None of us move right away. Isaac stands behind me, his hand still clamped tight around my forearm. My right hand sits poised on my gun strap. I stare up at the giant, preparing to swing the weapon around.
I couldn't actually do anything, but the thought of having something to threaten him with comforts me.
As if he senses how tense we are, he takes a step back.
"Name's Stephen," he says with a nod. "That's Zeus." The dog sits down, his tongue falling out of his mouth. "Ya'll should come on inside. Ollie'll want to see ya." He turns, pushes the door the rest of the way open, and walks inside. Slowly, I follow. My hand rises to push Isaac off me. He jumps slightly, smiling at me as he recovers.
Inside the building, there are rows of shelves. To our direct left is a huge empty space where sleeping bags line the floor. There's barely room for someone to walk between them. On our right are racks with clothes hanging off them. Some are empty, and others drip water on the white tile floor.
As we walk ahead, we pass rows of food. Some of the aisles are messy with bags and boxes strewn across the flood. Others are empty, filled with more sleeping bags instead. We walk past sections with baby clothes and paper products. After a sharp right, we find rows of TVs, phones, radios, and outdated movies. These aisles are much messier, small round silver disks thrown everywhere.
The man leading us comes to a stop and turns right again on his heel. Several couches have been laid out in a horseshoe shape. It reminds me of a makeshift amphitheater. The shelves have been scooted out of the way to make room for tables and seats. Folded chairs litter the inside of the horseshoe. There's probably enough room for twenty or more people in this meeting space, but right now, there's only six.
"Hey, Ollie," Stephen calls, crossing his arms. A woman with mousy-brown short hair looks up at him from the papers she had been studying. She's wearing dirt covered, torn jeans and a dark tank top. There's a muscle tone in her arms that reminds me of Isaac's. Freckles dust her face and shoulders, even if she is pale.
"Look who showed up," Stephen continues, stepping to the side. Ollie steps around the table. The closer she gets to us, the more I notice about her. Her height—nearly head to head with Stephen. Her thin legs, knobbly knees protruding through the jeans. A smearing of makeup around her eyes, eyeliner possibly.
"Jaelyn?" Her voice is soft in its shock. She glances down to double-check herself. I'm still wearing my Compound 4 uniform shirt.
"How do you know who I am?"
It's all I can think to ask. The same question has been burning in my head since the day that Jane said she read my name in the graffiti. How do these people know me?
Ollie takes a deep breath, runs her hand through her already messy hair, and smiles softly at me.
"I can't really answer that question," she says. "Not yet. Someone else can. For now, let me introduce you to everyone."
Who else would be able to answer me? Isn't she supposed to be the leader here? I'll admit that she doesn't have the presidential appearance that Hartley has—suit and dark, warning eyes. Maybe she isn't in charge.
As she turns, she fans her arm out at the crew of people sitting on the couches. Stephen has taken up a spot next to a boy maybe half my age. His voice drifts towards me, explaining the mechanics of a small engine in his hand to Stephen. The jargon is lost on me.
"You've met Stephen. That's his son Jackson." Ollie listens to Jackson explain something before laughing awkwardly. "Jackson likes machinery. Don't know where he gets that from. His dad's all muscles. No brain at all."
YOU ARE READING
The Immune
Science FictionCompound 4 was supposed to be a sanctuary away from the virus and the Infected that came with it, but to Jaelyn, it's prison. It's too crowded, she's treated like a disgrace, and her only friend is an old man who loves Checkers. But outside The Wal...
