The Becoming: Ground Zero (38 page)

“Yes, sir, I understand,” Brandt said softly. He let go of the microphone and took the headphones off. He stood slowly, staring at the radio, and Gray drew in a nervous breath, waiting for the older man to speak.

Brandt picked up the microphone again, and Gray drew in a breath, anticipating the man’s next broadcast. But instead of depressing the microphone’s button again, Brandt slammed the microphone onto the table. Gray jumped at the loud bang and took a step back as Brandt struck the microphone against the table and the radio over and over. His face was a snarling grimace of anger, his cheeks flushed red. He didn’t stop until the microphone was nothing but a mangled chunk of plastic and metal and wires. Gray took another step back and grabbed Remy’s arm, dragging her with him as Brandt upended the table, sending the radio and everything else on it to the floor with a crash that echoed through the entire building. Brandt grabbed the metal chair in which he’d sat and flung it across the stage to strike the back wall. Then he stopped, bowing his head, his shoulders shaking as he tried to catch his breath. Remy and Gray watched Brandt, frozen, uncertain what to do.

Remy moved forward once it was obvious the man’s anger had drained out of him, springing onto the stage and making her way to Brandt. She hesitated, and then she put her hand gently on his back, leaning to look him in the face and speaking to him quietly. It was a conversation Gray couldn’t hear, but whatever she said seemed to work, because within minutes, Brandt visibly relaxed, the straight, stiff set of his shoulders easing, and he turned toward Gray and Cade, moving slowly toward the injured woman as he spoke.

“We’re going to have to get the hell out of Atlanta on our own,” Brandt announced, not looking at any of them. “What’s left of the fucking government is pretty much useless. We won’t get any help from them.” He paused beside Cade, glancing around the room, taking in the rows of tables and chairs. “We’ll take one of the Hummers parked outside, at least as far as outside the city. The gas mileage is shit, so we’ll find something else once we get to that point. We’ll take any supplies here we can find, food, water, first aid, whatever you think might be useful.” He paused again, kneeling beside Cade and brushing his fingers gently over her cheek. “Let’s hurry, okay? I don’t want to spend too much time here, not with Cade like this. And I don’t know about you guys, but I’m ready to get the fuck out of Dodge.”

Ethan sat hunched in a cushioned wooden chair, staring at the cold, round table in front of him. His legs and arms both throbbed. His head didn’t feel any better; it almost felt like he had a hangover, though he hadn’t had a drink in over a year. The wounds in his right thigh and left calf burned and pulsed with pain. Ethan had no fewer than three bites to his arms, one on the right and two on the left, not to mention the shredded flesh on his forearms and, if he wasn’t mistaken, his back and stomach too. Judging by the level of pain he felt in two of the bites to his body, Ethan was sure he was missing skin and perhaps even underlying muscle in those places. He imagined he could feel blood leaking from the wounds, though he knew all five had been painstakingly bandaged while he’d been unconscious. His fresh clothes—the soft, clean khaki pants and white wife-beater—attested to the fact that he’d been well cared for while he’d been out.

What Ethan had trouble wrapping his mind around was how he was even still alive.

Ethan vaguely remembered his fight against the infected, how they’d blocked the alley’s exit, how he’d made the others go while he held the infected off. He remembered the click of his gun as he’d run out of ammunition. He remembered his attempts to reload. He remembered the febrile heat of the stinking bodies that closed in on him. He remembered the hands on his arms and legs and his frantic thrashing as he tried to get away. And he remembered the pain as the teeth sank into his flesh.

Ethan didn’t remember how he’d gotten to where he sat now, in a cool, dim room presumably somewhere in Atlanta, dirty and sore and aching, his head throbbing and his skin hot with fever.

By all rights, Ethan should have been dead. Even if he’d somehow managed to escape the ravenous horde of infected—which he shouldn’t have been able to do, considering he’d passed out from the pain—he should have succumbed to the Michaluk Virus by now. But he hadn’t. Something was wrong; he was missing some key information. But for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out what.

