A last sporadic burst of gunfire punctuated the silence after Ethan’s words. “We’re done, Ethan. There aren’t any more. We got them all,” Alicia said. She stood silent for a moment and then lashed out, punching Ethan’s shoulder. Ethan flinched and sidestepped away from her. “What the fuck were you thinking, running into the fuckers like that? Huh? You could have gotten yourself killed!”
Ethan jammed the gun back into his jeans’ waistband, striding across the garage to the door leading into the hotel proper. He skirted a few people emerging through the door as Alicia said something to Dominic. Then she hurried after him, still berating him as he shoved the door open.
“You’re fucking insane, you know that? Absolutely crazy. You’re going to get one of us killed, and—”
“Shut the fuck up, Alicia,” Ethan snapped. He pulled the Glock from his jeans and turned on her. Her cheek twitched as she tried to not flinch at his sudden movement. He shoved the sidearm toward her chest. “Here, take the fucking thing.”
Alicia took it and ran her fingers along the slide before ejecting the magazine, reloading it with bullets from her pocket as methodically as she’d shot the infected in the parking garage. Then she slapped the magazine back into the gun, chambered a round, and handed it back to Ethan grip first, much to his surprise.
“I think you’ve earned the right to carry this,” Alicia said solemnly. She pushed past him and stalked down the hall, quickly disappearing into the darkness.
Chapter 7
Brandt was torn from sleep by the sound of the fire alarm blaring through his room. Thankfully, his reaction was only to open his eyes and look around in bewilderment; it wasn’t like the movies, where people suddenly sat up, gasping and panting, when they were woken by something unexpected.
That was how the end of Brandt’s world began: with him simply opening his eyes.
Brandt pushed himself to a sitting position. He scrunched his eyes in the bright lights that flickered on, covering his ears as the screeching alarm echoed in his skull, rattling his brain. His head swam with the movement, and his stomach churned with nausea as he tried to figure out what was going on.
The fluorescent lights flickered as the power surged. Their brightness was further aided by the pulsing light from the fire alarm system mounted above the door. Brandt grimaced and slid out of bed to search for pants. He didn’t smell smoke, but he wanted to be prepared in case something had happened that required the evacuation of the CDC. He dragged a pair of sweatpants from the dresser by the bed and pulled them on as he glanced at the door. It was likely a false alarm. If that was the case, he was going to be pissed.
The shriek of the fire alarm’s siren shut off. The silence was oddly loud to his ears, and he shook his head as if he could shake the lack of sound loose. The alarm’s strobe lights continued to flash against the white walls of the “guest” room he’d called home for the past month; the effect was dampened only by the lights that accompanied their awakening. Brandt glanced at the door once more before stumbling to the bathroom and fumbling for the watch he’d left on the sink the night before. His fingers closed around it, and he squinted at the digital numbers. 5:58 a.m.
“Well, ain’t that some shit?” Brandt said out loud. “Two more minutes was too much to ask for, huh?”
Brandt looked at the shower stall thoughtfully before he shook his head and picked up his toothbrush. He figured he’d forego the shower he normally took in the mornings; he hadn’t done anything to work up a sweat in the past twelve hours anyway. Maybe he could go back to sleep until his doctor dropped in for his morning visit.
Brandt spat the toothpaste out and rinsed before he looked at his arm. He smoothed a wrinkle out of the medical tape holding the heparin lock in place on the inside of his elbow. Not for the first time, Brandt wondered if he was doing the right thing. It felt like the right thing. The idea of helping others, even at the potential sacrifice of his health, was a noble one. At least he hoped it was. It was something he’d done every day during active duty, so he didn’t see what was so different about this. It wasn’t like he had anything else going for him anymore.
He liked to think his sister would be proud of his efforts to do something with his life, to help other people—even though he wasn’t even able to tell her what he was doing.
Brandt was shaving his face when the sound of a loud bang echoed down the hall outside his quarters. He startled, the disposable razor blade nicking his jaw. The bang was followed by a scream and the distinctive chatter of gunfire. Brandt slowly straightened, drying his face. His instincts shrieked at him, but he forced them to be quiet as another burst of gunfire broke out in the hall. The noise was accompanied by booted footsteps running past the door.
