The knife moved a little more.
Come on, he thought.
Encouraged, he struggled harder. Suddenly his foot slipped and bashed into the rear of the truck.
Sam froze. Outside, the voices had stopped.
Did they hear me?
The forest was quiet. A few seconds later, he heard someone approaching.
“It sounds like your boyfriend is awake.”
He recognized the voice as Barry’s, and his heart sank.
He let his body go limp, closed his eyes. The tailgate creaked open, and he could feel the warmth of the sun on his legs.
“You ready to come out and join the party?” Barry asked.
Sam lay still.
“I know you’re awake in there. We all heard you. Time to come out.”
Barry began to tug at his jeans. Sam lashed out with his feet, connecting with the man’s stomach, but with his ankles bound, the blow was weak and ineffective. Barry laughed and wrestled him out of the pickup and onto the ground.
Sam tasted dirt in his mouth, and he opened his eyes.
He had been right about the campfire. About twenty feet away, three bikers stood in a half-circle, keeping vigil over the roaring flames. Empty beer cans were strewn about the site, and the men laughed and joked with each other as if they were nothing more than campers on a weekend getaway.
Delta lay facedown among them. Her hands and feet were tied behind her back and she kicked and squirmed, unable to break loose.
When she met Sam’s eyes, he felt a shiver of fear.
Barry leaned down so that his face was level with Sam’s and gave him a triumphant grin.
“Looks like I got the jump on you, old man.”
“Why are you doing this?” Sam asked.
The man chuckled, looked at his friends.
“He wants to know why,” he called over to them.
One of the bikers—the one with the long, unkempt beard—snorted in response. The others just stared.
“You people are all the same,” Barry said. “Like a broken record.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Sam asked.
“Remember that campsite you saw up the road?”
“Yeah.”
“What happened there wasn’t from any damn zombies.” He laughed.
“You’re sick.”
The man gave him a vacant stare, and then began to drag him across the dirt.
5
BARRY PULLED SAM BY HIS wrists, letting his face scrape against the forest floor. Sam’s cheeks burned from the debris, and he tasted dirt, but he knew it was nothing compared to what was coming.
He pictured the scene at the campsite, and felt a surge of fear. The residents there had been killed and dismembered, their faces almost unrecognizable. It had been awful enough to envision their demise at the hands of the creatures, but knowing that the murderers were human was even worse.
Barry pulled him to a tree about ten feet from the campfire, then positioned him upright against it. From Sam’s angle, he had a clear view of Delta and the other bikers.
“You’re a lucky man. You’re going to get a front row seat,” Barry said, snickering.
One of the other bikers had already lifted Delta off the ground. He held her face close to his own and gave her a smirk.
“You know, you’re even better looking up close,” the man said. “But you’ll look even better in pieces.”
The biker with the mustache ran up beside them. He was barely able to contain his excitement.
“Do you know what we’re going to do to you? We’re going to give you the special treatment.” He held a long bundle of rope in front of Delta’s face. “Each of us is going to choose one of your arms or legs, and then we’re going to tie it to our motorcycles and start driving. The last limb to come off wins.”
The first man wet his lips with his tongue. “Sort of like a wishbone. Only with four ends.”
She avoided his eyes, looking past him and into the forest.
“You better look at me while I’m talking, or I’ll cut those pretty blue eyes out.”
The man reached into his pants, still holding her with one hand, and pulled out a switchblade. Before he could make a move, Barry ran up next to him.
“What do you think you’re doing, Charlie?”
“I’m having my way with this one before we go ahead and…you know.”
“That’s not how this works,” Barry said. “I found her first.”
Charlie frowned, lowering the knife.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked.
“I’m the one who discovered these two, so I get to decide what happens, and in what order. Do you understand?”
Barry began to reach into his own pocket, his nose inches from his companion’s face.
Charlie dropped Delta into the dirt and she hit the ground with a thump. Before he could react, Barry had a pistol against his neck.
“Guys, relax!” one of the other bikers said. “We’ll all get our turn. No need to get hostile.”
“Stay the hell out of this, Harold,” Charlie muttered.
The two bikers stared at each other, eyes blazing, neither wanting to back down.
After a few seconds, Charlie finally gave in. He retreated a few steps, placing himself a few feet away from Sam, and held up his hands.
“OK, Barry. You win.”
From his position at the base of the tree, Sam could see Charlie’s back. Tucked in the back waistband of the man’s jeans was a pistol. He watched as the man’s hands fell to his sides, his fingers drumming the side of his pants.
He’s going to reach for it.
Barry still had his gun trained on his companion.
“Are you going to shoot me or what? Make up your mind. If not, I’d like to get another fucking beer,” Charlie said.
Barry lowered the weapon, a shit-eating grin spread across his face.
“I was just messin’ with you, man.”
