The Becoming: Ground Zero (4 page)

Cade’s mental clock barely made it to “one” before Ethan began yelling.

“Remy was in trouble and you just
left
her?” Ethan exploded. He shoved Gray against the nearest wall. Gray squared his shoulders as his back hit, his silvery blue eyes narrowing as he glared at Ethan. He took a step forward and pushed the older man in return.

“I did what she fucking
told
me to!” Gray shouted. His fair skin flushed with anger. “I was out of ammo! What else was I supposed to do? Start punching them? Ask them nicely to go away? There were more of
them
than there were of
us,
and they were getting back up faster than we could put the second bullet in them!” He jabbed an emphatic finger at Ethan. “It’s better to lose only
one
of us than
two,
and you fucking know that!
You’re
the one who’s hammered it into our damned heads over the past year! Or does the philosophical bullshit you like to spout about this war not apply to Remy too?”

Gray’s reasoning was logical, but that didn’t make Cade feel any better about any one of them being out there alone without ammunition or backup.
Especially
not Remy. The woman had no concept of her own mortality, and she threw herself into situations where certain death was avoided only by the width of a hair. Cade’s stomach felt unsettled at the thought.

The situation between the two men was deteriorating; Ethan’s fists were clenched at his sides so tightly that his knuckles were bleach white. Realizing that Brandt was too exhausted to act on the impending fight, Cade stepped between the two men and put her hands up, bracing a palm flat against each of their chests.

“Okay, guys. Cool it. Now,” Cade ordered. “The last thing we need is you two at each other’s throats.”

A floorboard creaked, and Brandt’s outstretched hand appeared in Cade’s line of vision. “Give me more ammo,” he demanded, beckoning with his fingers.

“What for?” Cade asked suspiciously.

“So I can go after her,” Brandt said. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the cuff of his dirty jacket. “You know none of us are going to be any use to anybody unless we know whether she’s alive or dead. And if she’s infected, she’d want us to find her and put her down. She wouldn’t want to live like that.”

“No,” Cade said with a firm shake of her head. She lowered her arms slowly from Gray and Ethan’s chests.

“Cade, we all had an agreement,” Brandt protested. “If one of us gets infected, the rest of us will—”

“I know that, Brandt,” Cade interrupted. “You’ve been out today already. You’re exhausted.”

“I’m fine. I’m not tired.”

“Bullshit,” Cade said mildly. “The last thing you need to do is head out there feeling okay and collapse in a fight. Theo and I will go. Ethan needs to stay here in case the infected find us. Theo and I haven’t been out in two days. I’ll see if that chick upstairs wants to help too.”

“What chick?” Brandt asked. His question went unanswered as Ethan spoke up.

“Maybe she’ll get herself killed while you’re out there and we won’t have to consider her asinine idea,” Ethan muttered. This comment only earned him a painful smack on the back of his head from Cade.

“Don’t even,” Cade warned. She turned to face Nikola. The teenager still hovered by the table, unmoving and silent, watching the action with wide eyes. The young woman never knew how to react when Ethan and Gray went at each other’s throats, and Cade didn’t blame her for staying out of the arguments. “Nikki, go upstairs and wake our guest,” Cade said. “If she wants to be a part of this group, then she can very well come help out.” She moved to the table and started gathering the essentials she and Theo might need. “I’m going to get Theo off the roof. We’ve got some infected to hunt.”

When Gray’s gun ran dry of ammunition, Remy told him to get out of there. She forced him to leave her behind and go back to the safe house for help. She insisted that she would be fine, that she would finish this, and that she had plenty of ammunition left. She also had her bolo knife. What more could she possibly need?

That was, of course, before Remy lost her bag. She hadn’t so much
lost
it as had it physically torn from her shoulder. The desperate wiggle she made as she slipped out of the strap, as cold hands grasped at her, tore at her hair and clothes, was the second-most terrifying moment in her life.

And now Remy ran down the street, her boots pounding the cracked pavement. She dodged crookedly parked cars and scattered luggage and toys and other debris, the remains of a long-gone neighborhood. Her heart raced, and her lungs heaved, stuttering in the cold evening air. Remy wanted desperately to stop, catch her breath, and calm her heartbeat. But she couldn’t stop, not with what followed her.

The infected.

There were at least a dozen, running and lurching and staggering along behind her. They wanted nothing more than the taste of her flesh between their teeth. They wanted her screaming and thrashing, fighting and kicking and clawing at their skin until they overwhelmed her and returned the favor.

Remy refused to let that happen.

So she ran.

Remy couldn’t keep up this sprint. She’d already run two blocks in the opposite direction of the safe house and her companions. She wouldn’t lead the infected right into the biggest feast of their lives; she wouldn’t endanger her friends in any way, shape, or form. But God, her ankle hurt like hell.

Remy’s hands trembled as she gripped her handgun tighter. She glanced over her shoulder, her hair whipping across her face, obscuring her vision for the barest of moments. But it didn’t block her view of the infected that approached, gaining ground. Remy let out an involuntary desperate gasp—nearly a sob—and looked around frantically, even as she cursed herself for the momentary sound of weakness.

Remy didn’t have many options. On either side of her, houses stood like sentinels, dark and foreboding. None looked welcoming enough—or
safe
enough—to use as shelter. Her ankle let out a twinge of pain, and she stumbled and cried out again. She managed to keep her feet, and she bit down on her bottom lip hard enough to break skin. She tasted blood, tangy and metallic, on her tongue. As if sensing weakness, the infected quickened their advance.

Despite Remy’s reluctance to enter any of the houses, she would have to, if only to buy time to catch her breath, reposition, and plan a defense. She scanned the houses ahead, glancing back to check how close the infected were. Too close for comfort.

