Contamination: Dead Instinct (Contamination Post-Apocalyptic Zombie Series)

by T. W. Piperbrook

  Even though he was within a group, he might as well be alone.

  Chapter Five

  Ken went stock-still. He could feel one of the men behind him holding the blade to his neck, and he didn't dare move. The man's grip was firm and unyielding. The man had already ordered Roberta to toss her gun, and she'd complied. Now Ken's wife was huddled in the corner, her eyes wide and disbelieving.

  Ken scanned the floor, searching for his own gun. When he'd been tackled, the weapon had skittered from his hands, and he'd lost track of its location.

  In his peripheral vision, he could make out the silhouette of David's body on the floor. He closed his eyes and reopened them, wishing he could somehow teleport himself from the scene, that he could make things different.

  But nothing had changed.

  This wasn't how things were supposed to end. Ken had promised himself. He'd promised Roberta. Panic started to overtake him. He tested his captor's grasp, but the man squeezed him tighter.

  "Move and I slit your throat," the man warned.

  He could tell by the voice that it was Willy.

  Ken let his arms go limp. He contemplated struggling further, but he quickly abandoned the idea. If he were to get himself killed, he'd be of no use to his wife. Instead, he resolved to comply, biding his time until he could figure another way out.

  He heard the stomp of boots, the crunch of glass, and then Tony sprang into view, holding a serrated knife. Both men had holstered their guns.

  It was as if they'd already determined they'd won.

  Tony bent down on his knees and stared Ken in the eyes.

  "Is that your wife over there?" he asked.

  Ken's body tensed at the words, and his hands shook with anger. He met the man's gaze but didn't respond.

  "She seems like a nice woman. Doesn't she, Willy?"

  "Yep. Sure does."

  "What's her name?"

  Ken felt a wave of nausea. The prospect of this man harming his wife—hell, even saying her name—made him sick to his stomach. He maintained eye contact with the mustached man, trying to avoid a reaction. He couldn't give the man the satisfaction. Tony was looking to express his dominance, to assert his control, and the last thing Ken wanted was to grant him that power.

  He held his silence.

  "I asked you what her name was. Did you hear me?"

  No answer.

  "Maybe I'll ask her, then."

  At the sound of the man's words, Roberta cried out from the corner. The man took a step toward her.

  "Roberta!" Ken yelled. "Her name is Roberta!"

  Tony stopped. A smile flitted across his lips, and he hunched back down in front of Ken. From behind Ken, Willy started laughing—an awful, repugnant sound that reminded Ken of everything wrong with the world.

  He shut his eyes, fighting the dizzy wave of helplessness that had overtaken him.

  "I guess he's going to listen, after all. Huh, Willy?"

  "Yep. Damn right he is."

  Ken began to pray. He recited the words loudly in his head, attempting to will away what was happening, hoping someone was listening. He closed his eyes again, wishing the horrid scene would be over.

  Instead, he opened them to find Tony peering at him. The man was perched only a few inches away, on his knees, and Ken could smell the odor of alcohol when he exhaled.

  "Like I said, Roberta seems like a nice lady," Tony said. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "I wouldn't want to do anything to upset her. Would you?"

  Ken shook his head. As sick as the man was, as disingenuous as his words were, Ken couldn't help but agree.

  "So here's the deal. Willy and I are going to carve you up a little. And you're going to do your best not to scream. Do you hear me?"

  Ken nodded, fighting off the moisture that crept into his eyes. Tony held his knife like a spear, jabbing it in the direction of his face.

  "If you scream once, just once, I'll make sure Roberta dies as slowly as you. But if you keep quiet, I'll make sure she goes quickly. Does that work for you, Ken?"

  Ken clenched his eyes shut, unable to stave off the tears. He could hear his wife sobbing quietly. He opened his mouth to answer but couldn't get out the words.

  "I asked you a question, Ken." Tony poked the blade into his cheek. "I need an answer."

