The Becoming: Ground Zero (7 page)

“I’m going regardless of your decision, Ethan,” Remy said through the kitchen door. Ethan tensed as Remy opened the door, leaning against the doorframe with a serious look in her eyes. “Whether you’re with me or not, whether
any
of you are with me or not, I’m
going
to go, and I’m
going
to help her.”

Ethan huffed and studied them in turn, a sinking feeling settling into his stomach. Could he really say yes? Could he really tell them to go on what would likely be a suicide mission?

“I need to sleep on it,” Ethan finally said. It was all he could say to buy more time to think, to get his head together. “We all need rest. This is something that should be discussed in the morning, when we’re all rested. It’s not something we should jump into without serious thought. Cade, you’ve got watch until three. I’ll take over then.”

The others retreated up the stairs to their beds as Cade gathered the things she would use during her watch. Ethan’s eyes followed them up the stairs. Serious doubt coursed through him for the first time in as long as he could remember.

Brandt couldn’t sleep. Lack of sleep wasn’t anything new. At least three nights a week, Brandt lay in bed and stared blankly at the ceiling, trying to will his mind into unconsciousness. The sleeplessness happened more often on nights he returned to the safe house from one of his supply excursions. With the adrenaline rush caused by Remy’s disappearance and miraculous return, Brandt was sure that his trouble falling asleep would be much worse than usual.

That wasn’t half the problem, though. Part of Brandt’s mind didn’t care much about Remy, as heartless as that seemed. Remy was a sweet girl, and Brandt got along with her fine. But he wasn’t particularly close to her; the young woman had caused enough trouble for him the year before, when he and Cade launched their nearly disastrous rescue attempt. It was great that Remy returned in one piece. But Brandt was forced to acknowledge that, after the events of last year, he didn’t care whether she did or not.

What was on Brandt’s mind at that moment was Atlanta, Georgia.

Atlanta was too dangerous a city to waltz into on a whim. And what that Avi Geller woman proposed
was
waltzing in on a whim, in Brandt’s opinion. Anything that wasn’t life or death was unnecessary. Brandt didn’t think any of the others comprehended just how badly Atlanta had deteriorated. Oh, they knew it was bad, but they didn’t understand just
how
bad. Brandt knew all too well. The idea of going into Atlanta made him physically sick. Even as Brandt lay there, he could almost feel the bile rising in his throat.

Brandt wasn’t stupid enough to deny that the very idea scared the hell out of him.

He heaved an impatient sigh and sat up. The bedroom spun, and his head swam like it did whenever he lay down for longer than an hour. He pressed a hand against his temple to steady himself and fought off the usual spike of nausea. Brandt didn’t understand where the sick sensation came from or what caused it; it had lingered on and off for the past year, and it was incredibly tiring to wake up with it every morning.

Once the dizziness passed, Brandt pushed the blankets off, shivering in the cold room. He ignored Theo’s soft snores from the other bed, got up, and pulled on a black t-shirt. He didn’t bother to change his jeans; he’d only worn the ones he had on for two days, so they could easily last another day. He sat on the edge of the bed and stuffed his feet into his trusty combat boots, lacing them snugly.

Brandt hesitated at the door and looked around the bedroom thoughtfully. Theo made a soft sound and shifted onto his side, but he didn’t wake up. Brandt sighed and scooped up his holstered gun from the bedside table. He looped it onto his belt and stepped into the chilly hallway. Trying to sleep was pointless. He would spend the rest of the night lying awake, torturing himself with his thoughts.

Brandt made his way down the empty hall to the stairs, pausing beside a closed door and listening. He could just make out the creak of floorboards and the low hum of a voice as Ethan paced restlessly and talked to himself. At least Brandt wasn’t the only person in the house whose brain was on overdrive and preventing sleep.

Brandt paused at the top of the staircase and leaned over the railing, looking into the dark living room below. He couldn’t see Cade from where he stood, but he could make out the sound of her working. A small smile crossed Brandt’s lips, and he moved down the stairs, trying to be quiet. Once he was at the bottom, Brandt peered around the corner of the doorway.