As Ethan’s mind tried to dredge up the missing pieces of the puzzle, the single door leading into the room swung open, and a woman stepped inside. She spoke soft words to someone on the other side of the door before she shut it behind her and walked to the edge of the table. She set a thick manila folder onto the table with deliberate care and then simply stood there, arms crossed, observing Ethan silently. Ethan managed to lift his head long enough to look at the woman in return. For several long moments, they watched each other in total silence.

The woman was tall and very slender, but not unhealthily so. A pair of startlingly green eyes looked out from a pale heart-shaped face framed by the reddest hair Ethan had ever seen. Her slim, long legs were wrapped in black jeans, her torso clad in a t-shirt and a black vest that appeared to be Kevlar. A belt with a gun holster strapped to it hung low on her hips. The woman looked nearly as capable as Cade, like she could handle herself in a fight without breaking a sweat.

Ethan’s heart tried to jam itself into his throat at his fleeting thought of his best friend. He swallowed it back down with difficulty and looked up to meet the woman’s eyes before he finally spoke. He asked the first question that came to mind.

“Why am I not dead?”

Ethan’s question broke the spell hovering between them. The redheaded woman slid into the chair across from him. Her green eyes flickered to Ethan’s bared arms and the bandages that adorned them before she replied, “Because we dragged you out of there.”

“But I should be infected,” Ethan pointed out. He kept his voice low and quiet and mostly steady. Ethan looked down at his own arms. He touched the bandage wrapped around his right forearm gently. “I was bitten. A lot. I lost my gun. I couldn’t shoot myself.” He paused and swallowed again. “I should have the virus. I should be dead.”

“You should,” the woman agreed solemnly. “But you aren’t.”

Ethan licked his lips and glanced around the darkened room again. There were two large windows on one side of the wall, covered by heavy, thick curtains. Only the single door through which the woman had entered led to the outside. Besides the table and two chairs, there was a bed in the center of the room. A door led to a tiny bathroom. There were no personal effects to be seen. It reminded Ethan of a hotel: Spartan and abnormally clean.

Ethan cleared his throat and asked, “Where are we?”

“We’re in the Westin in downtown Atlanta,” the woman answered. “My name is Alicia Day. I’m in charge here. The hotel is secure, so don’t worry about that. We have people on it day and night. I had you brought here after my colleagues and I dragged you out of that alley.”

Ethan looked down at the table again. The wound in his thigh let out another spike of pain. He sucked in a breath and waited for the stab of pain to subside to a dull ache. “How long have I been here?” he asked once it had receded.

Alicia’s green eyes flickered to the large black cuff watch wrapped around her wrist. “Eight hours,” she answered after a second’s calculation. “Give or take thirty minutes.”

Ethan shook his head in bewilderment as her words settled into his brain, and he reached up to run his left hand through his hair. He flinched as the movement caused a jolt of pain to rock through his left bicep, and he dropped his arm again before his hand reached his hair. “
Eight hours?
” he repeated. His eyes were so wide that he was sure they’d roll right out of his head. “How the
hell
am I still alive? How am I sitting here without wanting to tear you into pieces?” He nodded toward the curtained windows. “How am I not like those
things
out there?”

Alicia flicked her wrist in Ethan’s direction. An object the size of a thin permanent marker shot across the table between them. Ethan’s hand snapped out and slapped down on top of the object before he realized he’d even done it. He lifted his palm reluctantly and was surprised to see an auto-injector on the table before him.

“What is this?” he asked suspiciously.

“It’s your medication,” Alicia replied. She paused and studied Ethan’s face for a long moment before she added quietly, “You have Michaluk, Ethan.”

Ethan let out a slow breath as his lurking suspicions were confirmed. “Fuck,” he said softly. He leaned forward to rest his forehead against the heel of his hand. “Why am I not showing symptoms?”

“I suspect you are, to some degree,” Alicia said. “You have a fever. You’ll always have an elevated body temperature compared to what you used to have. It’s not 98.6 anymore. You’re looking at somewhere around 100 to 101.”