  Ken's body tensed, and in response, the arm around his neck tightened its grip. There was no way he could overpower these men. Even if he could ward them off temporarily, there was no way that Roberta could escape. She was wedged in the corner about five feet away from him, as doomed as he was.

  At least they'd go together.

  He flipped through his memories, reviewing them like pages in a scrapbook—the birth of his son Isaac, his wedding to Roberta, the dreams they shared with each other each night before they went to sleep. All of that was going to be over.

  It probably had been, as soon as the infection started.

  But that didn't make it any easier to accept.

  Ken opened his eyes and stared at his wife. He flexed his hands, preparing to make his final stance. He couldn't allow this to happen. He'd rather go out fighting than succumb to what these men were going to do. He was about to make a move when he saw a flash of movement.

  Roberta had already sprung.

  Chapter Six

  Isaac followed the group in front of him, his eyes fixed on the movie theater entrance. One by one the young men flew through the doors, casting nervous glances behind them. The creatures were catching up. Isaac didn't dare look, but he could hear the slap of shoeless and tattered feet on the pavement, the guttural moans of the hungry.

  Scotty barreled into the theater a few feet in front of him, barely stopping to hold the door. Isaac caught the edge and threw it open, darting in behind him. Once inside, he kept running. There was no time to secure the entrance.

  They'd entered a lobby, and the forerunners of Scotty's group were charging through the carpeted room, making their way to the opposite side. The theater was dim and menacing—the only light provided by the windows at his back. Life-sized cardboard cutouts were strewn across the floor, remnants of movie releases that would probably never happen.

  "This way!" someone shouted from ahead.

  Isaac couldn't see the speaker, but he followed the voice. The theater lobby had become almost black. He heard the creatures pummel the glass behind him, searching for the door handle. Hopefully their lack of coordination would buy him time.

  His only weapon—the knife Scotty had given him—was wholly inadequate for what he was up against.

  He saw several silhouettes slip through a door in the distance, and he followed the shapes and sounds, terrified he'd be left behind. With each step, the theater grew darker, as if the building were a black hole, intent on swallowing him up. All at once he heard the click of a door, and the voices of his companions disappeared. He strained his eyes in the dark, but could only see outlines across the room.

  Where had everybody gone?

  He kept running, his heart thumping in his chest. Objects seemed to appear in front of him in the dim lighting. He vaulted over a waiting line rope, then an overturned cash register.

  Still no sign of the group he'd been with.

  No clue as to where to turn.

  The creatures were inside the building now. He could hear them thumping and knocking into the objects behind him, navigating the same path he'd run seconds before. Without clear direction, he'd be overtaken.

  He ran blindly in the dark, each step bringing him further from the light, and hoped he was going the right way. He tried to create a mental picture of where the rest of the group had gone, but in his panic, he couldn't remember.

  His hands bumped a counter. He groped along the side of it, feeling for a way around. The creatures hissed behind him. Could they see in the dark? Or were they as blind as he was? He needed to find an opening. His hands slid over papers and candy boxes and overturned telephones, and the noise made him cringe.

&nb
sp; All at once he found a shattered display case and he wedged himself through the middle. Shards of glass pricked his legs. The things were right behind him. There was no time to run—only time to hide. He scooted on hands and knees until he'd made it through the opening. Then he huddled against the wall behind the counter.

  His hands shook as he listened to the things all around him.

  Something crashed into the other side of the counter. The thing cried out in frustration, sending a shower of candy boxes off the top of the counter. Food pelleted the floor. Several of the candies bounced off his legs, and he drew up his knees, trying to avoid the debris.

  Once the shower of food had ended, he uncovered his face and wielded the knife in front of him. The creature on the other side of the counter had moved farther away, joining a stampede of others as they paraded through the theater.

  The things were multiplying. It was as if the creatures had telepathy, and they'd broadcasted the survivors' location over some infected brainwave, luring their counterparts to the building.

