SEVENTEEN
DAKOTA
I don’t sleep, because that’s something I would consider stupid.
Sleeping in a locked utility room with four Alphas, one pilot clinging to life, a door that keeps making creepy settling sounds, and the distant groans of Zeds somewhere in the bones of the building feels like the kind of decision that gets people turned into cautionary tales.
So, I sit in the far corner with my back against damp concrete, my knife balanced over my knees, and Maine’s hat still tucked in my jacket.
The room still smells of rust, old water, blood, smoke, rot, and Alpha.
Too much Alpha. Four different scents pressing in on me in a small space I can’t get out of yet.
They’re rubbing against my blockers like the world’s itchiest sweater.
The pills are still working for the most part, but kind of in a way that a broken umbrella still kind of works in a storm if you stand very still and lie to yourself about how wet your socks are getting.
Kaito remains seated close to the door, still making sure I’m not fully blocked and trapped in this hellhole.
He has one knee bent, one arm resting loosely over it, while his other hand is pressed against his side where my stitches are probably clinging to his skin with the same level of desperation as someone trying to carry all the grocery bags inside at once to save them the extra trip.
He’s pale under the dirt and dried blood, jaw tight with pain he’s doing an awful job at hiding.
He’s doing it quietly, though.
Burning wood and worn flannel twine through the coppery tang of blood.
It’s become familiar now, which is incredibly offensive to my senses.
A person shouldn’t grow familiar so quickly.
There should be steps. Paperwork, maybe?
Definitely a waiting period. At least one strongly worded letter of objection.
Fletcher guards the actual door. He sits with his back against the wall next to it, rifle across his thighs, eyes half-lidded but not sleeping.
Every few minutes, I watch as his gaze tracks the hinges, the blocked handle, the vent, the ceiling, me, Kaito, the pilot, Xeon, Ewan, and then back to the door.
It’s a sequence.
A rotation.
A system.
A man built of protocols and bad news.
I can smell cedar and leather under the smoke and blood, Scar’s scent heavier than Kaito’s. More solid somehow. It doesn’t pull at me like Kaito’s does. It makes me want to check the exits. So, naturally, I check the fucking exits.
Door ahead. Vent above. One rusted access hatch behind the boiler tanks that might or might not open into a crawlspace, a wall cavity, or a personal invitation to tetanus.
Can’t argue that it’s not ideal, but it’s not exactly nothing.
Xeon kneels at the pilot's side, back straight and head slightly bowed as he checks the man’s pulse with steady fingers.
He’s been doing that all night. Pulse, bandage, fever, breathing, pressure, water on cloth, quiet words when the pilot groans.
Ice and steel. Cold, clean, controlled. It should make me want to draw my knife higher, but it simply sits under the room's filth like something sharp enough to shred panic into itty bits on the floor.
Ewan is closest to the vent, headphones wrapped around his neck, one ear tilted to the ceiling like he’s listening to the building as it dreams. He hasn’t stopped listening all night.
Every time something scrapes in the walls, his eyes move toward it.
Any time a Zed groans too close, his fingers tap once against his knee.
Not from nerves. He’s counting. And I hate that I’m noticing these things.
I hate more that none of them are using my exhaustion against me.
No one asks why I’m still awake. No one tells me to rest again after Kaito’s single attempt earned him a heartfelt wish that involved drainage infrastructure.
No one moves toward me. No one tries to take my knife.
And no one even comments when my hand trembles once after a Runner screams somewhere above us, the sound thin and furious even through layers of concrete.
It’s rude, honestly.
They’re supposed to be easier to hate than this. It shouldn’t be such a struggle.
The pilot mutters something around the darkest part of night.
Xeon leans closer and asks, “Say that again.”
The man’s lips, cracked and bloody, move slowly. Nothing clear comes out, though.
“His fever is climbing,” Xeon informs quietly.
“Can we last ’til morning?” Fletcher questions with that no-nonsense tone.
“He doesn’t really have much of a choice,” Xeon answers.
“That’s not an answer,” Scar points out flatly.
“No,” Xeon says. “It’s not.”
Ewan glances at the door then, quietly calling out, “Still got movement outside the room. Not right against us, but I’m thinking lower passage maybe. It’s a slow drag, so maybe two or three.”
“Rots?” Fletcher asks.