“What the hell?” Brandt muttered. He wiped at the blood on his jaw and dabbed at the water that dripped onto his bare chest. He pushed away from the sink, tucking his watch into the pocket of his sweatpants. He slowly approached the door that led to the hallway, his eyes flicking to the narrow window set into the door. Several dark figures darted by, their footsteps sounding in time with the shadows. Brandt instinctively ducked to stand beside the door, pressed against the wall so he wouldn’t be seen from the hallway. His mind spun as he tried to figure out what was going on.
Brandt contemplated going into the hall to find out, but he didn’t want to do it without a weapon in his hand. He scanned the room, but he knew the search would be useless; the CDC’s doctors had already combed through all the rooms and his belongings, removing anything that could have been used to injure himself or others, just in case his medical regimen caused suicidal or homicidal tendencies. Brandt spotted a ballpoint pen on the desk, possibly left by his doctor the evening before. He snatched it up, gripping his shitty weapon tightly in his fist and resuming his study of the door. Sporadic gunfire from the other side was the only sound to punctuate the flashing light in the room.
Brandt was hardly prepared when the door flew open, but he still managed a step forward. He raised the pen defensively, ready to strike out at the danger coming through the door.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa! Michael! Stop!” a voice shouted. A hand closed around Brandt’s wrist, stopping his arm’s forward momentum. Brandt stumbled and yanked his arm away from the figure entering the room.
“Fuck, Doc, you trying to get yourself killed?” Brandt asked. He lowered his arm and glared, even as Derek Rivers slammed the door closed and locked it behind him. But before Brandt could voice the question on the tip of his tongue—“What the hell is going on out there?”—Derek shoved him away from the door and across the room before dumping an armload of clothing into his hands.
“No time for questions,” Derek said urgently. He pushed the clothes more firmly into Brandt’s arms and added a pair of combat boots to the pile. “Get dressed. Fast. We’ve got to get you out of here.”
“What’s going on?” Brandt persisted. He set the clothes on the desk and found the shirt in the pile. He started to change as Derek tried to explain.
“The pathogen. The one we’ve been testing on all of you,” Derek said. He pulled a pair of scissors from his lab coat pocket and snagged Brandt’s wrist, snipping the medical bracelet from it. “It’s gotten out, Michael. And it’s bad.”
Brandt was instantly alert. “How bad?”
“All over the city bad,” Derek said. “It’s mutated. It’s spreading like mad and making people go insane. People are killing people everywhere. It started three days ago.”
“My sister?” Brandt asked. “Where is my sister? Is she okay?”
“I don’t … I don’t think so,” Derek admitted. “Emory is gone. It was sealed off by the military two days ago in an attempt to contain the spread. Everyone on campus … they’re gone.”
“Jesus.” Brandt sank down onto the bed, feeling like the wind had been knocked from his lungs. Olivia, gone? He couldn’t wrap his mind around it. He stared emptily at the wall for a long moment before drawing in a breath and asking, “So what does
this have to do with me?” He put the boots on as he spoke. They fit well, he noticed as he laced them up. He wiggled his feet inside and discovered that the boots were perfectly snug and comfortable.
“It’s got everything to do with you,” Derek said. “The government has ordered a stop to the testing. They want it shut down.”
“Okay, so shut it down,” Brandt said.
“We can’t just ‘shut it down,’ Michael. You don’t understand.” Derek closed his eyes. “It’s not that easy. All of you pose a significant danger to everyone else out there. You have potentially unstable versions of the pathogen in your systems. No one knows what will happen if you’re exposed to the mutated version out there. You’re not supposed to be allowed to leave.” He blew out a breath. “Shutting the program down is a euphemism. They’re killing them all. They’re killing us all.”
Brandt’s head jerked up, seemingly of its own accord. He looked at the doctor, who stood before him with his shoulders slumped in defeat. “All of us?” he repeated. “Even …”
“Doctors, nurses, scientists, lab techs, everyone who has been potentially exposed to the original pathogens,” Derek explained. He grabbed Brandt’s arm again and removed the heparin lock from the inside of his elbow with a smoothness born of many years of practice. A speck of blood dotted Brandt’s forearm, and Derek wiped it away with the edge of his coat. “But we’re not going to let them take everyone. We’ve got to get you out of here.”
