There was 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 nearly a mile 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. She 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 then glanced 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 her inside.
She knew the dangers of going into a house without searching it for infected first; she could easily be walking into another ambush. But considering the dozen-plus infected hot on her heels, what other choice did she have? 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 into the dark entryway, slammed the door behind her, and threw the bolts.
She 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 worst spot of 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, she didn’t have that luxury. She’d have to do it herself.
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—even though that was a major safety issue, according to Ethan—and 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, reflexively searching for a bag that wasn’t even on her shoulder anymore. She 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. It shook again; it wouldn’t hold much longer. She crossed the dusty living room in a matter of seconds, nearly tripping over a coffee table in the process; 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, even though this one’s house and hers was like night and day, and she swallowed back a surge of emotion. Now wasn’t the time to think of them. Instead, she 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 then dragged a kitchen chair in front of the door and jammed it under the knob. She hoped it would help secure the door long enough for her to make a plan. She didn’t have much time.
She drew her handgun out of her waistband and ejected the magazine, rapidly counting the bullets inside. Three, four if she included the one already chambered. She’d 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’d likely die at the hands of the infected one day. But she refused to go down without a fight.
She 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. She grimaced a 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 off her shoulder, holding it close to her chest and moving away from the stove. Her fingertips turned white with the force of her grip on the weapon, and she started to shake with adrenaline and nerves as she turned her eyes to the kitchen door. Beyond, she heard 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 she 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 as, with a solid kick, she knocked the kitchen chair from its improvised barricade. She’d 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 theoretically safety beyond. She could easily slip out the door while the infected were still at the front of the house, and they would be none the wiser. But that wasn’t Remy. She was no co
ward.
Besides, she 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, then so be it. She’d face the task gladly.
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, opening 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 stepped to the side, aligning herself with the door and moving in full view of the infected, lifting the shotgun again and focusing her aim on the man who moved up to take the woman’s place. She 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 in frustration as she realized she’d wasted the shot and swung the rifle like a baseball bat, slamming the end of the barrel into the woman’s temple. The impact jarred the weapon from her hands, and not wasting a moment, Remy gritted her teeth and pulled her bolo knife free from its sheath, along with unholstering 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 magazine. Remy 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 ammo 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 had started to wreak its havoc. It had belonged to her grandmother and had ensured her survival more than once. Remy looked upon the group of remaining infected gathered in the room. They sized each other up, their many eyes upon her slender form. Anyone who saw the scene wouldn’t 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, she 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 her like cats stalking a mouse.
Remy blew out a steadying breath. 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 her 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 nails. 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 her head and pulled hard; her 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 that had grabbed it. 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. She crawled rapidly from underneath the still-standing infected, scrambling 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 was choking.
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 she 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. Remy’s lips stretched 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, she tossed the burning mass into the kitchen and kicked the back door closed before diving 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 talking about 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.
He 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 if she was reciting a list of items to herself. Gray sighed and moved toward the 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.
He shook his head to rid himself of the creeping feeling in his gut and 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 stuffing 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. They 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 i
n 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, he 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 had eventually run out, too. Regardless of their opinions on her current status, though—and despite his and Ethan’s general animosity toward each other—they were a tightly knit team. None of them would even consider rest until they knew what had happened to Remy, one way or the other.
The way the seven of them had meshed together was odd, especially considering the short amount of time they’d known each other. Granted, there were exceptions: he and Theo, of course, had grown up together, and Cade and Ethan had been best friends for something like 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, especially considering they spent almost all their time together. They ate together, they slept together, they trained together, and they fought together. With so much time spent crammed in the same limited space, it was a wonder they hadn’t killed each other yet.
He got along pretty well with almost all of them. The only tension was between him and Ethan. He knew the cause, and he wasn’t foolish enough to ignore it. It had everything to do with Remy Angellette.
Gray had fallen for Remy. Hard. It didn’t take long for it to happen, either; he’d spent so much time with her while she recuperated from her ordeal in Biloxi that they’d gotten to know each other very well. Maybe it was because they were nearly the same age, with similar backgrounds. Maybe it was because they’d both lost their families. Maybe it was because Gray had feelings for her that he suspected were shared but not acted upon.
Maybe he was just imagining all of it.
Ground Zero Page 4