The Becoming: Revelations by Jessica Meigs

“Two more minutes was too much to ask for, huh?”
    Brandt looked at the shower stall thoughtfully before he shook his head and picked up his toothbrush. He figured he’d forego the shower he normally took in the mornings; he hadn’t done anything to work up a sweat in the past twelve hours anyway. Maybe he could go back to sleep until his doctor dropped in for his morning visit.
    Brandt spat the toothpaste out and rinsed before he looked at his arm. He smoothed a wrinkle out of the medical tape holding the heparin lock in place on the inside of his elbow. Not for the first time, Brandt wondered if he was doing the right thing. It felt like the right thing. The idea of helping others, even at the potential sacrifice of his health, was a noble one. At least he hoped it was. It was something he’d done every day during active duty, so he didn’t see what was so different about this. It wasn’t like he had anything else going for him anymore.
    He liked to think his sister would be proud of his efforts to do something with his life, to help other people—even though he wasn’t even able to tell her what he was doing.
    Brandt was shaving his face when the sound of a loud bang echoed down the hall outside his quarters. He startled, the disposable razor blade nicking his jaw. The bang was followed by a scream and the distinctive chatter of gunfire. Brandt slowly straightened, drying his face. His instincts shrieked at him, but he forced them to be quiet as another burst of gunfire broke out in the hall. The noise was accompanied by booted footsteps running past the door.
    “ What the hell?” Brandt muttered. He wiped at the blood on his jaw and dabbed at the water that dripped onto his bare chest. He pushed away from the sink, tucking his watch into the pocket of his sweatpants. He slowly approached the door that led to the hallway, his eyes flicking to the narrow window set into the door. Several dark figures darted by, their footsteps sounding in time with the shadows. Brandt instinctively ducked to stand beside the door, pressed against the wall so he wouldn’t be seen from the hallway. His mind spun as he tried to figure out what was going on.
    Brandt contemplated going into the hall to find out, but he didn’t want to do it without a weapon in his hand. He scanned the room, but he knew the search would be useless; the CDC’s doctors had already combed through all the rooms and his belongings, removing anything that could have been used to injure himself or others, just in case his medical regimen caused suicidal or homicidal tendencies. Brandt spotted a ballpoint pen on the desk, possibly left by his doctor the evening before. He snatched it up, gripping his shitty weapon tightly in his fist and resuming his study of the door. Sporadic gunfire from the other side was the only sound to punctuate the flashing light in the room.
    Brandt was hardly prepared when the door flew open, but he still managed a step forward. He raised the pen defensively, ready to strike out at the danger coming through the door.
    “ Whoa, whoa, whoa! Michael! Stop!” a voice shouted. A hand closed around Brandt’s wrist, stopping his arm’s forward momentum. Brandt stumbled and yanked his arm away from the figure entering the room.
    “ Fuck, Doc, you trying to get yourself killed?” Brandt asked. He lowered his arm and glared, even as Derek Rivers slammed the door closed and locked it behind him. But before Brandt could voice the question on the tip of his tongue—“What the hell is going on out there?”—Derek shoved him away from the door and across the room before dumping an armload of clothing into his hands.
    “ No time for questions,” Derek said urgently. He pushed the clothes more firmly into Brandt’s arms and added a pair of combat boots to the pile. “Get dressed. Fast. We’ve got to get you out of here.”
    “ What’s going on?” Brandt persisted. He set the clothes on the desk and found the shirt in the pile.