THIRTEEN #2
We cut through the truck gap and into the courtyard where the grass has gone completely nuts, shoulder-high in some places, with old washing lines dropping between cracked concrete posts.
Rots are ambling near the far wall, drawn by the crash but absolutely buggered by the fencing.
Three of them are pressed against a locked gate, fingers hooked through the metal mesh and groaning at absolutely nothing. Sad little sods.
Fletcher signals right and we move around them. While we go, I listen closely once more to my surroundings.
Right there. Above us again, the smallest shift of weight. Oh yeah, our shadow is good. Very good, that’s for sure. But nobody can stay silent forever. Not with an injury or fear or carrying a grief so loud I can practically hear it from all the way down here.
My fingers crush the hat again, understanding enough to feel sick about it.
“Stop touching it,” Fletcher commands without even looking at me.
I drop my hand and pout. “I wasn’t.”
“You were.”
“Oh, my bad,” I grumble, rolling my eyes at the big bastard. “I didn’t realize we’d entered the part of the day where my pockets are now under military observation.”
“Everything is under observation,” he counters, as if I should know that by now.
I huff. “That doesn’t seem the least bit healthy, just so you know.”
Xeon glances at my jacket and very softly asks, “You still have it, right?”
“The hat?” I ask, just to be sure that’s what he’s talking about. When he only answers with his eyes, I nod. “Yeah, mate. Still got it.”
That’s when Fletcher finally graces me with a look, bluntly asking, “Why?”
“Oh, I don’t know, Fletch,” I start, irritated by the question, because it should be very fucking obvious why I grabbed it.
“Maybe because the Tiny Terror wielding a knife looked like their heart fell out of their arse the moment the hat landed on the ground. Pretty sure I’ve never seen a soul shatter right before my eyes until that very moment. ”
“They’ll come for it,” Fletcher argues, ever the pessimist.
I nod like he’s dull. “Yeah. I know.”
“That makes it bait,” he shoots back, and my face falls when the words sit between us heavily.
Bait. It takes less than a split second for me to absolutely hate that word. Not even because he’s wrong, because he kind of isn’t, but still. I don’t like it. So, with a bit more attitude than I intended, I grouch, “I didn’t grab it as bait.”
Fletch’s expression doesn’t change, nor does his voice as he bluntly snarks, “Don’t matter none if you did or not. Doesn't change what it is.”
Xeon peers up at the balconies again, calm and sad in a way only Xeon can manage while wielding a gun and helping carry a possibly dying pilot. Quietly, he says, “If they come for it, we don’t trap them.”
Fletcher says nothing.
“Fletch,” Xeon pushes, the nickname said even quieter. Carefully. Like a hand near a knife instead of on it.
The scarred fucker clenches his jaw only once before he bluntly retorts, “I haven’t made it a habit of trapping civilians.”
“No,” Xeon agrees. “But this one is already terrified of us as it is.”
“That one is also following us,” Fletcher points out, as if we could forget.
Xeon gestures his head toward me before responding. “That’s because Ewan is currently carrying something that matters to them.”
My fingers curl against my side before I can stop them. I don’t even know why they do, either, but it’s almost like the hat is burning a bloody hole in my jacket.
Fletcher looks at me and I lift both brows at him, holding a finger up like it matters. “For the record, I did save it from becoming Rot confetti. Give me credit, at least.”
“You took it,” Fletch argues again.
“I rescued it,” I contradict, giving the big miserable fuck a smile I know will piss him off.
He doesn’t bite, though, so I drop it with an eye roll as he points out, “You’re carrying it in your jacket.”
I nod, because he’s not wrong. I very much am carrying it there, but I don’t give him the satisfaction of hearing the words.
Instead, I tell him, “I’m providing temporary hat-based foster care, you inconsiderate bitch.
Have some compassion. It’s an orphan right now, waiting for his family to come back for him. Jesus Christ.”
Fletcher does nothing but stare, and I nod.
“Yep. Fine. You’re right. That one sounded better in my head,” I concede, giving him another smile that’s more awkward now.
“No,” Fletch bluntly says. “It didn’t. It was just as bad.”
Oh, ouch. Rude. I mean, true, but rude.
Before we can continue this little back and forth, another raving Rot screams from somewhere behind us, distant but moving quickly enough that all three of us shift at once.
The pilot flinches, almost collapsing, so Xeon tightens his grip on him, muttering something too low for me to catch.
