"Help! Back here!"
"Shut up!" Ken barked.
He caught sight of Willy and Tony. The two men had just stepped through the entrance and ducked behind two toppled shelves.
"Stay back!" Ken shouted.
He heard a laugh from the front of the store. One of the men coughed loudly, as if to taunt him. He saw a faint reflection in the glass of the store window, then the glint of a gun.
"I mean it!"
Ken jumped as a bullet connected with a display case to his left. He thrust his pistol over the counter and squeezed the trigger. The shot went wide, shattering a bottle of wine on a nearby shelf. The last thing he wanted was a firefight, but Ken needed to drive the men back. If he could hold his position, maybe he could get the men to leave.
Then maybe he and his wife could escape.
"We're not looking for trouble!" he shouted. "But we'll shoot you if you don't leave us alone!"
The store returned to silence. Ken studied the fractured storefront window, trying to pinpoint the men's position. He thought he saw Willy's reflection on the left-hand side of the store, but he couldn't be certain. A moment later, he heard the pop of a can, then the fizz of carbonation.
"We're just looking for a drink," Willy called out. "Who you got back there? Is that David?"
"Yes!" David screamed.
Ken lashed out with his foot, connecting with the man's leg, and David howled in pain.
"Look, we're just passing through," Ken said. "We don't want any trouble. Throw down your weapons and lie on the ground. Then we'll be on our way."
"Why don't you come on out and we'll talk?"
"I don't think so."
"How about this? We'll head outside, and when you're ready, you come on out and join us."
Ken stared over the counter. He heard the scrape of boots on glass, then the sound of the men getting up. Two figures had emerged from behind the shelves, heading for the doorway. He kept his grip on the pistol. Despite the man's words, he was far from convinced. He watched the men tread over the debris and slip through the door, certain they'd turn around and open fire.
But neither of them did.
He glanced back at Roberta. Her hands trembled as she held the gun on David. Her eyes contained the same doubt and uncertainty that he had. David was rocking back and forth on his haunches, clutching his leg.
"Tony! Willy! Wait!" he screamed.
Before Ken or Roberta could stop him, David lunged for freedom, heaving over the counter. David kicked behind him, knocking over several displays.
"There're only two of them!" he shouted. "An old man and a woman! These pieces of shit have been holding me back here. Come get th—"
A gunshot rang out from the front of the store, and David's forehead exploded with red. He rolled off the counter in a heap, landing on top of Ken and Roberta, and they scrambled to push him off. He came to rest on the floor, his eyes staring at the ceiling.
"You moron!" Willy yelled, as if the man could still hear him. "Why'd you have to go and get caught?"
Roberta screamed.
Her voice was shrill and piercing, and fear shot up Ken's spine like a slithering snake. He pushed the dead man aside and clung to his wife, aiming the pistol wildly. He heard laughter from all around him, as if the men had somehow multiplied and surrounded them. He grabbed for his wife, struggling to keep her calm.
"It's going to be OK," he whispered. "Stay put."
He attempted to stand, but Roberta clung to him with shaky hands, as if he were the last vestige of her sanity. He pried her fingers from his shirt, whispering reassurances he didn't believe, and then crept back to the counter. The men had disappeared again, but he could sense their presence.
They were still in the building. He was sure of it.
Outside in the parking lot, he could see the tail end of the Subaru Outback he and Roberta had been driving, which they'd tucked behind a dumpster.
They'd stopped at the liquor store in search of supplies—it was the closest building off the highway, and they'd been hoping to find a first aid kit. Both Roberta and Ken's feet had blisters from constant travel, and they needed bandages. Earlier, they'd been with another man they'd encountered on the road, but that man had fallen victim to the infected. Now it was just him and Roberta.
Ken had known stopping would be dangerous, but he hadn't expected this.
He glanced at the dead body next to them. In spite of David's violent demeanor, Ken had been willing to release him. All he'd wanted was to be able to leave. And now the man was dead.
Ken swallowed and surveyed the store, his eyes roving over broken beverage bottles and overturned racks. Although he was outnumbered, he'd sworn a silent oath to himself: that no one would harm his wife, and that they'd escape this madness together.
Spotting nothing over the counter, he ducked back down and made his way to the far edge. His hope was to get a better view of the store, a different angle that would allow him to locate their attackers.
As he snuck along, he fought back the image of David's exploding head. Since leaving Oklahoma, he and Roberta had seen some awful things—things they'd never forget—and now this incident had been added to the memories. He wanted nothing more than to flee the liquor store, to get his wife to the car and leave.
But he knew these men wouldn't rest until they were dead.
Ken reached the edge of the counter and peered around, keeping his body low to the ground. He'd never been a violent man. Up until a week ago, he'd never even struck anyone. He'd owned a rifle when he was younger—a .22—but it'd been years since he'd fired a weapon.
The infection had changed everything.
In just a week, he'd gone from elementary school groundskeeper to survivor, and things hadn't been the same since. Gone were the nights of home-cooked meals and relaxing in front of the television. Gone were the days of sitting on the porch with Roberta, watching the sun set over the distant hills. Now the only sunsets they saw were from the back of the station wagon, hoping they'd escape the infection, praying that they'd avoid the violent whims of other survivors.
