Origins (The Becoming Book 6)

by Jessica Meigs

  She had an hour before dinner was ready, and she had every intention of spending it online with her digital friends.

  Remy had a routine for her online activities; she always did everything in a certain order, as if she were afraid she’d miss some snippet of news or gossip that would drastically alter her life. E-mail, Twitter, Facebook, and several message boards she found interesting, it was always the same. From there, she went wherever the Internet took her. As such, that was how it took Remy until well after she’d waded through the flood of emails that had hit her inbox to find out something was going on. The first indication that all wasn’t right was a single tweet Remy spotted on Twitter.

  @HotInAtlanta Kelly Rogers Something going on here in #Atlanta. Cell signal spotty. Phones don’t work. Military all over the street outside.

  Remy frowned and leaned closer to her screen, scrolling down the timeline, searching for another reference to Atlanta, her brain shuffling through the myriad reasons why the military would be on the streets of Atlanta. She spotted another tweet, halfway down the page.

  @ShredTheStrings Shred the Strings Entire town shut down. #Atlanta toast. Rumor is riots, virus. No idea what’s going on. No in or out.

  And then a third:

  @emorybabe Jordan K. Miller I heard #EmoryU was on lockdown. Jilly heard gunshots outside. I don’t think this is good.

  Remy snorted softly. “You’re telling me.” She refreshed the page, and her frown deepened as the tweets vanished as if they’d never existed. She jabbed the F5 button on her keyboard a few more times, then spun her chair away from her computer and turned on her TV. Maybe she’d find some useful news about Atlanta there.

  Chapter 2

  “I think there’s something going on in Atlanta,” Remy said over the dinner. Her words broke through the otherwise quiet sounds of dinner, the tapping of forks against plates and the soft thumps of glasses being set on the table. Her family had never been very talkative at the dinner table. Maddie’s chatter about school usually filled the space of time while the table was being set, and once the eating began, everyone was largely silent. So when Remy spoke up during dinner, it was unusual enough an event that it woke everyone from their focus on the food before them, and they turned their eyes onto her. She suddenly felt like she’d made a faux pas, and she barely refrained from shifting uncomfortably in her chair under their intense, scrutinizing gazes.

  “What kind of something?” Remy’s stepfather Jason asked. He lowered his fork to rest the tines against the edge of his plate and raised an eyebrow.

  “Rioting or something,” Remy said. “I saw some tweets about it online, though there wasn’t anything about it on the news. What I did see didn’t sound too good. Somebody mentioned something about the military.”

  “I didn’t see anything like that last week,” Remy’s mother said. She was a stewardess for United Airlines, and she frequently went on the short flights that ran from Atlanta to New Orleans. “Everything seemed fine. The plane wasn’t delayed or anything.”

  “It didn’t start until after you left there, Mama,” Remy said, fighting to keep the annoyance out of her voice. “Not to mention you didn’t even leave Hartsfield-Jackson the entire time you were there.”

  “Remy, don’t talk to your mother that way,” Jason admonished. “Give her the respect you’re supposed to.”

  “You’re not my father,” Remy muttered under her breath, but she knew the words were loud enough for all of them to hear. “Don’t tell me what to do.”

  “Remy, please,” her mother said in a long-suffering tone of voice. This was an argument they’d had before, and Remy was as tired of it as her mother was. “Not at the dinner table. Save it for when we’re washing up afterwards, okay?”

  Remy grimaced, but she clamped her mouth shut. It wasn’t worth the energy to argue with her mother, especially not after the whole tattoo debate earlier in the evening.

  Maddie, however, didn’t share Remy’s compunctions or sense of when to shut her mouth. “I heard at school that there are sick people in Atlanta that are causing people to fight,” she announced, prodding at her potatoes with a look of boredom. “Michelle’s dad lives near Atlanta, and he told her mom that it’s bad over there. He said—”

  “Now look, you got your sister started,” Jason said accusingly to Remy. She resisted the irrational urge to stab her fork into the back of his hand. “What happened to having a nice family dinner without all the talk of murders and whatever awful stuff you imagine?”

