The Becoming (Book 4): Under Siege (33 page)

Brandt’s instincts were too finely honed for
him to ignore, and he dove off the chair without a second thought.
He could hear bullets striking the ground outside and then
hammering the front of the rec center. He crawled underneath the
closest table and covered his head with both hands. Several rounds
broke through the wood that covered the windows and slammed into
tables and chairs and walls.

“Holy shit!” he heard Dominic exclaim in
between rounds.

Brandt looked toward the supply closet’s
open door just in time to see the former DIA agent fall from his
perch halfway up the yellow ladder. Dominic’s fall sent mops and
brooms and buckets clattering. He groaned at the impact, then
rolled over and kicked the door shut. Brandt imagined he’d done
that for extra cover.

There was a break in the shooting, and
Brandt cautiously lifted his head, looking toward the pockmarked
windows at the front of the building. “Dominic, you okay?” he
called.

“Yeah, I’m fine!” Dominic yelled back
through the door. “Why are those sons of bitches shooting at
us?”

“I think they’re dealing with the inf—”

Brandt’s voice was drowned out as the
helicopters opened fire again, and he ducked his head back down,
flattening himself against the rec center’s floor. Several stray
bullets punched through the building’s defenses, and one of them
struck a support holding up the table that Brandt was sheltering
under. It nearly collapsed on his head. He scooted backward as one
end of the table gave way and crashed to the floor. He narrowly
avoided getting struck in the head, and he scrambled to another
table for cover.

As suddenly as the second round of shooting
started, it stopped. Everything was silent except for the
helicopter’s rotors. Brandt lifted his head slowly; it felt as
heavy as a cement block. He looked toward the ceiling. It sounded
like the helicopters were starting to move away; the noise from the
rotors was gradually quieting. The supply closet’s door swung open
silently, and Dominic slipped out, moving toward Brandt in a
bent-over, brisk walk. He dropped down to the floor beside the
table Brandt was under, reached out, and lightly touch his arm.

“Are you okay?” he asked. “You’re not hit,
are you?”

“No, not hit,” Brandt answered. “Though that
doesn’t stop me from feeling like road kill.” He groaned and rolled
over onto his back. He scrubbed his overheated face with both hands
before wiggling from underneath the table.

“Think they wiped out the infected outside?”
Dominic asked, glancing toward the front of the dining area. The
sheets of wood that covered the windows were shredded in places,
and large chunks were missing in others.

“With the rate of fire and the amount of
fire? Maybe,” Brandt replied. “Though I don’t know about you, but
I’m really not game to go look. Hell, I’m barely even game to get
off this
floor
.” He’d managed to roll out from under the
table in a burst of energy that dissipated just as quickly as it
had appeared. He levered himself back onto his hands and knees with
some difficulty, and Dominic looped his arm around Brandt’s waist
and helped him off the floor.

“Maybe I should go up on the roof again and
check things out,” Dominic suggested.

“Probably a good idea,” Brandt agreed. He
half turned, intending to sit down in the nearest chair, but the
sound of more approaching helicopter rotors drew him up short. He
looked warily toward the ceiling, his body tensing in anticipation
of more bullets ripping through the building, but the sound only
got louder and louder on approach. Then something landed on the
roof with a loud thud, and the rotors drowned out anything Brandt
and Dominic could have said to each other. The roar slowly receded
to a high-pitched whine and soon fell silent.

“What the hell is going on out there?”
Brandt asked.

“Sounds like someone might have landed on
the roof,” Dominic replied, and then, as the sound of boots on the
roof reached their ears, he amended, “Okay,
definitely
landed on the roof.” They listened for a moment, and then he asked,
“Military?”

“By the sounds of it,” Brandt agreed.
Something banged, and there was the distinctive sound of a combat
boot thumping against the top rung of the metal ladder. “Also
sounds like they found the trap door.” Brandt hesitated, then
added, “Something doesn’t feel right about this.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Call it instincts,” Brandt said.

Dominic gave him an incredulous look.

“How did they know to stop here at the rec
center?” Brandt explained.

“The infected outside?”

