contamination 7 resistance con

by Unknown

She slowed the vehicle to a crawl as she tried to determine the source of the noise. In the backseat, Simon, Marcia, and Anabel strained to get a better view.

  They scrutinized the area, looking past industrial buildings that had sprung up on either side of the road. Cars turned at various angles blocked their view of the roadway. The noise seemed to be coming from a few streets away.

  "The commotion is coming from where we're headed," Hector said nervously. "Should we turn around?"

  A spike of fear coursed through Sandy at the thought of coming across more violent, crazed individuals.

  "Wait. I see something," Hector said, peering out the windshield.

  Suddenly, Anabel spoke up. "Army people!"

  Several men in army fatigues came into view as they rounded a bend, pointing guns at creatures in the road, shooting them down. As they curved with the road, Sandy saw a line of military Humvees and jeeps parked across the street—a glimmer of order in an otherwise chaotic landscape. Groups of men with masks uncurled a fence, staking it off in the ground. Behind them, a few more were setting up tents. The men in fatigues looked up, noticing the minivan.

  "My God," Marcia said as she hugged Anabel. "Carter was right."

  "Put your guns on the floor," Hector said as he looked at the others. "We don't want them to think we're dangerous."

  Sandy pulled up, stopping several hundred feet away from the soldiers. She let the vehicle idle as several soldiers cautiously approached them. Men wearing masks came up to the driver's side, instructing Sandy and the others to put her hands in the air. They complied without argument. Sandy watched the approaching soldiers in disbelief, still shocked to see them, still shocked that it wasn't a dream.

  One of the soldiers took the lead. His hair was dark underneath his military cap.

  "Are you armed?" he called in.

  "Our weapons are on the floor."

  "We'll need you to leave them where they are."

  "Of course." Sandy swallowed, caught between nervousness and relief.

  "Are any of you infected?" he asked, as several people in white Hazmat suits approached the vehicle.

  "No," Sandy said, realizing how lucky she was to speak those words.

  "We'll need to check you out."

  "Of course. I can't believe you're here."

  "You're the first survivors we've found alive in St. Matthews. I'm Sgt. Hicks."

  Gunfire rattled in the background as Sgt. Hicks led them to a medical tent that was just being set up. They watched as a bustle of military, CDC, and other teams established fences outside the perimeter, while others warded off the roaming infected.

  "You'll need to be tested for signs of the infection," Sgt. Hicks explained, as they waited for the team to get supplies in place. "We need to make sure you aren't a danger to anyone."

  "I understand," Sandy said.

  Hicks cleared his throat as he prepared more instructions. "You'll spend a few hours in medical, being tested and observed. When you're finished and cleared, we'll take statements." He paused, his demeanor turning from stern to compassionate. "I know you've been through a lot. Frankly, we could use all the information we can get."

  Sandy and her companions followed Hicks to a medical tent, where they were tested and observed. The examinations felt like they went on forever—pokes, prods and blood tests, questions that Sandy felt like she answered several times. But she understood the precaution. Being tested was better than the alternative: being left to deal with the creatures in a violent, unpredictable world. She was glad they'd gotten to safety.

  When they'd finished, Hicks brought them to a long, white trailer. Sandy waited her turn while Simon went first. A military woman with the name badge "Johnson" was ordered to stand guard next to them while the fences were still being finished.

  Turning to Hector, Sandy said, "I never thought I'd see this much order again."

  "It's unbelievable," Hector marveled.

  The gunfire had died down, but the soldiers had taken to walking the perimeter, surveying the mountains and the roads. Others unfolded tents, setting them up with ease. In one tent, Sandy saw people unpacking what looked like cooking supplies. She hadn't eaten much since leaving Carter's. They'd only had a light breakfast. Her stomach grumbled at the thought of food.

  "We'll get you something to eat soon," said Johnson, determining the reason behind Sandy's gaze. Johnson's smile was stoic, but warm.

  Before Sandy could answer, the trailer door opened and Simon came out, watching her.

  "Your turn," he told Sandy.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  The trailer was as clean and organized as the rest of camp. Several shelves full of files and computers lined one wall. The floor was immaculate. Hicks and another man with white hair sat in chairs opposite Sandy, taking notes as they questioned her.

  The men exchanged a glance before asking, "If you wouldn't mind, we'd like you to tell the story of how you ended up here."

  Sandy launched into her tale without hesitation, telling of how she'd discovered her brother, how she'd hid out in St. Matthews, and how they'd escaped the lumberyard. She said that they'd begun searching for help in the mountains, but had returned when they hadn't found help. She made sure to give them information on Dan and Quinn, but she left out anything about Carter.

  "You're lucky to be alive," Hicks told her. His expression seemed genuine.

  "How long will we be staying here?" Sandy asked.

  "We're not sure yet," the second man admitted. "We're in the beginning stages of knowing the scope of this thing. But your information will be helpful as we try to find others."

  "I hope there are others to find," Sandy said.

  "We've had some encouraging reports from some of the other camps," Hicks told her. "I have faith."

