Hidden (Book 3 of the Immune Series)

Strangers

Sakir

I pull the coat tight around my body as I step out into the crisp morning air, heading towards the community dining hall. The road lies ahead with a quiet rivaling death, scattered with red, orange and yellow leaves from the trees overhead. Every step I take crunches several of them, breaking the silence. I'm alone on the road, but it's a temporary loneliness.

With Papa being gone, home seems haunting. Our house in the residential area sprawls empty, rooms collecting dust with no one to make me clean. So, I spend most of my time wandering, making myself busy by helping around the kitchens. At least there, people come in and out regularly, and the noise levels reach record heights.

I lose myself in the routine of serving, pouring steaming scoopfuls of oats out as the poor mill into the warm building. Familiar faces pass by, smiling in ways that narrow their eyes and allow me to count the gaps between their teeth.

"Thank you," someone says, taking the cup from me. The hand that grazes mine is gloved in smooth leather, making me look up. No one I know in Compound 2 could afford leather gloves. We have plenty of food from the orchards, but animal products like leather are rare and come from Compound 1.

I don't recognize the face smirking at me, but strangers don't come to the food kitchen. Visitors to the compound stay in the nicer areas of town, close to the residential area.

The man nods to me, walking away to sit at a table where more people I don't recognize sit. Each of them wear gray pants and gray t-shirts, topped with leather coats that match their gloves.

Gray.

Compound 1.

"Where are you going, Sakir?" the head of the kitchen asks as I toss the serving spoon down, hurrying towards the door.

"I'm sorry. I've got to go."

The words come out in a tumble, scattering on the floor like loose marbles. My heart pounds in my ears; adrenaline pushes me towards the door, faster than before.

If they're here for me, then, there's no need to make a scene in public.

I glance over my shoulder, catching the eye of the last man I served. He leans forward and whispers something to a dark haired woman, and she nods. All at once, their crew stands, following after me at a saunter.

Cracking my knuckles, I take off at a sprint towards the orchard, which is always empty this early in the morning. Excitement blends with the adrenaline. It's been a few weeks since I got in a fight. This could be good.

I weave in and out of the familiar buildings, ducking through alleys and into shadows. The heavy footfalls follow behind me, and I hear their heavy breathing as they pump air to keep up with my speed.

The broken, uneven concrete under my feet turns to soft grass, and the ground slopes suddenly downhill, south towards the treeline that hides the wall on the other side of the orchard. The trees, once heavy with hawthorns, crabapples, cherries, and plums, are bare skeletons against the pink sky. Maybe in the spring, I could have scaled the trees, hiding easily from sight in the thick branches.

Instead, I dart behind a thick trunk, kneeling low to catch my breath. The four bodies jog past me, looking around, hot air like smoke as they exhale.

Hours earlier, I had been sitting in my father's lab, dissecting the conversation we were having with careful, precise fingers that belonged to the son of a scientist.