“Why me?” Brandt asked. “Why not the others too?”
“Because by the time we finish in here, they’ll all likely be dead,” Derek said. He shook his head slowly. “What a waste.” He dipped his hand into his lab coat pocket again and pulled out a Beretta M9, handing it and a sheathed KA-BAR knife to Brandt. “Take these. You’ll need them. First opportunity you get, you grab whatever additional weapons you can find. Now get out of here.”
“What about you?” Brandt persisted.
“I’ll be fine. Go.” Derek shoved Brandt toward the door and moved to unlock it. “Oh, and Michael? Don’t get killed, okay? You might be needed one day.”
Brandt’s eyes snapped open.
Chapter 8
Cade woke to the sound of Brandt vomiting. This wasn’t anything new; she’d been awakened by the sound at least three times in the three days she’d been awake after her long illness. It was worrisome, and the first time, she’d gone to the bathroom door to make sure he was okay and had gotten it slammed in her face for her troubles. After that, Cade didn’t bother getting out of bed.
He’d be fine, she assured herself as she shifted onto her back. The healing wound in her side let out a pang of protest at the movement. She squinted at the watch on her wrist, just barely deciphering the hour hand pointing to the three, and pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes with a soft groan.
Cade hoped this would be the last time she’d be woken up by Brandt being ill. She was worried about him, sure. But she was also tired of being woken so early. She still hadn’t caught up on the rest she so desperately needed. She felt near tears with the urgent need and total inability to go back to sleep.
Cade looked to the closed bathroom door and debated checking on him this time. That involved getting out of bed—which was still painful no matter how she did it—and slogging her way to the door. It wasn’t an appealing thought. She heaved a tired sigh and sat up, grabbed the nearest thing resembling a blanket—Brandt’s jacket, draped over the arm of the chair by the bed—and slung it over her shoulders before working her way out of bed with the ease and grace of an old woman.
It’d been slightly over a month since their flight from Atlanta, and the event was still hazy. All Cade remembered were chaotic images and noises flashing through her mind: a flicker of Brandt’s tired, strained face; the sound of squealing tires; gunshots ringing out above her head; and Brandt’s voice, saying over and over, nearly chanting, “Stay with me, Cade. For the love of God, stay with me.” And the pain, unceasing and pulsing in her side, the sticky feeling of blood trickling down to stain the waistband of her jeans. She remembered the wind in her hair, the sound of Remy sobbing, and the scent of the ocean as they reached their destination: a house near the coastline just inside South Carolina. And now, a month after their arrival, Cade was on the mend and conscious enough to worry about Brandt.
Cade was halfway across the bedroom, her toes freezing on the cold floorboards, when she heard a couple of thuds in the bathroom. The sound was accompanied by Brandt spitting toothpaste out before the bathroom door eased open. His face was wet and flushed, his eyes bloodshot, and his hair damp. But he looked far better than he had when he’d first woken her by flinging himself out of bed.
Cade took a few steps toward him, wrapping the jacket tighter around her shoulders. “You okay?” she asked.
“Shit, Cade, what are you doing out of bed?” he asked, avoiding her question. He took her elbow and led her back to the large bed. “You shouldn’t be up and around like this. Your side—”
“Is just fine,” she interrupted. “I’ll survive. I promise. Are you okay?”
Brandt sighed and let go of her elbow, flipping the bedsheets back and motioning for her to climb in. He waited until she was in the bed again before he slid underneath the sheets himself. Cade could see his muscles shift under his skin, even through the thin t-shirt he wore. He ran his hand through his dark hair and flopped back against his pillows before answering her. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just had a bad dream is all.”
“And that made you puke?” Cade asked doubtfully.
Brandt shrugged. “I don’t know. It could happen, I suppose.” He rolled onto his side, his dark eyes searching her face in the early-morning haze as she wiggled out of his jacket and tossed it back onto the chair. “Sorry I woke you up again. How’s your side?”