  “Who said anything about murders?” Remy asked. “Shit, you act like I make stuff up all the damn time. Whatever happened to, I don’t know, believing me when I tell you shit?”

  “Watch your language,” Remy’s mother scolded. “Especially at the dinner table. Lord, I could smack your father for letting you talk like that.”

  It took everything in Remy to not say something she would later regret. She set her fork down against the edge of her plate, put her napkin on the table beside both, and then pushed back from the table, intent on retreating to her room, content to allow her mother and stepfather to not only think they’d had the last word but to let them gloat over it in private.

  Once she was in her room, the door locked firmly behind her, Remy went to her closet and started ransacking it for a change of clothes. As she’d climbed the stairs to the second floor, she had been seized by the firm desire to get the hell out of the house. She didn’t have a car, which made getting out nearly impossible, so after she dug a pair of jeans and a comfortable t-shirt out of her closet, she grabbed her cell phone, accessed the address book, and selected the listing that said “Andrew.” She put it on speakerphone while she changed into the clothes she’d taken out of the closet.

  “‘Lo?” Andrew answered, his mouth sounding like it was full of food.

  “You busy tonight?” she asked.

  “As busy as I always am,” he said, which basically meant he didn’t have a damn thing going on.

  “Good,” Remy said. “Then you can play chauffeur for me. I need to go into town.”

  “What do you need to go into town for?”

  “Business.”

  Andrew groaned. “And I get to play chauffeur for that? Come on, man.”

  “Fine. I’ll cut you in to make up for the trouble. Twenty percent.”

  “Thirty.”

  “Twenty-five.”

  Andrew sighed loudly. “Fine. Twenty-five. Good enough, I guess.”

  “When you get here, park at the end of the drive. Don’t come closer to the house. I’ll meet you there.”

  “Where are we going to hit this time?” Andrew asked.

  “I’m not sure yet,” she said. “I’m sure it’ll hit me before too long.” Remy found the bag she was looking for—a larger, slouchier one that would hold a lot of stuff—and started gathering the little things to go inside it. “I’ll see you in a few, yeah?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Andrew mumbled before he hung up. Remy flipped her cell phone closed and tossed it into the bag with everything else, then shouldered the mostly empty bag, opened one of her bedroom windows, and slunk out onto the porch’s roof to make her way to the ground and meet her friend.

  Chapter 3

  Andrew was waiting for Remy just where she’d asked him to. He sat behind the wheel of his beater VW bug that was as old as Remy, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel while he waited for her to show up. Smoke laced around his head from the cigarette he had dangling out of the corner of his mouth, and as she approached the car, Remy could see the glow of the lit end. It made her want a cigarette, and her fingertips practically tingled with the desire. The feeling came out of nowhere: she wasn’t a smoker, had only ever taken a puff or two off of a cigarette in her life. She knocked on the passenger window, biting back a laugh when Andrew nearly jumped out of his skin.

  “You really should pay attention to your surroundings,” she chided him after opening the door. “Not paying attention when you’re doing something yo
u shouldn’t be doing is a great way to get busted by the cops.”

  “Nice to see you too, Remy,” Andrew grumbled.

  Remy gave him a perky smile and slid into the passenger seat, shifting to settle comfortably onto the old, torn leather seat. She pulled the door shut and checked her pockets to make sure she had everything she might need for the evening, double-checked that her cell phone was charged, and then motioned toward the windshield. “Drive on, fearless leader.”

  Andrew snorted and put the ratty car into gear, pulling away from the end of the driveway and into the highway. “I’m hardly the leader in this. This is all on you.”

  “All on me?” Remy repeated. “Need I remind you that you’re the one driving?”

  “Only long enough to get my twenty-five percent,” Andrew smirked.

  “That could take all night,” Remy said. “I actually have to offload the product before you get your cut.”