Remy shifted the shotgun on her back, making sure the weapon was secure. There were two incredibly valuable shells in it; she had no idea how many bullets were left in her handgun. Those two shells and the unknown number of bullets could mean the difference between life and death. She chose a tall two-story brick house. Its front door stood wide open, and it seemed almost welcoming, inviting Remy inside.

Remy knew the dangers of going into a house without staking it out for infected first; she could easily be walking into another ambush. But considering the dozen-plus infected hot on her heels, Remy didn’t have much choice. She limped onto the sidewalk, fear surging in her veins, and sprinted up the crumbling pathway that cut through the overgrown front yard. She staggered onto the front porch and inside the dark entryway, slammed the door behind her, and threw the bolts.

Remy sagged against the door, struggling to catch her breath. She closed her eyes tightly as her nerves trembled under her skin; as she fought to steady them, her brain scrambled to come up with a plan. She didn’t dare leave her eyes closed for long. It was too risky; it could take only seconds for the infected to get the jump on her, so inattentiveness was the last thing she needed.

This was certainly the toughest trouble she’d ever been in, Remy mused as her brown eyes took in the darkness of the foyer. It might have even been worse than when she was stuck in the RV in Biloxi. At least there, she had someone to drag her out of the mess she’d landed in. Here, in an abandoned house in a tiny town in Alabama, Remy didn’t have that luxury.

A thud shook the door, rattling it in its frame. Remy bolted away from it, her heart racing in a fresh wave of adrenaline. She stumbled to the foot of the staircase on the other side of the foyer, clutching the banister and staring at the front door, eyes wide. She jammed her handgun into the waistband of her jeans before she slowly slid the long blade of her bolo knife free from its sheath. She ground her fingers into its wooden hilt, backing away a few more steps and slapping at her side, searching for a bag that wasn’t on her shoulder anymore. Remy swore and plunged her hand into her pocket instead, fingers sliding into the tiny watch pocket and pulling out a flat, narrow keychain flashlight. She pressed the button on one side, and a dim bluish light flickered on. It only illuminated a foot or two in front of her, nowhere near what she needed, but it would have to do.

Not seeing any immediate dangers, Remy backed into the living room, her eyes locked on the front door. The door shook again; it wouldn’t hold much longer. Remy crossed the dusty living room in a matter of seconds; the little furniture she could see revealed signs of a family that had been well to do and was likely dead. It reminded her of her own family, and she swallowed back a surge of emotion. Now wasn’t the time to think of them. Instead, Remy ducked into the kitchen, shining the light over the dusky room and breathing a sigh of relief as she realized it was empty. Satisfied, she shut the door and stuck her flashlight between her teeth to hold the button down. She dragged a kitchen chair in front of the door and jammed it under the doorknob. She hoped it would help secure the door long enough for her to make a plan. She didn’t have much time.

Remy drew her handgun out of her waistband and ejected the magazine. She rapidly counted the bullets inside. Three, four if she included the one already chambered. She had sworn there were more. Not wasting time trying to figure out where her ammunition went, Remy put the gun away and took the double-barreled shotgun off her shoulder. She cracked it open and made sure the two shells were still there. Six shots and a bolo knife. That was all she had against over a dozen infected that were slamming their bodies against the front door, trying to break it down.

Remy was facing her death. The knowledge only pushed another surge of adrenaline into her body. She felt no fear. She’d long ago resigned herself to the fact that she would likely die at the hands of the infected one day. But she refused to go down without a fight.

Remy turned to the task at hand: weaponry. She tore open a kitchen drawer and dumped its contents onto the granite countertop. There wasn’t much in it that looked likely; it was mostly full of eating utensils. Remy grimaced and threw a spoon across the room in frustration. What was she going to do, spoon the infected to death? The ridiculousness of the thought nearly made her laugh out loud.

As Remy turned back to the kitchen door, her back muscles tensing at the sound of the infected struggling to get inside, the free-standing stove caught her eye. She halted and studied it carefully. A faint, barely noticeable whiff of gas hit her nose, and a smirk crossed her face. She slung the shotgun over her shoulder and grabbed the stove, hauling it away from the wall.

“You beautiful appliance. I could kiss you right now,” Remy murmured around the flashlight, already smelling the gas leaking out into the kitchen. It took only moments to climb onto the counter, find the gas line, and rip it free from the wall. The stench of gas quickly became overwhelming, and she suppressed a cough. A hurried search of the rest of the drawers revealed a small box of matches in one, and she palmed it. The stove would make a perfect improvised firebomb. Brandt would be proud. Assuming Remy survived long enough to tell him about it.

Remy drew in a breath and slung the shotgun back off her shoulder. She held it close to her chest and moved away from the stove. Her fingertips turned white with the force of her grip on the weapon, and she started to shake as she turned her eyes to the kitchen door. Beyond, she could hear the bustle of the infected, the repeated thuds against the front door, their franticness as they fought to get inside. The scent of gas tickled her nose.

Glass shattered somewhere in the house, and Remy stiffened. It was followed by a loud crack like a gunshot and then a crash. Remy rushed forward and nearly let the flashlight fall from her teeth. With a solid kick, she knocked the kitchen chair from its improvised barricade. She would be damned if she cowered behind a flimsy door. She was stronger than that.

Remy looked at the door that led to the back yard and the theoretical safety beyond. She could easily slip out the door while the infected were at the front, and they would be none the wiser. But that wasn’t Remy. She was no coward.

Besides, Remy
wanted
to kill these infected. They
deserved
to die, every last one of them, for what they’d done to her and her family and friends. Every single one of them should be forced to pay the price for the blood that stained their hands, for the lives they destroyed. If Remy had to be the one to deal out their fates, so be it. She would face the task gladly.