The Becoming: Ground Zero (5 page)

Footsteps thudded rapidly through the living room. They were searching for her. The knowledge wasn’t scary—it was almost exhilarating. Remy drew in a deep breath and nearly choked on a lungful of stale air and gas. She struggled not to cough, not to give away her position too soon. But it wouldn’t have mattered anyway.

The kitchen door flew open, banging against the wall. Remy clenched her teeth harder on the keychain flashlight and swung the shotgun up to her shoulder. She opened fire on the infected woman that stumbled into the room.

The bathrobed woman fell back under the spray of buckshot that erupted from the shotgun’s barrel. Remy smirked and stepped to the side, aligning herself with the door and moving in full view of the infected. She lifted the shotgun again and focused her aim on the man who moved up to take the woman’s place. Remy stepped closer and squeezed the trigger, emptying the shotgun’s second barrel directly into the man’s face. He collapsed into a heap and didn’t move again.

The woman slowly dragged herself from the floor. None of the shot had broken through to her brain. Remy growled as she realized she’d wasted the shot and swung the rifle, slamming it into the woman’s temple. The impact jarred the weapon from her hands. Remy gritted her teeth and pulled her bolo knife free from its sheath again and followed with her handgun, holding both up defensively. The remaining infected swept past the woman on the floor, trampling her into the linoleum, flooding the kitchen and coming straight at Remy.

Remy swore and squeezed the handgun’s trigger rapidly, shifting the barrel from one infected to the next. She fired the bullets she had left, dropping first one of the infected and then another. She breathed shallowly, in short gasps, as she tried to not take in too much of the gas that was building up in the room.

The four shots went quickly.
Too
quickly. The slide locked to signal an empty chamber. Remy swallowed hard and shoved the gun back into the waistband of her jeans. If she managed to escape and returned to the group’s hideout without the gun, Cade would skin her alive. Guns were sparse enough now as it was. Cade wouldn’t mind the shotgun’s loss—they didn’t have much ammunition for it anyway, and what they had was too bulky to transport easily—but the loss of the handgun would be unforgiveable.

Remy turned to the last weapon she had in her arsenal: her bolo knife. She’d clung to the weapon since the Michaluk Virus wreaked its havoc on the world. It had belonged to her grandmother, and had ensured her survival more than once. Remy smirked and looked upon the group of remaining infected gathered in the room. They sized each other up, their many eyes upon Remy’s slender form. Anyone who saw the scene would not be placing any bets on Remy.

Remy pressed back into the counters, feeling the cold granite bite into her lower back. She touched the box of matches in her pocket for reassurance. She was sure she could get to them in plenty of time. She glanced fleetingly at the shotgun on the floor; it was empty, but it would make a fantastic melee weapon. Without taking her eyes off the infected, Remy hooked her heel over the weapon and dragged it back to her. She slowly knelt to pick it up and wielded it in her left hand, her right grasping the knife tightly.

Remy barely made out a twitch of movement in the dim beam of her flashlight. One of the infected took a step forward. And then they were all moving, creeping toward Remy like cats stalking a mouse.

Remy smirked around the flashlight. Then, with all the strength in her body, she slung the empty shotgun directly into the mass of infected. The shotgun slammed into them, and they scattered just enough for Remy to follow through, bolo knife raised. She ran directly into their midst, swinging the knife with all her might.

Remy and the infected collided at the center of the kitchen. Their snarls filled her ears, their hands grasping at her clothes and hair, tugging and pulling her every way they could. But Remy was faster than their teeth and claws. Her blade flashed dully in the dim light, and hands and limbs met the floor. The linoleum quickly became slick with blood. A hand grasped the thick ponytail at the back of Remy’s head and pulled hard. Remy’s head jerked back, and she gasped; her heel slipped in a puddle of blood. The flashlight fell from her teeth, and the room went dark.