  “Stop talking like that. You make yourself sound like a drug dealer.”

  “Well, I kind of am,” Remy pointed out. “Last I checked, nicotine is a drug. Which, in all technicality, does make me a drug dealer.”

  Andrew snorted again and steered the car toward their destination: a mini-mart that Remy had chosen because of its large cigarette stock and its lack of a bulletproof cage around the cashier’s counter. Not that the bulletproof portion of the equation was important; it wasn’t like she had a gun and an intention to shoot at anyone. She preferred working in a decidedly more sneaky way, one that would only end up getting her a misdemeanor slap on the wrist if she happened to get caught.

  When they reached the mini-mart, Remy pointed to a spot that was a bit more shadowed than the areas around the gas pumps. Andrew parked the car there, and they both got out and started toward the brightly lit building. As always, Remy took the lead and stepped into the gas station first, buzzing over toward the candy racks while Andrew split off for the beer coolers in the back. It was a well-rehearsed routine that they’d practiced on multiple occasions and worked perfectly for their purposes. The clerk was behind the counter, ringing up the gasoline purchase for the lone customer who was in the store besides them. Remy waited impatiently for the man at the counter to leave, passing the minutes studying the nutrition label on a package of M&Ms, but once the man left, Remy gave Andrew the signal.

  Ten seconds later, there was the sound of shattering glass near the beer coolers.

  “Shit,” Andrew said from the direction of the sound.

  Just as Remy had hoped, the clerk went on the alert at the sound, circling around the counter to investigate. As the woman cut down an aisle to see about the noise, Andrew started making soothing, apologetic, oh-God-I’m-so-sorry sounds. The woman disappeared into a closet, presumably to retrieve a mop to clean up the beer that was probably spilled all over the tiled floor, and that was Remy’s cue. She hurried forward, circled the cashier’s counter, and snagged the first box of Marlboro-brand cigarettes she spotted. Stuffing it under her jacket, she circled back around the counter and headed for the door.

  “Hey!” the clerk shouted from behind her, and Remy half turned to see the clerk making a beeline toward her, broom in hand.

  Remy looked down and noticed that the outline of the carton of cigarettes was very clearly visible through her jacket. “Well, shit,” she said, scowling, and slammed the front door open and bolted out of it, racing toward Andrew’s car. Andrew wasn’t far behind her, and he flung himself into the driver’s seat as she whipped around the front of the car and dropped into the passenger’s seat. “Go, go, go!” she urged, yanking her door shut behind her.

  Andrew hurriedly turned the key in the ignition. The engine sputtered and didn’t start, and he cursed and turned the key again. As the engine struggled to turn over, Remy could barely contain her fury.

  “Oh my God, Andrew, why do you have to drive such a fucking junker!” she exploded, throwing her hands up in the air in her frustration.

  “Because I can’t afford anything better!” Andrew snapped.

  “Well hurry up and get it started or we’re going to get arrested!”

  Andrew gave the key another savage twist. This time, the engine caught and started, the exhaust pipe letting out a heavy puff of black smoke, though the car sounded grouchy at having to actually do something. Andrew gunned the engine a few times, revving it with presses on the gas pedal to warm the engine.

  “This is the worst getaway attempt ever,” she grumbled. “We’re going to get busted. I should have called Shaun.”

  “Shaun’s in jail.”

  “That’s where we’re going to be if you don’t get moving!”

  “You think I don’t know that?” Andrew said. He slammed the car into gear and mashed his foot on the gas. The rust-bucket VW bug lurched forward with such suddenness that Remy’s head smacked against the headrest behind her, and the carton of cigarettes that she’d just stolen tumbled to the floorboard. She was tempted to lean down to grab it, but Andrew was driving like a maniac to put distance between them before the cops showed up, and she was afraid that if she leaned down at this point, she’d end up with a concussion.

  “Would you please drive like a normal human being?” she demanded, bracing a hand against the dash to keep herself steady. “You’re drawing more attention to yourself driving like an idiot!”

