"See anything you like?" Ferris asked with a grin. "If we had power, I'd give you a free one. Of course, we could always do it old school with needles and ink."
"I'm fine," Isaac replied. He glanced uncomfortably from one face to the next, realizing the group was staring at him. As isolated as he'd felt outside, he was starting to wonder if he'd made a mistake in coming here with these men.
"Relax," Jimmy said after a few seconds. "You survived another few hours out there. That's got to be worth something."
"Sure," Isaac said.
He didn't know if he agreed, but he wasn't about to argue. He noticed a pile of red wrappers on the floor. Although there was nothing left, it appeared they'd contained food.
"Was that—?" he asked.
"Yup. I'd offer you something to eat, but it's all gone."
"Aren't you afraid of the infection?" Isaac asked. His eyes roamed from man to man, as if at any moment, one of them would turn and spring.
"It's from them," Scotty said from a chair in the corner. "So it's safe."
"From whom?"
"The agents. Don't you know about them?"
The confusion on Isaac's face must have been evident. Scotty continued.
"The men in white coats that have been patrolling the city. They're responsible for this whole thing. We overheard some of them talking a few days ago. They were going through the streets, looking for survivors so they could gun them down. They're the ones spreading the virus, Isaac, and they've been making sure no one's left."
Isaac stared at the floor, doing his best to process the information. Although he'd known something—or someone—must be responsible, he'd had no idea whom or what it could be.
"So you're saying this whole thing was done on purpose?" he asked.
The group nodded in unison.
"Who the hell are they? Is it some sort of terrorist group?"
"We don't know. But whoever these fuckers are, they did it, that's for sure."
Isaac shook his head in disbelief. The idea that someone could've perpetrated the infection was almost beyond his comprehension. At the same time, he'd known the world was a dangerous place, and lately, it'd only been getting worse.
"Have you heard the gunshots in the past few days?" Jimmy said.
Isaac nodded.
"Those were most likely the agents shooting down the last of us." Jimmy took a long drag on his cigarette, letting the ash curl over the end. "I think they moved on, though."
"I assumed it was other survivors. I thought they were fighting off the infected."
"Hard to tell. We got the jump on one of the agents, though. That's how we got this." Jimmy pointed the butt-end of his cigarette at the pile of wrappers.
"What was it?"
"Uncontaminated food. The fuckers brought their own with them so they wouldn't get infected."
"We tried to ration it, but it didn't go very far," Scotty said. "That's why we were out there today. We were looking for more."
The others nodded their heads.
"So what happened to the agent?" Isaac asked. "The one you got the jump on?"
The room fell silent, save the crackle of cigarettes and the occasional cough. After a pause, Jimmy answered.
"He didn't make it."
Chapter Ten
Ken glanced up the highway. There was an exit about a hundred yards ahead, but the ramp was cluttered with vehicles, and there'd be no getting through it. Dammit. The fire was about half a mile away—he could probably reach it in a few minutes on foot. He removed the key from the ignition and exited the vehicle, then closed the door and began running.
He trekked through the desert shrubs and sand, his boots kicking up dust as he progressed. He could hear voices in the distance. One of them sounded like a child's, though he couldn't be sure. He'd already removed his pistol, and he ran with weapon in hand, ready to fire if necessary. His backpack was slung over his shoulders, and it bounced off his shoulder blades as he plowed forth.
His breath came in short, ragged gasps, and his body ached from the strain. Although Ken was in decent shape, it'd been years since he'd endured such intense physical exertion. The past four days had been grueling. It was as if he were an Olympic athlete, thrust into the heat of the games without a tryout.
Even if he'd been warned, Ken wasn't sure he'd have believed what was coming. How could anyone have believed it?
As he crossed the desert, he kept his eye on the flames, watching for signs of life or danger. Next to the fire were several shapes—objects that grew in size as he approached. It took him a few seconds to realize they were human.
His initial assumption had been correct. The voices belonged to a man and child. To his surprise, they didn't appear to be in any immediate danger, but they were hunched over the flames. When they caught sight of him with the gun, they raised their hands in the air.
"Don't shoot!"
"It's all right!" Ken yelled.
He reduced his pace to a jog and lowered his weapon. The pair kept their arms in the air anyway, as if he might change his mind and fire upon them.
As he approached, he got a better look at them. The man was middle-aged, sporting the beginnings of a beard. He was wearing an untucked business shirt with the sleeves rolled up. It looked like he'd once had a tie. His pants and shoes looked like they'd been expensive, but they were tattered now. The boy was about eight years old, with sandy hair and an Arizona Diamondbacks shirt.
"I'm not here to hurt you," Ken explained. "I saw the fire from the road, and I thought someone was in trouble."
The man sighed. "We're fine. We were hoping no one could see us from the road, but I guess that didn't work."
"What are you doing out here?"
"Cooking some food."
The pair lowered their hands, breathing a joint sigh of relief. Ken tucked the pistol in his waistband, then walked over to join them. He slid off his backpack and set it in the dirt.
"What are your names?"
"I'm Ronald, and this is my son Forest."
"I'm Ken. Ken Smith."
"Nice to meet you, Ken."
Ken reached over, offering his hand, and the man took it gratefully. