The street ahead of them was flooded with people. Many of them were running in the opposite direction Marc DuBois had been driving, screaming in a chorus of voices that overlapped each other as they ran. They were fleeing from something, but whatever it was, Remy couldn’t see it from the passenger seat.
“What are they running from?” she asked, flinching as someone ran into the side mirror on the passenger side, rebounded off of it, and continued on their original path.
“I have no idea.” Marc shifted the car into park and tried to open his door so he could get a better look, but someone ran into it, slamming it shut. The body ricocheted off the car door and continued on, so quickly that Remy couldn’t even get a look at the person who’d done it. Marc jerked his hand away from the door, as if he’d been burned, and he didn’t try to open the door again.
Remy stared through the windshield, searching past the fleeing, panicked people, trying to see exactly what it was they were running from. She couldn’t make anything out; all she could see were frantic, terrified people running for their lives. Then she got a momentary glimpse of what was beyond this crowd, and she clutched the armrest on her door tight enough to make her knuckles blanch.
“Oh God,” she murmured. “Officer—I mean, Marc?”
“Yeah, Remy, what is it?”
“Get us the hell out of here,” she said. “Now.”
“What is it?”
“I think…I think it’s fucking zombies.”
Chapter 6
To Marc’s credit, he didn’t argue with her, question her, or treat her like an idiot. He slammed the gearshift into reverse and jammed his foot against the gas pedal, whirling around to watch out the back window as he drove backwards down the street.
Remy had to give him a second credit: he was amazing at driving backwards. She supposed he would have to be, considering he was a cop. He couldn’t drive very fast, though; there were too many people, and there were too many cars behind them that were trying to do the same thing Marc was doing. She watched out the front of the car, her heart in her throat when she saw the mass of people who were chasing another group, the ones covered with blood and other stuff—stuff that she didn’t want to even attempt to identify—wearing looks of rage on their faces. They were utterly horrifying, and she wondered if these were the sick, vicious people that Marc had just described to her.
Marc cut the wheel hard to the side and floored the gas pedal. With a roar, the car spun into a sharp half circle that put the rear toward the oncoming crowd of people. He shifted into drive, then hit the gas again, steering around fleeing people as best he could before taking a hard left.
“Where are we going?” she asked, her hands braced against the dashboard; she didn’t even remember putting them there.
“We’ve got to get past those people,” Marc told her. “I’m trying to get us to my house.”
“What’s at your house?”
“Guns,” he replied. “Lots of guns. I have a feeling we’re going to need them.”
“What for?” Remy said. “You don’t think we’re going to have to…shoot any of those people, do you?”
“I hope not,” Marc said. “But I’d rather have the guns and not need them than need them and not have them.”
Remy couldn’t deny that logic, so she shut her mouth. The scenery flew past, people running and screaming, people attacking other people, and even some breaking store windows with trash cans to gain access. She pulled her hands away from the dash, digging her nails into her palms, trying to stifle a dismayed cry as the city she loved so much was destroyed—again—this time not by the elements of Mother Nature but by the hands of its very citizens.
“Are you okay?” Marc asked, cutting the car around a motorcycle that lay fallen in the street.
“I haven’t made up my mind yet,” Remy said. “It’s…a hell of a lot to take in.” She reached across the equipment between the seats and turned on the radio, hoping to find more information about what was going on. Using the scan button, she shuffled through the stations, but all she found were ones playing music or commercials. There wasn’t a word on the air about what was happening in New Orleans. She didn’t think that boded well for them at all.
“I doubt you’ll find anything on there,” Marc said at about the same time that she gave up on her search. “We’ll check once we get to my house. We’ll probably have better luck finding out information on the television. By now, all of this should be on the news.”
“We hope,” she said.
“Yeah,” Marc agreed.
The rest of the ride was taken in silence, Marc expending most of his focus on getting them to his house in one piece, and Remy just trying to keep it together. Her hands were trembling, but they felt like they were detached from the rest of her body, like they were disassociated from her. She curled her hands into fists again, trying to quell the shaking. Now was definitely not the time to break down. She had to keep it together, especially if she expected to make it home.
Home. That made her think of her family. She had no idea if they were even aware that she wasn’t in the house, considering she’d never gotten the opportunity to place her phone call from the police station. If they’d figured out she wasn’t at home and had tried calling her cell phone and she wasn’t answering, then they were probably worried sick. She needed to call them, but her phone was still in lock up at the police station. She looked at Marc, debating if she should ask him to borrow his phone, but she decided to hold off on asking for now. He was too focused, and she was worried that if she distracted him now, she’d cause him to wreck the car. That was the last thing she wanted to risk. She kept her mouth shut, digging her fingernails into her knees, trying to stay calm as the police cruiser darted through traffic that became increasingly erratic and congested. The scowl on Marc’s face deepened until finally, they broke free. The snarl of traffic and panicking pedestrians fell away when they crossed some invisible line of demarcation. Remy released the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding and looked at Marc, noticing the triumphant smile on his face.
“We made it,” she said, for lack of anything else to say.
“For the moment,” Marc replied. “It doesn’t mean we’re free and clear. It just means we have a reprieve. This shit is going to spread, and obviously we’re going to be right in the middle of all of it.”
“You think it’s going to get that bad?”
“If what my uncle told me on the phone is any indication, it’s going to get worse.”
“What are you going to do?” she asked.
“First, I’m going to get us to my house,” Marc said, his tone confident, completely assured that he would make it there. “We’ve got to have a means of protecting ourselves. My uncle told me that the sick people are very violent, and I’m not going near any of them with only one pistol.”
“Are we going to end up having to kill people?”
“God, I hope not,” Marc said. “The last thing I want to do is shoot anyone. Just because I’m a cop doesn’t mean I’m trigger happy. But if it’s their lives or ours, I’ll pick ours every time.” He paused, then asked, “Do you know how to shoot?”
“A little bit,” Remy said. “My dad started to teach me when I was a kid, but then he up and left.”
“Damn,” Marc said. “Well I suppose some training is better than none at all. Were you any good at it?”
She shrugged. “I guess I was okay at it. I don’t remember my dad having any complaints about how I was doing.”
“I guess that will have to do.” Marc slowed the car, and it took Remy a second to realize that it was because he was making a right turn into a driveway that led to a modest, single-story brick house. The garage door was already open. He pulled the police cruiser into the empty garage and turned the engine off, sliding the key out of the ignition and clipping it onto his belt then opened his door. “Come on in. We’ll get something to eat and see if we can’t find some information on what is going on out the
re.”
At the mention of food, Remy’s stomach growled loudly, and she wondered how she’d managed to not realize that she was starving. She let herself out of the cruiser, and waited for Marc to close the garage door, standing awkwardly by the door that led into his house. Once he unlocked the door and stepped inside, she followed him in and looked around, curious what a cop’s house would look like.
Surprisingly comfortable and cozy, she discovered. The kitchen was all warm cherry wood, granite countertops, and stainless steel appliances, and the walls were painted a soothing cream color. Nearby was a small dining room that held a round dining table that seated four. Several magazines and a stack of books were perched on the edge of the table, like Marc used it as a catch all for random items. Through a nearby open doorway, Remy could just make out half of the living room and a large, plush gray couch covered in several orange throw pillows.
“Nice house,” she commented, shoving her hands into her pockets and rocking on the heels of her tennis shoes. “It’s a heck of a lot nicer than mine.”
“Thanks,” Marc said agreeably. He went to the refrigerator and opened it, rooting around inside and pulling out several containers of leftover Chinese food. “Sorry, this is the best I’ve got,” he said apologetically, setting the containers on the island in the center of the kitchen. “I wasn’t expecting company.”
“It’s fine. Leftover Chinese is right up there with leftover pizza in my book,” Remy said, though it was a little bit of a fib. She accepted one of the cartons Marc offered her, flipping it open to see what appeared to be sesame chicken inside it. Could be worse, she thought. She took the fork Marc handed her and dug in, eating it cold.
“What now?” she asked around a mouthful of chicken.
Marc hummed thoughtfully, prodding at whatever was inside his own takeout container with his fork. “Well, I figure I’ll go scrounge up the other pistols I have,” he replied. “While I’m doing that, maybe you can call your family and check on them, make sure everything is okay.” He nodded toward the living room. “Phone’s in there.”
“Yeah, I’ll get on that in a minute,” Remy said. After he retreated down a nearby hallway, she went into the living room. She stood in the middle of the room for a moment, studying the cushy couch and the television. She spotted the phone on an end table beside the couch and hesitated, after a glance at the clock on the wall showed it was two in the morning. She decided to hold off on calling them until the sun came up; if they hadn’t realized she was gone and got woken up by a phone call telling them she’d not only been arrested but had been busted out of jail by a cop and oh, by the way, had they heard there was some sort of viral riot going on in New Orleans?, her stepfather would kick her ass. She plopped down on the soft, squishy couch, picked up the remote, and turned the television on. She could at least search the channels to see if she could gather any information about what was going on out there.
Most of the television stations were showing infomercials, and she even found a news program that was replaying the five o’clock broadcast from the day before, much to her frustration. She was ready to throw the remote on the floor when she clicked it a few more times and, by chance, landed on a news channel that appeared to be doing a live broadcast. She found the volume button on the remote and turned the television up, hoping they were actually reporting on what was going on in the streets of New Orleans.
To her relief, she found that it was a report about an apparent riot going on in Jackson Square. The reporter was one of those chipper, overly perky, annoying bimbos that made Remy want to throw things at the television every time she saw them on there. She debated looking for another channel, but it was two in the morning, so she was unlikely to find one. Besides, this perky little bimbo didn’t look quite so perky any longer. Her hair was actually out of place. Remy sat back on the couch, setting the remote beside her and folding her arms over her chest to watch.
“…problems began approximately an hour ago, when several fights erupted in the middle of Jackson Square,” the reporter was saying. The chyron at the bottom of the screen said, “Rioting in Jackson Square” in bold white letters on a red background. For some reason, Remy found the headline annoying. “First responders have informed me that more than twenty people have already been taken to area hospitals with injuries sustained during the melee, which is currently ongoing. Police have been dispatched from all over the city to Jackson Square to try to contain the outburst of violence, but with additional reports of violent outbreaks scattered all over the city, they’re warning all citizens who are outdoors to get to a safe place and all those who are already indoors to shelter in place.”
“Well, that tells me absolutely nothing,” Remy muttered. She heard footsteps coming down the hall. She looked up to see Marc stepping into the room, carrying three belts that each had two holstered guns hanging from them.
“What tells you nothing?” Marc asked, then glanced at the television and saw the news program on it. “Are they reporting on what’s going on?”
“If you can call it reporting,” Remy grumbled. “To say that it conveyed absolutely no useful information would be an understatement.”
“Well, what did they say?”
“Rioting in Jackson Square,” Remy told him. “It’s starting in other areas of the city, and there wasn’t a word mentioned of any virus like your uncle was claiming.”
“Doesn’t mean he was wrong,” Marc said. “It just means that, if he’s right, nobody has quite caught on yet.” He looked at the phone on the table by the couch. “Did you call your family?”
“No, not yet,” she said. “I didn’t think my stepdad would appreciate getting woken up this late. Hell, he doesn’t even know I was arrested. Do you think we could keep it that way?”
“I don’t see why not,” Marc said. “According to the NOPD, you were never there, since I never finished filing paperwork on your arrest. Well, except for the dispatchers that I called the arrest in to, but that’s not that big of a deal. Considering everything that’s going on out there, they’ve probably already forgotten about it.”
“What about Andrew?” she asked. She’d almost forgotten about him in all of the fracas at the police department after her arrest.
“What about him?” Marc asked absently. He was contemplating the telephone, like he was trying to decide if he wanted to call someone.
“What happened to him?” Remy said.
“I have no idea,” Marc said. “He was taken into custody by a different officer. I didn’t have anything to do with his processing. I have no idea where he was even taken, for that matter. Could have been a completely different substation, for all I know.”
“You’re a lot of help,” Remy said snidely.
Marc threw his hands up helplessly. “I can’t keep track of every single arrestee that comes into the custody of the New Orleans Police Department. Especially when they were never in my custody.”
Remy scowled, making a mental note to track Andrew down if she saw the opportunity so she could make sure he was okay. “What do we do now?” she asked.
Marc looked at the belted guns he held and smiled warily. “Well, I suppose it’s time for me to pack up some supplies and try to get you home.”
Chapter 7
Remy saw her first sick person up close and personal when she and Marc walked out of his house just after dawn. Marc had spent most of the time gathering some supplies from around his house while she’d finished her meal and curled up on the couch to take a nap. She felt groggy, though, despite the sleep, and she suspected that it hadn’t been enough. Then again, she was used to getting about twelve hours of sleep every time she crashed, staying in bed until the afternoon sun cast light across her pillow. She’d stretched, yawned, accepted the bowl of cereal that Marc had offered her, and ate it while she trawled through the news stations that broadcast information not only for the city of New Orleans, but for the nation at large. More of the stations had begun broadcasting while she’d na
pped, tossing aside the pre-recorded broadcasts from the evening before and the talk shows filled with bitter, shrill-voiced women and the infomercials advertising the latest fad in cooking and weight loss to focus on the problems that had invaded their normally lively city overnight.
“Anything new?” Marc asked as he crossed the doorway that separated the living room from the kitchen. He was carrying a case of bottled water, leaning backward slightly to balance out the load.
“Not much,” Remy called as he disappeared from view. She heard him kick the garage door open, followed by the thuds of his feet as he descended the few steps that led down to the garage’s concrete floor. A moment later, she heard the sound of one of the police cruiser’s doors opening and closing, and then he rejoined her inside the house.
“They’ve confirmed that it is a virus,” she continued, “and that it appears to have originated in Atlanta. A lot of commentators seem to think the CDC is to blame.”
“Of course,” Marc said snidely. He disappeared again, and Remy heard him opening cabinets, pulling objects out, setting them onto the counter. “The world is probably ending, and the news networks drag on experts and commentators.”
Remy finished off her bowl of cereal and set the dish on the coffee table, then leaned over to put her shoes back on. Once she finished lacing them up, she stood and picked up her dish, joining Marc in the kitchen.
“Just set that in the sink,” Marc said distractedly. He was organizing canned food in neat rows. A cardboard box with the Amazon logo printed on the side sat on the counter nearby, the handles of a couple of cooking pots sticking up from inside it.
“What are you doing?” Remy asked.
Origins (The Becoming Book 6) Page 26