In an instant, Charlie’s hand flew behind his back, grabbing hold of the pistol. He fired at Barry, the shot connecting with the man’s left shoulder, and Barry collapsed to the ground screaming.
“You motherfucker!”
Sensing he was in danger, Sam threw his body to the side.
Barry returned fire from the ground, raising his pistol and squeezing off several rounds in Charlie’s direction. The bullets connected, one hitting the biker in the stomach and one in the head, and the man fell backwards like a stone, falling just inches away from Sam. His pistol skittered off into the dirt, stopping near Sam’s feet.
I need that gun, Sam thought, his heart racing.
Without further hesitation, he rolled until his tied hands were above the pistol, grabbed it, and then clutched it in his hands.
The remaining bikers had rushed to the aid of their fallen friends, yelling and screaming as they tried to make sense of the situation.
Sam rolled onto his side, gun in his hands, and fired several rounds into the cluster of men. He saw one fall, then another. The one with the mustache began to stumble toward him and he adjusted his aim, emptying the clip into the man.
When he was finished, he dropped the gun. The camp was silent, save for the crackling of the fire.
He yelled out for Delta.
“I’m OK!” she yelled from the neighboring trees.
Still unable to move freely, Sam wiggled toward the sound of her voice. He inched his way past the dead bikers—staring at them each for a few seconds to ensure none were breathing—and made his way around the campfire.
Delta met him halfway. When Sam saw her, he breathed a sigh of relief. Aside from a few scratches and bruises, she appeared unharmed.
“My knife,” he said. He nodded to the front of his pants, where the handle protruded several inches.
Delta turned around, maneuvering herself so she could take hold of it, and then the two sat with their backs facing each other, using the blade to cut through their bonds. After freeing their hands
and feet, they shook their limbs to renew the circulation.
When they were finished, they stood and surveyed the campsite.
Across from them, on the other side of the fire, was the pickup. It appeared that all four tires had been flattened, and some of the food was scattered across the ground. Behind it were the bikers’ four motorcycles.
“How far is the road from here?” Sam asked.
Delta pointed through the trees.
“Not far,” she said. “Probably a few hundred feet or so.”
“It looks like they did a number on the truck.”
She nodded.
“Let’s see what we can salvage.”
The two made their way over to it. From the backseat they were able to grab two pistols, a rifle, and some clothes. In the covered cab, several boxes of food remained untouched—the ones that Sam had once been wedged between earlier. Using the knife, he sliced open the cardboard, removed the contents, and then laid the food out on the ground.
Sam walked over to the motorcycles. Each had several saddlebags on the side. He unzipped each and inspected the contents, finding several more beers, some moldy sandwiches, and a few other odds and ends. He threw the items on the ground and then made his way back to Delta.
“Ready to get going?” he asked.
She wrinkled her forehead, confused, and then pointed to the bikes. “Are we taking one or two of those?”
“I don’t see that we have much of an option.”
“Do you even know how to ride one? Because I don’t.”
“Yep. It’s been a while, but I’m sure it’ll come back to me.”
She strode over to the motorcycles and began to inspect them.
“Take your pick,” Sam said.
She walked down the row, eyeing each one in turn, and then stopped at a large black Harley—the biggest of the four.
“How about this one?” she asked.
Sam smiled at her. “Good choice.”
Delta clung to the back of Sam’s shirt as the Harley weaved through the mountain roads.
As she glanced out into the wilderness, taking in scenic overpasses and majestic mountaintops, she realized that she had never sat on a motorcycle before.
The feeling was both liberating and terrifying.
Several times she felt the bike wobble, threatening to pitch over the edge of Route 191, but each time Sam corrected and kept it on course.
The wind tugged at her hair and the breeze ruffled her pants and t-shirt. The roar of the bike was almost deafening, filling the narrow road with sound and echoing off the rocks and into the valleys below. Several times she attempted conversation, but was unable due to the volume.
Since leaving the biker’s campsite, they hadn’t seen a soul. Delta wasn’t surprised. Given their remote location and the situation they were in, she was surprised they had run into anybody at all.
After driving for about an hour, Sam called back to her, and she perked up to listen.
“We’re almost out of the mountains,” he yelled. “I can see Interstate 40 ahead.”
“OK,” she shouted, unsure if he had heard her.
As if on cue, the wilderness began to open up, tall pines giving way to desert, the once-curved road starting to flatten out like a roll of brown carpet. Without the cover of trees the day felt several degrees warmer, and Delta found herself thankful for the breeze the motorcycle provided.
In the distance she could just make out the connecting interstate. Her body tensed as they rode down to meet it.
The last time they had been on I-40, they had been shot at and almost killed. Nearing the highway meant being closer to civilization, and with a higher population came greater risk. Although Delta was glad to finally be out of the mountains, she was terrified of what they might run into.
“Hang on!” Sam yelled.