Cade had settled into a chair near the boarded-up front windows, her dark hair pulled back from her face into a neat twist at the back of her head. A small wooden camp table was set up in front of her, a towel with a whetstone on top laid out on it, a bowl of water and a steel rod resting beside the stone. Another camp table was to Cade’s right; two neat rows of handguns rested on it. As Brandt watched, Cade swept the blade of a knife along the stone in a smooth, graceful motion. She focused on the task before her, giving Brandt plenty of time to observe her. Brandt’s eyes followed the movement of her hand as she flipped the knife over to sharpen the other side of the blade. She looked absolutely perfect, absolutely gorgeous, and somehow absolutely deadly all at the same time. Maybe it was the ease with which she worked with every item in their weapons cache that made her seem so formidable.

“Brandt, you’re more than welcome to quit hovering in the doorway,” Cade said suddenly, a smile crossing her face. She lifted the knife to examine the blade in the dim light.

Brandt laughed and stepped into the living room, grabbing a chair to sit across from Cade. “How did you know it was me?” he asked, dropping into the chair and getting comfortable.

“Because you always come down the stairs sounding like an elephant hyped up on LSD,” Cade teased, smirking. She held the knife over the bowl, using her fingers to trickle water along the blade. “You couldn’t do stealth to save your life.”

“Hey, I can do stealth when it matters!” Brandt protested. His own grin spread across his face. He wouldn’t tell Cade that it was only around
her
that he turned into a bumbling idiot who couldn’t walk a straight line. He
did
have some level of pride, after all. He watched Cade with the knife for a long moment before he spoke again. “What have you been doing?”

“Cleaning. Sharpening,” Cade replied, shrugging. She picked up the steel rod and ran the blade over it slowly. “Checking over all our weapons, making sure there aren’t any problems with them. You know, the usual.”

Cade had taken up this very activity almost every evening and often throughout the days when she wasn’t out searching for supplies, Brandt had discovered. She lined up every single gun and knife and melee weapon and bullet and examined them, one by one, cleaning and reloading everything as necessary. It was a smart practice; nothing would be worse than to discover a malfunctioning weapon during a fight. But Cade was borderline obsessive about it, and Brandt wondered if there was something on her mind or if it was just plain insomnia.

“You need any help?” Brandt offered. He didn’t like to sit while someone worked right in front of him; he needed to keep his hands busy. It was the perfect opportunity both to do that and to spend time with Cade, perhaps probe into her brain and find out how she felt about this whole Atlanta situation.

Cade shrugged again and wordlessly offered Brandt one of the sidearms. He weighed it in his hand and examined it closely. It was a Glock 17, a standard service weapon used by police officers before the Michaluk Virus outbreak. Ethan’s gun. It was the same gun Ethan had used for the past year, and as far as Brandt knew, it never let Ethan down. With a weapon as reliable as that, Brandt could understand the former police officer’s reluctance to let it out of his sight unless it was in Cade’s hands.

Brandt sighed and pulled the slide back, locking it into place. He released the magazine and set it on the table between him and Cade, and then he began to disassemble the weapon. As he worked, Brandt snuck peeks at Cade from underneath his lashes, trying to decide how best to broach the subject of Atlanta.

Brandt had always thought that Cade was particularly attractive, even when compared to Remy, to whom the other men in the group gravitated like moths to a light bulb. Brandt didn’t understand the attraction of the younger woman. Remy was too young, her good looks too girlish; her features weren’t quite matured, still having the soft roundness of youth. Cade was twelve years older than Remy and much more womanly in her beauty; every one of those twelve years lent her maturity and hardness that made her that much more gorgeous. She had a foreign, exotic air that Brandt found irresistible. And right then, sitting in the quiet living room, their work lit by a single flashlight and two stubby candles, Brandt was reminded yet again of how much he liked her.