The blood on the floor was her salvation. She went down hard, her hair slipping from the grasp of the infected man. She dropped to her knees, gritting her teeth and suppressing a cry at the sharp pain from the impact. She blessedly managed to keep a tight grip on her knife, and she crawled rapidly from underneath the still-standing infected. She scrambled to her feet under cover of darkness, feeling along the counter, lashing out with the knife. Her fingers bumped the edge of the stove, orienting her. The stench of gas choked her.

Abandoning her spot by the stove, Remy stuffed her hand into her pocket and pulled out the small box of matches. She moved to the back door, found the knob, and wrenched it open, even as she fumbled a match out of the box with the hand that still held her knife. Opening the door allowed dusk to flood into the room, and Remy took a step into the fresh air. Then she looked into the kitchen.

The handful of infected that hadn’t been cut down by the hacking and slashing of the bolo knife rushed toward her, their hands outstretched. The smirk on Remy’s face turned into a wide grin. She struck the match and shoved it back into the box with the rest. The entire box went up in flames and nearly burned her. Without another thought, Remy tossed the burning mass into the kitchen and kicked the back door closed before she dove to one side.

The rush and roar of gas igniting exploded the late evening. The screams of the trapped infected rose into a cacophony of noise and violence and sent Remy scrambling to her feet. She half-crawled for the seeming safety of the street, desperate to get out of the area and back to the safe house as fast as she could, before the noise of their deaths called more attention to her.

Gray fumed and pushed past Ethan, gritting his teeth and storming to the stairs. Ethan
never
failed to piss him off, regardless of the topic of conversation. They could have been discussing the weather or food rations or whether it was better to shoot the infected in the head or decapitate them. It almost always came to an argument, and more than once, it had degenerated to physical blows.

Gray noticed Cade rifling through her bags, studying their contents as if deciding what to take with her, and he stopped short. She was focused, her lips moving silently as she recited a list of items to herself. Gray sighed and moved toward the Israeli woman. Even if he couldn’t go with his older brother and Cade to track Remy down, the least he could do was offer potentially useful information. Gray wanted to go out there, though. He wanted so badly to help that it almost hurt. The thought of Remy out there alone terrified him.

Gray shook his head to rid himself of the creeping feeling in his gut. He touched Cade’s shoulder gently. “Hey,” he said.

“Yeah?” Cade didn’t look up as she spoke, still engrossed with the contents of her bag.

Gray tried to jostle off the year-old sense of déjà vu before continuing. “Last time I saw Remy, she was near the third house on the left. The stucco-looking one. It’s off-white with a few trees out front and a beat-up green truck in the driveway.”

Cade grabbed an empty green bag from under the dining table and started to stuff ammunition and survival packs into it. The packs were Brandt’s idea, put forward after his and Cade’s separation from the rest of the group the year before. The packs contained dried foods, bottled water, and basic first aid supplies in case they had to evacuate quickly or got cut off from the rest of the group again.

“We probably won’t be back until morning,” Cade warned. “Don’t expect us until after dawn. It’s too late in the evening to try to get here before sunset. Hopefully, four of us will walk back in here come morning.”

Gray clenched his teeth and turned away. As much as he hated to admit it, Gray didn’t have much hope for Remy’s survival. The situation had been bad. Considering how quickly he’d run out of ammunition, Gray had no doubt that Remy eventually ran out too. Regardless of their opinions on Remy’s current status—and despite his and Ethan’s general animosity toward each other—they were a tightly knit team. None of them would rest until they knew what happened to Remy, one way or the other.

The way the seven of them had meshed was odd, especially considering the short amount of time they’d known each other. Granted, there were exceptions: He and Theo, of course, grew up together, and Cade and Ethan had been best friends for over seven years. Overall, though, they were strangers to each other when the Michaluk Virus broke out, and they were thrown together in circumstances that bordered on desperate. The ease with which they worked together was a miracle. They spent almost all their time together: They ate together, they slept together, and they fought together. With so much time spent crammed in the same space, it was a wonder they hadn’t
killed
each other yet.