“Is that why I feel like shit?” Ethan asked tiredly.

“No, you feel like shit because you got your ass handed to you by an entire horde of infected,” Alicia said matter-of-factly.

Ethan rolled the auto-injector back and forth on the table with two fingers, watching it move for a moment as he contemplated Alicia’s words. “So is this a cure?”

“There isn’t a cure,” Alicia corrected softly. She pushed her red hair back from her face and motioned to the auto-injector. “It’s a medication cocktail. The combination of medications suppresses the symptoms of the Michaluk Virus, basically buying us time to find a cure for it. It doesn’t work all the time. We have to get the victim the first dosage within minutes of infection. That’s why we had you isolated here. We had to make sure we got it into you soon enough. We’ve watched you for the past eight hours to see if you’d show any symptoms. Other than elevated body temperatures, which are normal, you haven’t. If you had, we would have put you down as humanely as possible.”

Ethan sat back in his chair, moving slowly so he didn’t jar his injuries more than necessary. “How did you guys come up with this … suppression medication?” he asked.

“We’ve had some leads,” Alicia said cryptically. She sat forward to look at Ethan, and her line of thought suddenly shifted. “Have you ever met a woman named Avi Geller?”

Ethan blinked, surprised by Alicia’s new question. He stared at her as he tried to find his voice. “Avi?” he repeated. “Yeah. Yeah, I know Avi. She was with us until … until we got into Atlanta.”

“We know about her death,” Alicia said. There was a hint of sadness in her voice, but she covered up the emotion quickly and continued. “We sent her after you late last year, when we discovered some incredibly important information in the remains of the Centers for Disease Control.”

“Wait, wait,” Ethan said quickly. He held up a hand to stop Alicia and shook his head. “The CDC? But that’s where Avi wanted us to take her to begin with. She said that …” He trailed off as Alicia started to shake her head. She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear before she spoke again.

“That’s what she was told to tell you,” Alicia corrected. “Truth be told, we had all the relevant information we needed from the CDC from the word go.” Alicia paused, as if contemplating how much to tell Ethan, and then she finally said, “When we realized that your group was involved, we sent Avi to track you down. We told her to get you all here by any means necessary, to tell you whatever she needed to tell you to get you to agree to come with her.”

“But why me?” Ethan asked, baffled. “What did you want with me?”

“We didn’t want you,” Alicia said. “Well, not you per se. We were after this man.” She pressed a hand to the top of the folder she’d brought with her and slid it across the table to Ethan. “Do you know Michael Evans?”

Ethan frowned. “Michael Evans?” he repeated. “No, I can’t say I do.” Even as he spoke, he looked at the folder in front of him. The tab bore a computer-printed label that had a series of numbers and letters listed on it, and below the numbers, in neatly spaced lettering, it read, “Evans, Michael Brandt.” Alarm bells began to chime in Ethan’s head. “But I know a
Brandt
Evans. What’s he got to do with anything, though?”

Alicia nodded and shifted to turn her chair around. She straddled it, resting her forearms against the back of the chair, before she continued. “Lieutenant Michael Brandt Evans of the United States Marines,” Alicia recited. She motioned to the folder before Ethan. He slowly folded the cover open. The first thing on which his eyes landed was a photograph of Brandt, paper-clipped to the top page of the papers inside. His familiar brown eyes stared out at Ethan, face unsmiling. He was uniformed, and a dress cap adorned his head. “Test subject number fourteen,” Alicia said. “Testing began in December 2008, continuing into January 2009, when the Michaluk Virus escaped from the CDC.”

“Test subject fourteen?” Ethan repeated weakly, even as he leaned over to take in the medical charts and information printed on the papers inside.

“Evans escaped CDC custody with the assistance of a scientist at the onset of the initial outbreak,” Alicia explained. “The scientist told him he’d been given a placebo as part of the control group in the testing of what has become the Michaluk Virus. We have reason to believe that that scientist may have lied through his teeth to Evans when he told him he was clean.”