner bursts into the passage in a blaze of glory, shrieking like a banshee, its movements hectic and hurried.
Kaito appears behind it, blood soaking his shirt and pipe in hand, eyes trained on me for half a second before the Runner lunges at him.
Idiot.
Beautiful, stupid idiot.
Wait. No. Not beautiful. This is absolutely not the time for that nonsense.
Hauling myself up with clenched teeth, I hook one knee over the ladder.
My cap slides low over my eyes, forcing me to shove it back with a snarl as I climb.
Below, Kaito ducks the Runner’s swipe and slams the pipe into its ribs, forcing it sideways.
Then three gunshots crack through the air from the passage entrance, and the Runner’s body jerks.
Once. Twice. The third shot pierces through the head and the Runner drops limply to the ground.
I don’t waste precious seconds waiting to see who fired those shots.
Instead, I climb like I’ve turned into the city version of Tarzan.
By the time I reach the first landing, the Zeds below have gathered tightly under the fire escape, clawing at the air with rotting hands.
The metal groans under my weight as I crawl across the landing, right before I shove through a broken window, spilling into an apartment that reeks of dust, mildew, and something that died inside the walls.
My gaze assesses my surroundings with a speed that would impress me any other day. Living room. A couch toppled on its side. Family photos smashed across the floor. A kid’s bike leaning near the front door.
Don’t look, I tell myself.
I look anyway.
The bike has pink handlebars with adorable tassels streaming from the ends, a bell in the shape of a flower, and training wheels.
For one heartbreaking second, I can see my own hands, smaller than they are now, wrapped around those handlebars.
I can see Maine crouched in front of me with black nail polish balancing on his knee, tongue pressed into the inside of his cheek, because apparently painting nails requires the same level of concentration as a bomb disposal.
Hold still, Kota, he would tell me.
I was holding still.
You wriggled, he’d argue.
I was actually holding my breath, but Maine was always the dramatic little bitch.
My chest chooses then to tighten so harshly that it steals my breath and tears instantly pool in my eyes. No. God, no. Not now. I have to move. Keep moving.
Stumbling over broken frames and trashed carpet, I cross the apartment.
Voices echo outside from behind me, lower now and muffled by the deadly chorus of Zeds groaning hungrily.
The Alphas are trying to follow, because I’m sure they have questions that need answers.
They want the tiny masked almost-Beta who smells all wrong and runs too fast. Maybe they want to help, and maybe they want to cage.
Maybe even both, because people really do love wrapping ugly things in pretty paper and a bow, calling it kindness and protection.
When I reach the hallway, I pause. Left will lead me to the stairwell, and right will take me deeper into the other apartments. I’m fairly confident the stairwell will be watched, and the apartments are too unpredictable.
In this scenario, unpredictable is much better.
I go right.
Like the universe has decided I haven’t suffered enough, a Zed chooses that moment to stumble out of an open doorway, half of its face missing and one hand dragging part of a torn curtain.
I slam my knife into its temple before it can groan loud enough to give me away or invite its buddies to join it.
It falls against the wall, sliding down it with a wet smear of blood.
“Sorry about that,” I whisper, because sometimes manners just happen by accident.
Cutting through the bedroom, I knock out the bottom of a wonky closet and squeeze through the hole into the next apartment.
It’s an old trick I’ve learned, because apartments share walls, and I’ve come to learn walls rot pretty badly in an apocalypse.
After all, there’s no one to maintain their homes anymore and everything is left to rot and waste now.
Survivors, I’ve found, will only board walls or windows, always forgetting that plaster is only a suggestion if you’re small, determined, and desperate enough.
Behind me, someone enters the first apartment.
I can hear the heavy stomp of footprints, and I instantly know it’s not Kaito.
The steps are too controlled. Scarred Alpha, maybe?
My pulse spikes again at that possibility, and I crawl through the closet and land in a laundry room, choking back a scream when my knee jerks awkwardly.
I hear a voice from the apartment behind me, muffled but clear enough to hear the words. “Tracks run through here.”
There’s a southern accent to them, and I internally curse. Scarred Alpha. Of course he tracks things. Of fucking course.
Another voice answers, lighter than the first, Welsh-edged and deeply annoyed. “Oh, lush, we’re being outsmarted and outmaneuvered by a tiny terror.”
Tiny terror? Fucking rude, much?
Accurate, but rude, man.
Slipping out into the hallway of the second apartment, I cross to the balcony and climb over the railing.
It’s an asinine idea. Really fucking stupid, actually, because the balcony below is only a few feet down and slick with rain.
Still, I lower myself slowly and very carefully, fingers gripping tightly to the cold metal.