Gray got along well with almost all of them. The only tension was between him and Ethan. Gray knew the cause, and he wasn’t foolish enough to ignore it. It was
everything
to do with Remy Angellette.

Gray had fallen for Remy. Hard. It didn’t take long for it to happen, either; he spent so much time with the young woman while she recuperated from her ordeal in Biloxi that they got to know each other very well. Maybe it was because they were nearly the same age, with similar backgrounds. Maybe it was because they both lost nearly their whole families. Maybe it was because Gray had feelings for Remy that he suspected were shared but not acted upon.

Maybe he was just imagining all of it.

Ethan’s attraction to Remy was something of an open secret. It was obvious to all of them, though no one knew why Ethan never acted on it. Gray theorized that it had to do with Ethan’s departed wife. Despite that lack of movement, though, Ethan seemed to think that Gray had horned in on territory that wasn’t even Ethan’s yet—if it ever would be. And if Gray had anything to say about it, Ethan would
never
have the opportunity to tread on that ground.

Cade brushed past Gray and went up the stairs, shaking him free from his deep thoughts. Gray watched the woman ascend to the second floor before he glanced back at Ethan. The older man was still glued to the front door. Brandt hovered behind him, clutching the gun he took out with him earlier in the day—no doubt one of the many weapons he had about his person. Brandt Evans was a man with whom Gray didn’t spend a lot of time. In all honesty, the big man was absolutely intimidating, primarily because of his height and strength. Couple that with his frightening skills in dispatching the infected, skills that only Remy and Cade had been able to rival, and Gray was justifiably nervous of the man. He’d seen Brandt do it once; the ease with which Brandt took out five infected with nothing but a .45, two bullets, and a butcher’s knife was impressive. Brandt fought like his weapons were natural extensions of his body. Gray didn’t know where Brandt learned to fight like that—he doubted even the Marines trained their soldiers to fight quite at
that
level—but after that episode, Gray avoided ever getting on the man’s bad side.

The sound of footsteps above him brought Gray’s attention back to the stairs. He expected to see Theo and Cade coming down, but instead Nikola descended the stairs, followed by a blond woman Gray had never seen before. Gray raised an eyebrow and pushed his dark hair back from his eyes, tilting his head to study her. The woman was maybe thirty years old, average height, slender by necessity, her blond hair falling to her shoulders and her blue eyes darting about in the same manner everyone’s eyes did. Gray supposed it was the old familiar feel of paranoia working through her system. She likely hadn’t been anywhere near a large group of people in quite some time.

“Who is this?” Gray asked.

“Avi Geller. She just got here,” Nikola said. She couldn’t offer any further information on the new arrival.

Gray was willing to bet that Avi hadn’t gotten a warm reception from Ethan Bennett. Hardly anyone ever did. Gray would be damned if he treated her the same way Ethan likely had. Despite his worries over Remy and the faint twinges of exhaustion tickling at the back of his mind, Gray stepped forward and stuck his hand out, giving the woman a reasonably pleasant smile.

“Welcome to the party,” Gray said. He took Avi’s cold hand in his and gave it a light, friendly squeeze. “I’m Gray Carter.”

“Nice to meet you,” Avi replied. Her strong tone surprised Gray. He hadn’t expected her to sound so … confident. He expected a woman who was a little scared, maybe upset and tired and stressed. “Avi Geller.”

“You staying with us or just passing through?” Gray asked politely. He skimmed his eyes up and down her body again. Avi didn’t look like she’d be much use in a close-quarters fight. Or
any
fight, really. She was too skinny—probably from lack of adequate food, which all of them dealt with now—and she didn’t carry herself like a fighter. She looked like a stiff wind would knock her over.

Avi stepped to the bottom of the staircase, facing Gray. “I’m actually here to—” she began.

“I said we’d discuss it later,” Ethan cut in. Gray shot Ethan a dirty look and rolled his eyes. Ethan ignored Gray. “Right now, we’ve got one of our team missing, and we’re making plans to go out after her.”