“I don’t know,” Brandt said with a shake of
his head. “Might be more to it than that.” He paused, scanning the
room, and then pointed to the kitchen doors. “Do me a favor and go
in there. Just in case. If it turns out to be nothing, then you can
call me an idiot later.”

Dominic gave Brandt a short nod and
retreated to the kitchen, easing the door shut behind him. The
first of those descending the ladder reached the supply closet. As
Brandt got his first look at the men entering the rec center, he
nearly took a step back in surprise.

The men entering the room were dressed head
to toe in full MOPP 4 gear. Each wore a camouflage-printed
over-garment, thick gloves, and a hood with a protective gas mask.
Each bore an M240 and had a bag buckled to their belt that,
presumably, had more ammunition and supplies in it. None of them
had any visible markings to denote rank or name, save for the very
last person to enter the building. This man had his name on his
chest and the unit’s crest on his shoulder. And unlike the others,
his rank denoting him a major was on his helmet. He strode toward
Brandt as if he belonged there, stopping in front of him and
studying him closely. Then he beckoned to one of the soldiers, who
stepped forward with a scanner-like device in his hand.

“Extend your right arm,” the soldier said.
When Brandt hesitated, the man grabbed his wrist with a gloved hand
and yanked his arm out. Brandt, already feverish and a bit unsteady
on his feet, stumbled forward, and every soldier in the room
suddenly lifted their rifle and aimed at him. The soldier tightened
his grip on Brandt’s wrist and passed the device over the inside of
his arm. The device beeped, and the man let go of Brandt.

“It’s him,” the soldier said, taking a step
back and tucking the scanner into the bag on his hip.

“Good,” the man who was presumably the
leader said. He took a step closer to Brandt, studying him through
the clear lenses of his gas mask. Brandt stared back at him,
waiting for him to speak, waiting for
someone
to tell him
what was going on. It seemed that his instincts that something
wasn’t right had been right on the nose. Finally, after several
heartbeats of silence, the man queried, “Michael Evans?”

“Yes?”

“
Lieutenant
Michael Evans?”

“Yeah, that’s me,” Brandt confirmed with
only minimal impatience. His curiosity was rapidly winning out over
any irritation he might have felt. He narrowed his eyes and studied
the man in front of him more closely. “Major…Bradford?” he asked,
surprise running through him. The last time he’d spoken to Major
Bradford had been when he was in Atlanta, sheltering in the
Tabernacle as he tried to summon help for himself, Cade, Gray, and
Remy. At the time, Bradford had refused to send help, saying that
the risks versus benefits didn’t make it worth it. But now here he
was—the very same man who’d deemed their lives not worth
saving—standing in front of him, backed up by a full squad of
well-armed soldiers. He couldn’t help but wonder what had
changed.

The man gave a slight nod to indicate that
Brandt’s guess at his identity was correct. Then he pulled a paper
from the bag strapped to his belt and held it up for Brandt to see.
“Lieutenant Evans, I have been authorized by the United States
government to take you into custody.”

“Custody?” Brandt repeated, his curiosity
rapidly replaced by incredulity. “For
what
?”

“Charges have yet to be finalized pending
further investigation,” Major Bradford said, “but they’re
considering treason.”

“
Treason?
”

“For your part in the release of what has
become known as the Michaluk Virus,” Bradford explained. He
signaled to two of his men and instructed, “Cuff him. If he
resists, tase him.” As Brandt gawked at the man, Major Bradford
turned on his heel and started toward the roof access ladder,
raising his voice to announce, “And issue commands to your squads
to initiate Operation Whiteout.”

“What’s Operation Whiteout?” Brandt asked as
two of the soldiers stepped toward him. He moved forward, aiming
for the gap in between the two, intending to go to the major and
make him answer his question. “Major Bradford, what’s Operation
Whiteout?”

In hindsight, Brandt shouldn’t have taken
that step forward. At the time, though, the thought of keeping his
distance hadn’t occurred to him until gloved hands grasped his
shoulders and body-slammed him backwards onto the hard tile floor.
His breath raced out of his lungs in a whoosh, and his head banged
against the floor, intensifying the headache he already had until
it pulsed angrily at his temples and behind his eyes. He lifted a
hand to press it to his head, grimacing, but someone grabbed his
wrist and slammed it down onto the floor again, and then hands
rolled him over onto his stomach and wrenched his arms behind his
back.