Praying they'd find their son.
Isaac had moved to Phoenix six months ago. For the past four days, Ken and Roberta had been crossing the Midwest to get to him. And now these men were trying to cut their journey short, for no reason other than their own sadistic enjoyment.
The thought filled Ken with rage, and it gave him a renewed sense of determination, a will to survive what they were up against.
He wanted everything back the way it was, dammit. He wanted his family safe and together, and back in Oklahoma. He'd do anything to make that happen.
We're coming, Isaac.
He gritted his teeth with resolve. In the front of the store, he caught a glimpse of army pants, the fabric of a black T-shirt. He aimed his gun at the shelf, ready to pull the trigger as soon as the man came into view.
But he never got the chance.
Before Ken could act, a man tackled him to the ground, and the blade of a knife pricked his throat.
Chapter Four
Isaac was light-headed again. He'd been trying to control his breathing for what felt like an eternity, and even still, he was running out of strength. The heat from the enclosed space felt like it was closing in, threatening to choke the life from his weakened body.
His instincts screamed at him to get out of the trunk. The only thing stopping him was the constant banging of the creatures. Not only were they still there, they seemed to be growing in number. He only had a vague sense of how many there were, but based on the groans, he guessed there were a lot.
More than enough to rip him limb from limb. More than enough to unravel his intestines with their teeth and gnaw on his bones. He clenched his eyes shut and tried to dispel the image, but it was one he'd seen too many times. Of course, that was back when there'd been more survivors left. Back when there'd been hope.
It'd been almost a week since the start of the infection.
; Ever since, days had felt like weeks, and each horror had seemed worse than the last. The altercation with his roommate had only reinforced his decision to leave the apartment. Of course, now he found himself wishing he'd stayed.
Even death by starvation seemed preferable to this.
He could feel himself succumbing to claustrophobia, could feel his muscles and limbs crying out from holding the same position. Even when he moved, there was nowhere to go, no way to fully stretch.
His body begged for a reprieve.
Without realizing it, he unclasped his hands, reaching for the latch that would spring him from the trunk. If he could just get some air, relieve some of the heat...
He was halted by the sound of gunfire.
Short, intermittent bursts erupted from somewhere outside, and he heard the sound of bodies hitting the pavement. One of the creatures shrieked above him, and nails skidded off the exterior of the trunk. Who was out there? Was it the military? Was it help?
Did they know he was in here?
Despite his predicament, Isaac had somehow kept quiet, fearing that he'd draw more attention to himself. He'd prayed the things would go away, even though he knew it was unlikely.
Now his hope was renewed.
He kept his hand on the trunk latch, waiting for the gunfire to cease. He noticed the commotion around him was dying out. Even the creatures in the interior of the car—the ones that had been pushing on the other side of the backseat—seemed to have grown still.
With the area now immersed in quiet, Isaac could hear only the pounding in his ears. His face dripped with sweat; his clothes felt like they'd been dipped in water. Still he waited.
Although he was pretty sure the creatures around him had been eliminated, he found himself faced with a new fear. Who was on the outside? If someone had come to rescue him, why hadn't they tried to open the trunk?
He had the sudden fear that someone was waiting to mow him down, too. He'd seen some violent survivors since the infection began—mostly from a distance, because he'd been careful not to get close. What if one of them was outside waiting for him?
He held his breath, hoping for a clue as to his rescuer.
As the seconds ticked by, his anxiety deepened. How long should he wait? Between the heat exhaustion and the lack of oxygen, he wanted nothing more than to spring from the vehicle, to suck in fresh air and relieve the aches and pains that belabored his body. Ten seconds, he decided. He'd wait ten seconds, and if he heard nothing in that time, he'd exit.
He began counting slowly.
One-one-thousand, two-one-thousand, three-one-thousand...
Nothing.
Four-one-thousand, five-one-thousand...
Still not a sound.
When he reached ten, he ran his fingers over the trunk latch. Although he was terrified to open it, he was even more terrified to stay.
What if the creatures came back and trapped him for good?
He was about to hit the latch when he heard the scuff of a shoe on the pavement. The noise was tentative, almost inaudible, and he strained his ears to hear it again. Someone coughed, and Isaac's skin prickled. Whoever it was knew he was in here; they were just waiting for him to come out.
He could either stay, hoping to outlast the person or persons, or he could take a chance and make his presence known.
His breath came in shallow gasps; the trunk felt like it was searing him alive. He reached for the latch.
"Don't shoot! I'm coming out!"
He listened for a response, but all he heard was the subtle gust of the wind, blowing through the cracks and corners of the city. Somewhere overhead, a bird cawed, as if to make up for the lack of noise on the street below it.
Isaac hit the latch and popped the trunk open. He tried to catch it on the way up, hoping to keep his cover, but he lost his grip. Before he knew it he was in the open, the sun shining in his face.
Slowly but surely the world came into view. All around him were remnants of the creatures that had attacked him. Their bodies littered the street: face down, sideways, and on top of one another.
Standing about fifty feet away, guns locked on him, were five young men.