  Sandy stood next to Simon as they looked over the newly constructed fences and tents, marveling at how empty they looked. In the coming days, those tents would fill with people, if Hicks were to be believed.

  "There are bound to be other people who were immune," Simon said, watching the campsite.

  "I hope so."

  Behind them, Hector, Marcia, and Anabel hugged each other, grateful to be alive and safe. Sandy waited until Johnson had roamed farther away before she said anything else.

  "What did you tell them?" Sandy asked, looking sideways at the trailer where they'd been questioned.

  "The truth, for the most part," Simon said.

  "Did you say anything about Carter?" Sandy asked.

  "No." Simon shook his head, a smile crossing his face. "I wouldn't break that promise. The others won't, either."

  "Good," Sandy said. She smiled and looked up at the mountains, picturing Carter sitting on some distant perch, watching them. She hoped he found peace, whether or not he found his sons. "We owe him for helping us."

  She switched her focus to the soldiers milling around the campsite, some of who had finished setting up tents. She wondered which ones would house them. Would they have their own? Sandy couldn't imagine having a living space that she didn't share. Even at the lumberyard, she'd been lucky to get a spot to sleep on that wasn't right next to the others, with the constant need to keep guard over one another.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a car rolling up to the gate. Some of the soldiers stiffened. They made for the entrance, guns drawn as a brown sedan with scrapes and dents came to a slow stop in front of the compound.

  "Who's that?" Simon asked, frowning.

  "I'm not sure." Sandy shared his expression as they jogged toward the gate.

  As they got closer, she half-hoped she'd find someone she recognized, but she'd never seen the people before. A man with a beard was hugging what appeared to be his wife. The survivors talked excitedly, pointing at the campground with the same look of hope that Sandy had probably just a few hours ago. The men in Hazmat suits led them from the vehicle, taking the same precautions they'd taken with Sandy and her group. Sandy bit her lip as she watched them.


  "What were you thinking?" Simon asked.

  "I was just thinking it might be Dan and Quinn," Sandy admitted. "Or Carter's sons."

  "Me, too," Simon said.

  They watched the newcomers talk animatedly for several minutes as the gates were opened and they were led inside. More men in protective suits surrounded them, ushering them toward the medical trailer.

  "Dan and Quinn were heading over the mountains, right?" Simon asked.

  "Yes. That was what they said. I was hoping we'd run into them while we were up there."

  Simon stared down the road as he reflected on it. "You remember what I said about finding the compound?"

  "Of course. You said you had a good feeling about it."

  "Well, I have a good feeling about Dan and Quinn, too."

  Sandy smiled. "You know what? So do I."

  She let her smile linger as she took Simon's arm, leading him back toward the tents, where the smell of fresh cooked food drifted over the campsite.

  THE END

  Afterword

  Thanks for checking out Contamination 7! I hope you enjoyed Sandy's story. Although she started out as a minor character, I had a blast getting into her head and discovering what happened to her. Simon's character surprised me, too. I had a great time writing from his perspective. I hope you enjoyed reading the story as much as I enjoyed telling it.

  What's next? If you haven't checked out Contamination: Dead Instinct, you can get that book HERE. I've had some requests for a follow-up to that story, so you never know when that might appear.

  Reviews

  Want more? Leave a review and let me know. Reviews are like report cards. I never know what grade I'm going to get, but I always hope for an "A".

  Until next time,

  -Tyler Piperbrook

  June 2016

  THE OFFICIAL CONTAMINATION T-SHIRTS AVAILABLE HERE ON AMAZON!

  PREVIEW OF CONTAMINATION: DEAD INSTINCT!

  PART ONE - SITUATION DEGENERATES

  Chapter One

  Ken peered over the counter, past the aisles and through the shattered liquor store windows. Two men in dark T-shirts were heading toward the store, their boots crushing gravel. Both were tall and muscled—in much better shape than Ken—and both wore army pants. One of them sported a mustache, and his face was twisted in a grin.

  In his hand was the head of one of the infected.

  Ken had watched the man slice it from an already-dead body in the parking lot, joking with his friend at the mess he'd made. Now the man was holding it by the hair. Ken watched in horror as he tossed the head across the parking lot. The head rolled across the pavement, picking up speed, and then ricocheted off a nearby Dumpster. Ken could only guess what the man would do to him and his wife if they were found.

  Ken pointed the gun at the man crouched next to him, who was one of their friends. "If you say a word, I'll kill you," Ken said. A few minutes earlier, the man had stumbled on Ken and Roberta and tried to attack them. Luckily, Ken had gotten the upper hand. Ken peered over at his wife, who was crouched on his right. She was holding a gun, too, but she'd never used one.

  It'd been several days since they'd left Oklahoma.

  A week ago, a virus had ravaged the Southwest, overtaking the majority of the population with sickness. Once-normal people had been turned into bloodthirsty lunatics, bent on rending the survivors limb from limb. Those that hadn't turned wished they had. Aside from the roaming infected, the streets were filled with violent, sadistic individuals.

  Men like the ones outside.

  Ken swallowed as he watched the men approach. Their voices echoed across the parking lot.

  "Let's have a look in the store," the mustached man said to his friend, gesturing toward the building.