  Isaac trembled as he listened to the commotion. From somewhere deep in the theater, he heard the patter of gunshots, then the cries of men on the move. A second later, he heard a blood-curdling scream.

  The footsteps of the infected had waned. He could hear a few of the creatures stumbling around in the dark lobby, but none sounded like they were in the immediate vicinity. He bit his lip.

  It was time to move.

  He rose from his perch on the floor, his heart knocking in his chest. He stared across the room at the windows that lined the front of the building. A few of them had been shattered, and he could see daylight in the distance.

  He needed to get to it. The longer he stayed in the dark building, the closer it became to his tomb. He walked several steps, feeling in front of him, searching for the shattered display case that had admitted him. He finally found it, and he knelt down to worm his way through.

  He'd just started to crawl when a pair of hands grabbed him.

  Loud, uneven breathing filled his ears, and the smell of blood savaged his nose. Isaac pulled back instinctively, trying to free himself, but one of the creatures had him in its grasp. It tugged on his shirt, pulling him closer, and he cried out and thrust with his knife.

  The thing flailed to the side. Isaac's jab missed, and the tip of the blade rammed into the display case. He reared back for another strike. He could feel the creature's hot breath in his face, like a vortex threatening to suck him in.

  He stabbed again. This time his thrust connected, and a spurt of wet fluid hit him in the face. Isaac flung himself backward, escaping the thing's clutches, crashing into the wall. His shoulders stung from the impact. Before he could take to his feet, the thing had clambered through the opening.

  It was coming after him.

  Isaac scrambled backward. The creature was little more than an outline, a mass of smell and movement. He lashed out with his foot, catching it somewhere—its chest? Its stomach? He wasn't sure. It grunted with the impact, then continued toward him.

  The creature was gaining ground. Isaac backed up, but he was going much slower than the creature, and the disparity of speed was working to the creature's advantage.

  Soon it'd latched onto his legs again, and it crawled up him like a spider, working its way to his face. Isaac let loose a scream. He lost his footing and fell flat on his back, the thing hovering over him.

  Isaac began to jab with the knife. He thrust it into the creature's ribs, its arms, its stomach. He couldn't see what he was aiming at, but he knew enough to keep stabbing. To stop stabbing was to die. He felt pain in his bicep, and he winced. The thing had clawed him, but he kept on. Finally he jabbed it in the head.

  The creature collapsed on top of him.

  He tried to pull out the knife, but it was lodged in the thing's face. He managed to yank it free, and he wriggled out from underneath its body, his chest heaving.

  Isaac staggered to his feet, barely able to stand.

  He was about to take a step when a voice rang out across the theater.

  "Isaac? Where the fuck are you?"

  Isaac pulled himself up and over the counter, his vision bleary. Through the front windows of the movie theater, about a hundred yards in the distance, he saw a familiar form. It looked like Scotty.

  He made his way toward the light, the knife slippery in his hand. The young man was peering inside. Isaac could hear a few creatures moving in the theater, making their way toward the commotion. He picked up his pace.

  When he was halfway across the lobby, he spotted several of the other group members outside. They were already retreating through the streets, leaving the scene behind.

  "Wait!" he hissed, as loud as he dared.

  He waved his arms and darted across the room, afraid that Scotty would miss him. The kid nodded in acknowledgement. Isaac crossed the remainder of the room, then edged sideways through one of the shattered windows.

  After being cooped up in the dark building, the daylight was fierce and unrelenting, and Isaac swiped his eyes to clear his vision.

  "I thought you were done for," Scotty said.

  "I almost was," Isaac managed.

  "We need to catch up with the others."

  The rest of the group was almost a block away, and they'd already broken into a sprint.

  Isaac suddenly felt sticky and damp, and he looked down at his shirt, noticing the blood that spattered his front. His hands were speckled and stained; fluid dripped from his face.

  He glanced behind him at the theater. A few creatures were visible in the building, but none were in pursuit.

  "How'd you guys get out?" he asked Scotty.