Zip ties encircled his wrists and tightened
into place.

“Please don’t make this harder on yourself
than it needs to be,” one of the soldiers said. Then he was hauled
to his feet and shoved toward the front doors. He stumbled, but the
soldiers kept him on his feet. Above them, the whine of the
helicopter’s engines filled the air. The whine turned into the
rhythmic chug of rotors, picking up faster and faster until they
blended together into one solid scream. Brandt could pinpoint the
exact moment the helicopter lifted off the roof, but it didn’t fly
away like he’d expected. Instead, it lifted off the roof just to
hop to the ground in front of the building.

Two of the soldiers stepped forward to
unbolt the doors, and then they swung them open, letting in the
cool night air. The helicopter rested on the ground fifty yards
away, the rotors still spinning, sending hard gusts of air into the
dining area and tumbling tables and chairs in the onslaught.

“Keep your head down unless you want to lose
it!” one of the soldiers yelled into his ear. The soldiers didn’t
wait for his acknowledgment before they started shoving him toward
the helicopter.

“What about the other survivors?” Brandt
asked, but none of the soldiers answered him. They just kept
goading him forward, closer to the helicopter, and when he reached
it, his head ducked low to avoid the rotors. Hands bodily picked
him up and threw him into the helicopter, where he landed in a heap
on the metal floor. He lifted his head as the soldiers boarded the
aircraft and looked right at Major Bradford, who was staring down
at him with apparent contempt.

“What is Operation Whiteout?” Brandt asked
again, directing his question to the major. Major Bradford ignored
him and signaled to the helicopter pilot. Brandt’s stomach lurched
as the helicopter lifted from the ground. He swallowed bile down
and looked out the still-open door as the helicopter slowly swung
around. One of the soldiers leaned to slide the door shut, but the
door didn’t slide closed in time to block Brandt’s view of two
AH-60L DAP helicopters swooping down onto the community. And he let
out a cry of alarm and anguish as the DAPs opened fire, their M134
mini-guns pouring ammunition directly into the front façade of the
medical house.

The first volley fired from the DAPs tore into the
medical house, shredding through wood and plaster, embedding into
the furniture, shredding fabric, and breaking glass. Remy had been
halfway between the top of the staircase and the second-floor
landing when the firing had begun, and she screamed as
large-caliber bullets embedded into the wall just above her head.
Ducking and covering, she scampered down the stairs, scrambling to
the bottom and bolting toward the back of the house. She slipped
and skidded across the kitchen floor, taking cover behind the
island at the center of the kitchen, figuring it was safe enough
for the moment since it was made of brick. Then she pulled her
knees to her chest, wrapped her arms around her head, and closed
her eyes, fighting to hold back the second scream that bubbled up
in her throat.

Then the shooting stopped.

Remy didn’t hesitate. She flew to her feet,
ran to the back door by the fridge, and fumbled with the locks.
Then she was in the backyard, running full tilt for the main house
next door, her shoes shushing through the tall, dew-dampened
grass.

She had to get to Cade and the others before
the shooting started again.

Sadie had watched in horror from the window of her
and Jude’s upstairs bedroom as the massive black helicopter
bristling with weaponry had fired at the house next door, peppering
the entire front of the building with round after round of
ammunition. It had taken everything in her to not scream out in
horror, up to stuffing her knuckles half into her mouth to muffle
the whimpers that were escaping.

Then she’d come to her senses and dropped to
the floor, ducking down low so nothing of her showed over the
windowsill. Her only thoughts were that there was no guarantee that
the helicopters would stop with the medical house and that she had
to get to Jude right
now
.

Sadie waited for a lull in the shooting
before she made her move. Quickly checking the security of her
weapons, she scrambled forward, half crawling to the door and out
into the hall. She tried to remember where the last place she’d
seen Jude was, and as she lurked in the hallway trying to remember,
the firing started again. She reflexively ducked, cowering in the
hallway, before she realized the gunfire hadn’t been turned onto
the main house.