The pilot coughs wetly, a sound that isn’t the least bit promising.
“We need height,” Fletcher snaps.
“Upper floors,” Xeon offers in agreement.
I look at the nearest apartment building.
Six floors, beige brick, half the windows broken, and a fire escape hanging off one side like it gave up halfway through a thought.
I can relate. What comes out of my mouth, though, isn’t my relatable emotions toward a wrung-out ladder.
Instead, I say, “Oh, yeah, because the buildings have had a strong outpouring of hospitality today. Very welcoming, these flats.”
Fletcher points to the side entrance. “There.”
Of course. I sigh. Fucking dick.
Side entrances are always either locked, blocked, bolted, or full of something that wants to peel the skin from my face.
This one is currently blocked by a big fuck-off metal filing cabinet, two shabby chairs, and the dried remains of something I’d rather not actually identify because I’ve had enough emotional fuckery in my day already.
Still, I help shift the cabinet while Fletcher covers us and Xeon helps the pilot remain upright. Our shadow above grows quiet, too. A little too quiet, because they’ve stopped moving. They’re listening. Watching. Waiting to see where we go next.
“Still there?” Fletcher asks.
“Oh yeah, mate,” I answer, nodding. “Probably up there judging the shit out of us right now.”
“Can they hear us?” he wonders.
“I dunno, maybe?” I say casually. Fletcher gives me that look again and I shrug. “What? It’s not like I’m going to insult them behind their back if they’re close enough to stab me over it. I have principles, mate. Please respect that.”
“Since when?” he challenges, still giving me that dirty look.
I give him one that calls him stupid without needing the words. “Uh, hello? Since being stabbed became an actual possibility.”
Thankfully, we get the door open, ending the conversation at hand.
The inside smells like damp carpet, mold, old cooking, and the kind of death that settled in years ago and even signed a lease.
The lobby is narrow with mailboxes hanging open along one wall.
On the far side, someone has spray-painted HELP US in red, and I don’t look at it for too long.
We clear the ground floor quickly, Fletcher taking the lead, me behind him, and Xeon with the pilot following behind.
We find two Rots in the stairwell, slow ones thankfully.
Fletch handles the first and I take the second with my knife, because Fletcher has already made enough noise for today, and if I hear another gunshot inside this coffin of echoes and despair, I might actually start biting people for the hell of it. Fletcher will be first.
We climb the stairs, going from the first floor to the second.
With every step, the pilot grows heavier.
Or maybe he just decided to become less cooperative about having bones.
By the third floor, Fletcher is breathing hard through his nose and Xeon’s jaw has practically fused itself shut.
Neither one of them complains, though. Obviously.
Complaining is my job, and I take great pride in my work.
“I’m loving this,” I whisper, breathless despite the workouts I do regularly. “Mystery aircraft, trauma, and cardio all in one day. Did someone say wellness package? Fuck me, I’m dying.”
The pilot coughs.
I point at the bastard. “See. He agrees with me.”
Fletcher mutters something that sounds suspiciously like “Christ Almighty.” Very Southern. Very cute. I knew he liked me.
On the fourth floor, we find a flat with a reinforced door and a hallway clear enough to hold us for a little while.
Fletch checks the locks, the hinges, and the sightlines while Xeon listens at the door.
I listen to everything behind us, hearing nothing in the stairwell or below other than the distant groan of Rots.
Above us, there’s very faint movement outside, on the balcony.
Ah. Our shadow is still with us, then.
I should be annoyed. To be honest, I am. But I’m also pretty impressed. It makes for a deeply inconvenient combination that I don’t really know what to do with.
Fletch forces the flat door open with a crowbar from his pack.
The sound is loud but brief, and we all file in the moment it’s clear.
Inside, the flat has already been stripped of everything valuable, but not destroyed.
The living room faces the courtyard, there’s a kitchen to the left, two bedrooms and a bathroom.
Windows are intact enough to actually matter, and there’s fire escape access through the largest bedroom.
Defensible.
Temporary.
We manage to get the pilot onto the living room floor, and Xeon kneels next to him straightaway. He checks his pulse, pupils, and wounds while Fletcher closes the door and wedges it with a chair before dragging a bookshelf across for added weight.
I go to the window, not because I’m avoiding the medical drama. More because I’m useful at the window. Also because I very much am avoiding the medical drama. Fuck that noise. No thank you.