Cade shrugged halfheartedly and prodded gently at the wound, working her fingers over the skin around the bandage before she huffed out a breath. “It’s sore, but it’s not like it was when we first got here. It’ll probably be another two weeks or so before it gets anywhere close to healed enough for anything strenuous.”
Brandt tugged at the white tank top she wore. “Let me see,” he requested, his voice demanding. Cade raised an eyebrow and smirked.
“Is this just a ploy to get me naked, Mr. Evans?” Cade joked with a laugh. She wiggled out of the tank top, easing it slowly over her head so she wouldn’t hurt herself further.
“Cade, I guarantee you, sex is the last thing on my mind right now,” Brandt said. He set her shirt aside and began picking at the tape holding the gauze over her wound. It took him only a few moments to peel it away, and when the row of messy stitches was exposed, he leaned closer to study it in the darkness. Cade felt his warm breath against her skin, and she suppressed a shiver.
“That’s a relief,” Cade said with a smirk. Brandt prodded at her wound, and a dull stab of pain darted through her side. “I really don’t think I could manage anything right now anyway, even if I actually was in the mood. Which I’m not.”
Brandt gave Cade a smile and crawled up the bed. He pressed a soft kiss to her lips, his fingers twisting into her dark hair. “Not even for that?” he asked. He smirked and rubbed his hand over her bare, uninjured side. Cade raised an eyebrow suspiciously and wiggled from underneath him, somehow managing to not hurt herself in the process.
“You, sir, are getting a little too forward,” she warned. A nervous flutter stirred in her stomach. She avoided the disappointed look in the man’s eyes and reached for the first-aid kit on the bedside table. “You’re supposed to be bandaging my side back up.”
Brandt hesitated before nodding and sitting up. He grabbed the kit from her and dumped it out onto the bed. “Yeah, okay,” he said. He picked the gauze and medical tape from the small pile. “The last person I heard use that term was my grandmother. Forward?” he asked casually. Despite his light tone, Cade could tell he was deeply hurt. She bit her lip and took his hand, squeezing it gently.
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“I’m sorry. I’m just … I’m not sure I’m comfortable with … all this yet,” Cade said. She waved her hand around in the space between them. “It’s just … I don’t know. Too fast.”
Brandt set the gauze on Cade’s stomach, not meeting her eyes. “So what was last month?” he asked, picking up the wound cleanser and applying it to Cade’s side. “Just a fling? Something stupid that seemed like a good idea at the time but in reality wasn’t?”
“It was … it was nice,” Cade said lamely. She didn’t look directly at him. “But I was scared, and you were there. And I just … I really do like you, Brandt. I’m just not sure I’m ready for any of this. Not in the circumstances we live in.”
Brandt was silent as he taped the gauze to her side with more roughness than was strictly necessary. A jab of pain ran through her side at the treatment, and she winced. When he was done, Brandt repacked the kit and set it heavily onto the table. Then, not looking at Cade, he asked, “So when is shit not going to be too soon? Or will it always be, ‘Not yet, Brandt’?” The frustration was thick in his voice; Cade felt guilty as she diverted her eyes from him.
“I don’t know,” she confessed.
Brandt pressed his lips together and nodded again, lying down beside her once more. “Fine. Whatever,” he muttered. “I don’t have time for this. Gray and I are going out for supplies in the morning. I’ve got to get some sleep.”
Cade swallowed hard and opened her mouth to speak, but before she could manage to put together any words, Brandt rolled over and put his back to her, very pointedly indicating that the conversation was over.
Chapter 9
Ethan stood at the foot of his bed, his arms crossed over his chest, watching Alicia sort through a pile of objects suitable for travel that were spread out on the bed. He clenched his teeth and dug his blunt nails into the soft skin on the underside of his arms as she rolled up two t-shirts and stuffed them into her black backpack. Alicia was going on some sort of excursion, and so far, she’d refused to tell him anything about it. He wanted to go. He was dying to go, dying to get out of this damned hotel and do something, anything other than pace in his room and occasionally go down to the eighth floor for food. To say he was going stir-crazy was an understatement.
The Becoming: Revelations Page 5