“Unless the looters have started shuffling for added dramatic effect, yeah. They’re Rots,” Ewan answers like a smart-ass.
Fletcher gives him a look before asking, “What about fast ones?”
Ewan listens again, his face losing some of its usual animation. He’s quiet for a moment before he mutters, “Not nearby.”
Not nearby, he says. What a comforting little phrase. It’s very similar to “it’s not currently on fire” or “it’s only a minor flesh wound” after getting stabbed.
Kaito’s eyes flick to me and I glare at him, if for no other reason than to maintain morale. It works, because he looks away first. Good. Annoying, but necessary.
The night crawls by at the speed of a snail after that. Eventually, the black behind the vent gradually softens. Not with light exactly, but more like the darkness finally grows tired enough to loosen its grip by one finger.
Sunrise. Finally.
My body comes alive with the word before my brain even fully forms it, because it’s time to leave.
The urge hits hard enough that my muscles tense all at once, and my brain runs through a plan so fast that my jaw clenches.
Door. Hatch. Passage. Roof maybe. Street if clear.
Pharmacy district behind me. North route if Zeds migrated east. Avoid the crash site.
Avoid Vector. Avoid compound men. Avoid four Alphas and the way their restraint has started gnawing holes in my common sense.
It’s simple. It’s beautifully simple. It’s very likely to get me killed, but that’s better than staying, so it’s fucking beautiful to me.
I rise slowly, cautious with my bum knee and aching shoulder and arm, and Kaito is the first to notice.
Of course he is. His head lifts, dark eyes finding me through the dim light.
Fletcher notices half a second later, because that man apparently only exists to ruin the art of subtlety.
Ewan’s fingers stop tapping a second later, and Xeon looks up from the pilot.
“No,” I blurt immediately, cutting in before any of them can utter a word.
Ewan blinks. “Good morning to you, too, sunshine.”
“I’m leaving,” I announce sternly.
Kaito doesn’t stand, which surprises me enough that it leaves me irritated as hell. He only shifts his weight, hand still pressed to his side and eyes watching me steadily as he says, “The streets are still hot.”
I frown. “I don’t remember asking for the weather, did I?”
“No,” he answers with a small shake of his head.
“Great. Looks like we’re all learning then,” I mutter.
Fletcher rises next, movements all slow and controlled. He doesn’t move toward me, and he doesn’t block the door. His rifle remains angled down as he says, “If you go out there now, you’ll only be walking into the same mess we spent all night waiting out.”
“Oh, thanks, talking wall,” I snark. “That was deeply insightful.”
His jaw ticks and I claim it as a small victory, locking it away in the chest of victories in my mind.
Xeon stands next, though he keeps one hand close to the pilot’s shoulder. “The looters used the dead deliberately. Too deliberately. They might have pulled back for now, but that doesn’t mean they’ve left the district completely.”
I nod. “Sure, but people leave districts all the time. It’s actually an interesting hobby. Watch, I’ll give you a demonstration.”
Ewan leans away from the vent, expression the most serious I’ve seen it until now.
It’s more serious than I appreciate, but I appreciate his words less when he says, “Those looters out there weren’t just running away from the Zeds, love.
They were moving them. Like chess pieces on a board they were controlling.
If they’re smart enough to go around shooting aircraft out of the sky and herding the dead like it’s just another day, they’re going to be smart enough to leave eyes behind. ”
Love.
That word hits me a little weirdly. Not because it means anything, because it doesn’t.
People from across the pond say all kinds of random and ridiculous things.
Mate. Lush. Proper. Love. Probably “crisps” when they actually mean chips or “biscuits” when they mean cookies, because apparently language somehow managed to survive the apocalypse only to remain a pain in the ass.
Yet, despite it all, my Omega still lifts her silly little head. Of course, I mentally smack her with a rolled-up newspaper.
“No one is asking you to come with us,” Kaito tells me quietly. My eyes cut to him, where he remains sitting. Still not between me and the exit, still being annoyingly considerate and careful. “We are saying you won’t survive it alone today, that’s all.”
The laugh that bursts out of me holds very little humor, as do my words. “I’ve survived alone for six years.”
Silence follows that confession, my words landing a little harder than they were supposed to. Kaito’s face changes first. Not with pity, because he’s smart enough not to make that kind of mistake. But something in his expression grows quieter. Darker.