  "An emergency exit in back," Scotty said, struggling for breath.

  They darted through the street, avoiding piles of refuse and debris. After a minute, they'd narrowed the gap with the others. The young men were moving at a steady clip, training their rifles at the road in front of them.

  It took Isaac a minute to realize one of them was missing.

  "What happened to—?"

  "Rick didn't make it."

  Isaac glanced instinctively behind them, as if he'd find the other man trailing behind them, but the road was empty.

  "Rick's gone, Isaac," Scotty said, grabbing his arm. "But you're not. So let's get a move on, before we're next."

  Chapter Seven

  Ken watched Roberta leap, her body little more than a blur. Before he knew it, she'd latched onto Tony, and Tony screamed out in anger and surprise. Willy released his hold on Ken, and Ken wriggled from his grasp.

  Ken didn't hesitate. He threw an elbow behind him, connecting with Willy's ribs, and then spun around and dove for the man who'd been holding him.

  The two men fell to the floor in a tangled heap, arms and legs kicking. The knife clattered to the floor. Although Ken had the element of surprise, Willy was stronger, and he immediately began pummeling Ken with his fists. The blows rocked Ken's body, and he gasped for air.

  Behind him, he could hear his wife screeching. Although he couldn't be sure, it sounded like she had the upper hand. Even still, she might not have it for long.

  I need to help her, he thought.

  Willy continued to rail him with his fists, and Ken fought to protect himself. At the moment, he was lying on his side. He needed to fight back, but his body was wracked with pain, and he was unable to catch his bearings. His eyes wandered from Willy to the floor, searching for a weapon. He didn't see one.

  A blow connected with his jaw, and he felt one of his teeth crack. He tried to grab one of Willy's fists, hoping to prevent further damage, but the man shook him free. It was then he saw Willy's gun. It was still holstered on Willy's waist, and Willy was reaching for it.

  I can't let him get to it.

  Ignoring the pain, Ken swung at Willy, putting as much strength as he could muster into the blow. The blow glanced off the bigger man's chin, and Willy's eyes fluttered. His hands flew up to protect his face.
r />   Come on. Keep going.

  Ken swung again, this time with his left hand, and hit the man in the temple. He made a frantic grab for the gun. He felt the handle in his grasp, and he tugged it free just as Willy latched onto his neck.

  Ken's throat tightened, and his Adam's apple felt like it was about to cave in. He could feel the airflow cutting off, and he attempted to cough, but the noise was trapped in his throat. A whimper escaped his lips—the sound of a man living out his last few seconds. Every part of him wanted to drop the gun and pry the man's fingers from his throat.

  But he couldn't do that.

  Ken brought the gun up and fired. The shot echoed through the room, momentarily drowning out the noises around him. He felt the hands around his neck release, and he gasped for breath as the man rolled off him. Willy gurgled and spat blood.

  The shot had hit him in the abdomen.

  The man groped at the wound, examining it with curious eyes, as if by touching it he'd be able to make it disappear. Then he flicked his gaze back to Ken. Before the man could do any further harm, Ken fired again. The bullet hit the man in the forehead, and Willy dropped, his head bouncing off the cement floor.

  Ken struggled for footing. He realized the liquor store had gone quiet.

  There were no voices from behind him. No sounds of struggle.

  Roberta?

  He spun to assess the scene, his heart hammering. Roberta and Tony were both staring at him, as if they'd been waiting for his attention. He lowered the gun. Roberta was no longer in control.

  Tony had gained the upper hand, and he was holding a knife to Roberta's neck.

  "Drop it," he spat.

  Tony's eyes were bloodshot, and there were scratch marks all over his face. Even without a weapon, Roberta had managed to inflict damage. Out of nowhere, Ken felt a swell of pride, a sense of overwhelming love for his wife. She'd risked everything for him, putting herself in danger to protect him. Ken held onto the gun, afraid to let it go, but knowing that he had to.

  There was no way he could live to see her killed.