Isaac studied the group. All of them appeared to be several years older than him—in their mid-twenties, if he had to guess. They were wearing tattered clothes, and each of them sported some combination of beard or moustache.
He held up his hands, his body half-in and half-out of the trunk, and called out to them.
"Don't shoot," he said. "Please."
The men stared at him, but none of them moved. His eyes roamed the group, searching for some indication that they meant him harm. Were they going to cut him down? If so, what were they waiting for?
The men's eyes were hollow and empty, and none of them spoke. After a few seconds, one of them—a young man with a backwards baseball cap—lowered his weapon and walked toward Isaac. His hair was long and stringy; his face was matted with grime.
"Can you walk?" he asked.
Isaac nodded.
"Are you sick?"
"I don't think so," Isaac replied.
"If you are, you better tell us."
"I'm not sick."
The man gave a sideways glance at the group, then turned back to Isaac.
"Come out of there, slowly. If you fuck with us, we'll shoot you dead."
As if in response, several of the men took aim, hunching their shoulders. Isaac held his hands higher, as if his pale palms were white flags.
"OK, OK," he said. "I'm coming out slowly."
He lowered his hands and steadied himself on the edge of the trunk, finding purchase on the pavement. His knees wobbled. The men instructed him to empty his pockets, and he complied. He placed a set of keys, his wallet, and his pocketknife on the ground. He'd lost everything else.
"Kick the pocketknife over to us," the young man said.
Isaac hesitated, then booted it over to them. It was a Swiss Army knife—a present from his father. He'd had it for ten years. The thought of losing it made him feel sick.
But what choice did he have?
"What's your name?" the kid with the baseball cap asked him, plucking up the knife and examining it.
"Isaac."
"You picked a shitty place to hide, Isaac."
Isaac nodded. The men around him were no longer aiming their weapons at him, but had turned them on the street and were surveying the area.
"You're damn lucky we showed up."
Isaac nodded.
"How long were you in there, anyway?"
"I don't even remember. It felt like a long time."
"Jimmy over here noticed a cluster of those things by the car you were stuck in, and he figured there was someone inside." The kid nodded to one of the others, a man with a thick beard. "I'm Scotty, and the others are Rick, Spencer, and Ferris."
The group turned their heads slightly at their names, but none of them made any further introductions. Without another word, they started off down the street.
"Follow us," Scotty said.
Isaac recovered his wallet and keys. To his relief, Scotty handed him back his pocketknife. He tucked it in his pocket. The street was garbage-strewn, filled with abandoned cars and rubble. Isaac glanced back at the vehicle he'd been trapped in. The trunk still hung open, as if to commemorate his time inside. He'd almost died in there.
If these men hadn't come along, he would have. He shuddered at the thought.
"Where are you from?" Scotty asked.
"An apartment a few blocks away. I was with my roommate, but he...he didn't make it."
"Did he turn?"
"Yeah."
"Do you have any idea how far this thing has spread, Isaac?"
"No, I don't."
"Do you know what we should avoid? Any of the products that have been contaminated?"
"I'm not sure. I was hoping to find that out myself."
"See, I told you he'd be useless," Jimmy called back, pawing at his beard. "We should've
left his ass in the trunk."
Isaac stared at the ground.
"You'll need to look after yourself," Scotty said. "None of us are going to babysit you. Got it?"
Isaac nodded. One of the men grunted, and Jimmy rolled his eyes. Despite the fact that they'd rescued him, he felt no sense of allegiance from them. It was as if they'd already expended their kindness, and now it was up to him to prove his worth.
Scotty pulled a hunting knife from a sheath in his belt and handed it to him.
"Take it," he said.
Isaac gripped the blade. His mind flew to the battle he'd had with his roommate. He could still see Harvey's contorted face, his inky black eyes. Isaac had tangled with him for almost ten minutes, crashing into walls and furniture, destroying the apartment they'd once shared. He'd finally buried a dirty kitchen knife in Harvey's head, watching as his former friend convulsed. The sight still haunted him.
He couldn't imagine doing that again.
But he'd have to, if he wanted to survive.
He followed the men through the blood-soaked streets, stepping around bodies in various stages of decay, and tried to dispel images of Harvey.
They'd only gone a block when the men began shouting. A group of creatures was approaching from their right, pouring from an alley. Scotty swore and swiveled his automatic rifle in their direction.
"I knew we shouldn't have made that much noise."
"Keep moving!" Jimmy barked.
The men fell in line, fleeing toward the closest building—a movie theater. Isaac could see posters in the window, the names of several blockbusters on the marquee. In spite of the chaos in the streets, the building was relatively intact, as if there were a full audience inside, waiting to spill out of the foyer. He followed the group at a close distance, his legs still stiff and sore, trying to calm his frantic heartbeat.
Isaac glanced at the blade he'd been given, feeling helplessly underequipped. The rest of his companions had guns. What was he going to do with a knife? The others had reached the front entrance and ripped open the door.
Scotty picked up speed, leaving Isaac behind.
Contamination: Dead Instinct (Contamination Post-Apocalyptic Zombie Series) Page 2