As the road broadened, he began to accelerate, testing the limits of the Harley. In the distance, Delta could make out a plethora of shapes, but was unable to distinguish any details. When they finally reached the highway, the storeowner slowed the bike to a crawl and then stopped to assess their surroundings.
Delta immediately felt a pit in her stomach
Things were much worse now than when they had left.
The interstate was littered with vehicles—overturned RVs, cars, flipped and broken motorcycles. Several appeared to have been set on fire, and the charred remains left a smoky residue in the air, filling her nostrils and making her choke. Aside from the vehicles were pieces of broken furniture and electronic equipment, as if the owners had fled from their homes, hoping to start a new life elsewhere.
And then there were the bodies.
Scattered amongst the debris were piles of human remains—some intact, others unraveled across the pavement. Limbs were strewn everywhere, and puddles of blood filled the gaps between the wreckage. Delta’s hands flew to her mouth and she struggled to breathe.
“Are you all right?” Sam called back to her.
“Yeah. I think so.”
The storeowner dismounted the bike, taking in the gruesome sight. After a few seconds, he patted her on the shoulder and then began to unzip one of the saddlebags. He reached inside and pulled out the torn page of an atlas.
He traced his fingers over the paper for several minutes, and then held it up and pointed so she could see.
“We’ll be on I-40 for about five miles or so,” he said. “After that, we’ll get back on I-191.”
She nodded, choking back the bile rising in her throat. Sam pointed to the westbound lane, where there was a small break in the wall of abandoned vehicles.
“Thank God we took the bike,” he said.
6
AFTER CLEANING UP THE REMNANTS of the two agents he had killed, Cromwell returned to the main control room, where Hopper was still keeping watch.
“That was a long break,” Hopper said without turning around.
“Sorry. Stomach issues.”
Cromwell eyed the row of monitors.
The left-hand side of the desk contained the cameras that covered his agents in the field. Each of the agent vehicles was equipped with a dash-mounted camera, allowing a view of what was going on both inside and outside the vehicle. Any problems or concerns would be reported to the leaders in the field, who would check in with the troops under them and send in reinforcements as necessary.
A few of these screens showed agent soldiers riding in their vehicles and talking. Others portrayed the remains of ruined cities, with occasional glimpses of the creatures milling about outside the vehicles.
The cameras on the right were used to keep watch on the compound. These displayed images of the Utah desert: rolling, arid valleys, stiff green juniper trees, and mountain ranges, all of which surrounded the building. The compound had formerly been used as a religious headquarters. Now, with the old sect defunct, it been converted to suit the needs of the agents and their cause.
Just a few months earlier the compound had been filled with recruits. Prior to the launch of the infection, the building had been used to conduct training sessions for the agents, teaching them the skills they needed to survive. Currently, the building contained only a skeleton crew; most of the agents had been placed out in the field to monitor and observe the results of the infection.
Oftentimes, Cromwell found himself envious of his subordinates. Because of his importance, he rarely left the compound. Instead, he relied on the obedience of his appointed leaders, sending his directives from afar.
Now, with his adrenaline pumping, he wished he could join the other agents in the field. It would be great to be among them, hunting down the survivors and delivering the final blows to humanity himself.
But there would be plenty of time for that, of course.
When things settled down—once the agents had taken control of the United States—he would begin to weed them out, too. Any that were not up to his standards would be quickly eliminated.
Well, maybe not too quickly.
He would have to start frequenting that room more often.
Delta closed her eyes as they navigated down I-40, wishing that she were anywhere else. The smell of decay permeated her lungs and nostrils and she clung to Sam, afraid of falling off and into the carnage.
The storeowner twisted the bike from left to right, trying to find gaps between the rubble. Just a few days ago they had traveled this same highway, and it had looked nothing like this.
Things had gotten far, far worse, indeed.
The bike swayed and she opened her eyes. Sam had stopped, placing both feet on the ground. A tractor-trailer had tipped and fallen on its side, effectively blocking the lanes in front of them. She glanced across the road past the median, noticing that the other side of the highway looked clear.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
Sam held up a finger, signaling for her to wait. He dismounted the bike and pulled his pistol from his waistband. Starting to panic, Delta fumbled for her own weapon and stepped off the motorcycle to join him.
“Stay here,” he said. She reluctantly complied.
The storeowner walked the length of the tractor-trailer, holding his gun at chest-level. When he reached the cab, he leaned down to peer inside.
Delta watched him, a lump rising in her throat. What the hell was he doing?
Overhead, a cluster of birds circled, landing intermittently to feast on bits of human remains. She strained her ears, hoping to hear whatever had startled Sam, but could only make out the caw of the birds and the purr of the motorcycle.
After a few seconds, she heard something: a faint moan coming from somewhere beyond the truck. She watched as Sam continued past the hood of the tractor-trailer, making his way around to the other side. A second later, he slipped from view.
Contamination (Books 0-3) Page 29