When the first body hit the ground in front of him, Lachlan simply moved to the side, his face twisting in a sneer for a split second.
The man's knees folded. His hands slapped the concrete like he was trying to stop his own collapse. A wet cough punched out of him, blood following it in a thick spray, and then his chest gave one last uneven heave before he lay still.
People near him recoiled and surged away, as if distance could be created faster than sickness could spread.
Lachlan didn't slow down and he definately didn't look down. The body was an obstacle, nothing more, and Hope Sanctuary was filling with obstacles.
Zubair was at his shoulder, not crowding him, not lagging.
His posture stayed controlled, but there was a tension in the way he held himself that made it clear restraint was a choice he kept having to remake every second. The heat under his skin didn't flare. It simmered, tight and contained, like fire banked beneath ash.