  Flashing blue lights reflected in the side mirror attached to the outside of the passenger door, and Remy groaned. Too late. She only hoped that whoever was pulling them over was only doing so because Andrew didn’t know how to drive and not because they knew that she’d just stolen a carton of cigarettes from a convenience store. She sat up straight, rough-combing her hair with her fingers, and hooked a foot around the cigarette carton to nudge it underneath her seat as best she could.

  “Pull over,” she snapped at Andrew. “And act normal. They might not realize that it’s us they’re looking for.”

  “Oh, they probably already know,” Andrew said. He was going for his wallet, digging it out of his pocket and rifling through it for his driver’s license. Remy tried to play it cool, trying to get into the mindset that she was just a girl out on a date with a friend, because who would suspect someone like her of shoplifting a carton of cigarettes?

  The officer approached the driver’s window, and when Remy caught a glimpse of his face, she struggled to bite back a groan of exasperation as she dredged up his name from somewhere in her memory. Marc something-or-other. DuBois, maybe? She wasn’t sure, but either way, if he knew that there’d been a shoplifting at a convenience store and she was in the area, she was probably the one who’d done it. She slouched down in her seat, hoping the box of cigarettes was sufficiently hidden under the seat.

  The officer knocked on the window, and Andrew rolled it down, asking the man in a smarmy tone, “Is there a problem, officer?”

  It took everything in Remy to not reach into the driver’s seat and punch Andrew in the balls.

  “There was a report of a theft at—” Officer DuBois broke off and leaned down further, shining a flashlight into the car. The light caught Remy full in the face, and she put up a hand to block the glare in her eyes. “Well, well, well, Miss Angellette,” he said in a casual drawl. “Fancy meeting you here.”

  Chapter 4

  “Your car stinks,” Remy said, shifting on the hard seat in the back of Officer DuBois’s police cruiser, trying to get comfortable. That was pretty much impossible, considering her hands were cuffed behind her. The position was making her shoulders hurt, but she did her best to ignore it, focusing instead on annoying the officer in the driver’s seat as much as possible. “It smells like puke in here.”

  “That’s because the last guy puked back there,” DuBois said in a casual tone that suggested he wasn’t even bothered by her attempts to annoy him.

  “Gross,” Remy muttered. She fought the urge to try to pull her feet up onto the seat. For all she knew, it was on the seat where the guy who’d been in here last had thrown up.
“Aren’t you supposed to clean that shit up?”

  “Yes, but when I have to come out on a shoplifting call and discover it’s you—again—a thorough cleaning takes time that I don’t have.” He glanced back at her through the cage that separated the front and back seats. “You’ll survive.”

  Remy flopped back against the seat, wrinkling her nose at the stench.

  “What did you do it this time, Remy?” DuBois asked, steering the patrol car down the street toward the county lock-up.

  “I have the right to remain silent,” Remy retorted. “Or so you told me before you stuffed me back here. Did you really have to put handcuffs on me? You know I’m not going to run.”

  “Standard operating procedures,” DuBois replied. “I don’t care how innocent you play, I’m not getting fired because I failed to put you in handcuffs.”

  Remy shifted again, trying to wiggle into a more comfortable position. “Could you at least have cuffed me in the front? My hands are going numb.”

  “Didn’t think about it,” DuBois said. He turned the car onto the street that led to the county jail, a now-familiar destination for Remy. Remy started to spiral a little bit into thoughts of how handsome (for a cop) Marc DuBois was, and then she mentally slapped herself. He was a cop, and she was his arrestee, and she wasn’t supposed to think about how cute he was.

  Even if he did look fantastic in that uniform.

  The little light coming from the moon and stars above disappeared, and Remy realized that they were pulling into a parking garage. She didn’t remember ever going into a parking garage at the county lock-up. She sat up a little straighter and tried to roll her shoulders to try to work the pain out of them, then asked, “Where the hell are we?”