Cade’s voice cut into Brandt’s thoughts, and he flicked his eyes up to her face. “Are you going to?”

Brandt raised an eyebrow. “Am I going to … what?”

“Are you going to go back?” Cade clarified. She slid the sharpened knife back into its sheath and set it on the table.

Brandt rested the sidearm on his thigh and stared at it blankly. Cade was the only person in the group with whom he could be one hundred percent honest, Brandt reminded himself. He tried to disregard the large swaths of his past that he’d hidden not just from her, but from everyone in the group. The thought contradicted the whole “honesty” schtick they’d vowed to stick to and made him feel like a hypocrite and a disgusting ass.

“I don’t want to, no,” Brandt answered.

“But
will
you?” Cade persisted. She leaned forward and rested her elbows against the edge of the table. Her blue eyes were wide with concern as she ducked her head, trying to look him in the face.

Brandt kept his gaze on the Glock and refused to meet Cade’s eyes. There was no telling what she might see.

Only Cade and Ethan knew why going into Atlanta was such a big deal to Brandt. Going
back
into Atlanta, he mentally amended. That he was from Atlanta was something Brandt didn’t tell many people. Among the group, Cade and Ethan were the only ones who knew, only because they’d found him hidden in a house in Gadsden, Alabama, just after the Michaluk Virus began its secondary outbreak. It’d been prudent to tell them something close to the truth at the time, to get them to trust him, because he needed their help. Sometimes, Brandt suspected that the other four knew, though none of them had come out and said so. Despite the knowledge his two closest companions had of his prior involvement in Atlanta, neither knew the details of his time in the city, his direct involvement in its fall, or how he’d come to be in Gadsden and why. He preferred to keep it that way.

When he escaped the city of Atlanta, Brandt had vowed never to go back there, no matter what circumstances might later arise. It was partially a fear of facing large numbers of infected, but it was
mostly
a fear of facing his past. The mere name of the city was enough to dredge up memories that gave him nightmares.

And now some woman had appeared out of nowhere and demanded that Brandt and the others take her into the very place where Brandt swore never to set foot again.

He couldn’t do it. But something inside his gut, some overused instinct honed to a sharp point over the past year, told him that he would likely have to.

“I don’t want to do it,” Brandt said. He still didn’t look at Cade, resting his hand loosely on top of the half-disassembled Glock. “I don’t want to
ever
go inside that city again. But … but if you’re going, then I’m going,” he blurted out. He shifted his eyes up to Cade’s startlingly blue ones for a fleeting moment before he stared across the room, falling silent.

Brandt caught a glimpse of the small smile that Cade gave him as he turned away. “You’d follow me in?” she asked, her voice revealing her surprise at Brandt’s declaration.

“Of course!” Brandt said. He looked back at her and nodded, their eyes meeting again. “Yeah, I’d follow you in. I’ve got your back as long as you’ve got mine. We’ve been through bad shit together before, and it’s worked out fine for us. Why stop now?” Brandt picked up the gun and started to clean and reassemble it slowly, focusing on the task at hand as he admitted softly, “You’re probably the only person here I really trust, you know? Don’t get me wrong. I like the others just fine, and I’d trust them with supplies or gear or whatever. I just wouldn’t trust them with my life. Not in Atlanta.”

“And you would trust me with it?” Cade asked cautiously. She picked up another sidearm and tried to affect a manner of nonchalance. Brandt saw right through the act, and a small smile quirked at the corner of his lip. He stomped it down quickly.

“Yeah, of course. I mean, shit, you’re one of the only people here who knows what you’re doing. I mean,
really
knows what you’re doing,” he emphasized. “The others are good, but with the exception of maybe Ethan, they’ve survived by sheer luck or total insanity. I know that’s not the case with you. If you’re with me, I don’t have to worry about those bastards sneaking up on me and taking me out. And I know that if I get Michaluk, you won’t hesitate to put me down, just like you promised.”