  "Sounds good."

  "Is David in there?"

  "Damned if I know. The fucker is always taking off. I told him to wait, but he wouldn't listen…"

  The two men advanced toward the store.

  Ken heard a muffled cough to his left and turned to face the man he was pointing the gun at. The man was covered in dirt and blood, and his forehead was bleeding.

  "Let me go, or they'll kill you," the man hissed.

  Ken jabbed the pistol into the man's side, prompting him to be quiet. The truth was, the men would kill them either way if they were discovered.

  Ken's eyes darted to the rear of the store. Behind him was a back door that was barricaded with boxes and shelves. More than likely, a survivor had secured the door when the infection began. There'd be no getting through it easily. He met Roberta's eyes. He could tell she was contemplating the same thing.

  "We'll never make it," he whispered to her.

  She nodded, tears forming in the corners of her eyes.

  "At least let me stretch," the injured man complained. "My legs are getting cramped. Both of you have guns, anyway. What do you think I'm going to do?"

  Ken looked at his pistol, then back at the man.

  "No way. Keep still."

  Even if he wanted to let the man go, it was too late. All he could do now was try to keep the man quiet in the hopes that the three of them could stay undetected.

  The men in the parking lot were getting closer, surveying the convenience store. Every once in a while, they gestured toward a dead body on the ground, snickering at the chaos around them.

  Ken couldn't comprehend the cruelty of some men. But then again, he'd always been a God-fearing man, and he'd let his faith guide his actions. It was unfair to assume everyone did the same. He let one hand off the gun and felt for the cross around his neck.

  Something brushed his pant leg, and he startled. When he looked down, he found his wife's hand clenched to the fabric of his ripped jeans. He'd been married to Roberta for twenty-five years. He loved her more than life itself.

  He couldn't let it end this way. Not here, not now.

  He let go of the cross and laced fingers with his wife.

  The men in the road had reached the store's entrance. Ken watched the mustached man rip open the door, then heard him chuckle.

  "Will you look at this, Willy?"

  His friend leaned over his shoulder.

  "A thirty-pack. Untouched. Now that's some lucky shit, right there."

  Willy slapped the mustached man on the back, letting out a hoot.

  "Hot damn, Tony, and I thought we'd be sober all afternoon!"

  The mustached man—Tony—reached down and tugged at the closed carton, snatching a can of beer from inside. For a split second, he juggled his beverage and his gun, working to open the container. He popped the can, releasing a spray of carbonation.

  The men laughed as the beer dripped onto the floor.

  They were twenty yards away.

  Ken contemplated breaking his cover and firing at them. Although he wasn't the best shot, he had a fair chance at hitting one of them, and he'd have the element of surprise on his side. As if she sensed his thought, Roberta tightened her grip on his hand. He sucked in a breath and waited.

  He couldn't justify shooting a man in cold blood.

  He couldn't.

  He kept his eyes glued on the men, peering at them between the bars of a cigarette display case. The store was a mess. It looked like it'd been raided several times over; most of the items had been ripped open, stolen, or consumed. Before the men had arrived, Ken and Roberta had gone inside in hopes of finding supplies.

  Now Ken wished he'd never come in at all.

  He watched as Tony guzzled the beer he'd opened, foam dripping off his chin. Willy laughed.

  "Gimme one, Tony."

  Tony frowned.

  "Get your own, you lazy son of a bitch."

  Willy leaned down and retrieved a can, sliding it out of the carton. Ken noticed both men's shirts were stained with blood, and their hands were covered in dirt. He wondered how long they'd been on the road.

  He could only guess at how many people they'd killed.

  "Why don't we see if there's any money in t
he register?" Tony suggested.

  "You really think there's anything in there?"

  "Worth a look. If things ever go back to normal, we might need it. If we find any cash, we'll split it."

  "What about David?"

  "He's not here. He missed the boat."

  The two men laughed.

  Ken's eyes darted across the counter. The cash register hung open to his right, just above Roberta's head. He caught a glimpse of his wife's expression—her eyes had widened, and her hand shook in his.

  He pried himself from her grasp and placed both hands on the gun.

  Willy stepped in the direction of the counter, still sipping his beer. His eyes roamed the tipped display cases on the counter, passing a string of untouched lotto tickets, a case of chewing tobacco, and a pack of cigarettes. A second later, they locked on the register. He took another step.

  Ken ducked lower into the shadows. He watched the opposite end of the counter—the place where the man would eventually appear—and waited, his gun still trained on the man he held hostage.

  At any moment, he'd be forced into a confrontation, and once that happened, there'd be no going back. He knew he couldn't hesitate. A second lost would mean a missed opportunity, and a missed opportunity would cost them their lives.

  There'd be no reasoning with these men. He could sense it.

  He tightened his grip on the gun handle, gritting his teeth so hard he thought they'd crack. He could feel his pulse beating through his neck, the driving rhythm of a song on its last chorus.

  He heard footsteps from the other side of the counter. The crack of another beer can. In just a few seconds he and his wife would be exposed. He cast a sideways glance at his prisoner, just in time to catch the man stifling a cough.