I’m trapped inside an antique armoire with ten millimetres of wood separating me from murder.
Outside are a pack of disease-mad people with blades, clubs, and long dirty fingernails. I can hear them lurching across the floor, approaching the corner where I cower. Ötzi is acting unthreatened, adjusting to the cramped confines, making a show of stretching his limbs.
His feet push the door open. Light invades. Thanks a lot, dumbass. Now we’re doomed.
‘Whoopsie. Think quick, Shepherd.’
I can’t control the beasts approaching us, and I can’t control Ötzi, and I can’t control the dome, but I can tell my nagging, crying stomach to accept the org I’ve plastered onto my skin and shut the hell up.
I thump myself in the guts. The org’s biosensors register the electrolytes in the serum leaking fro
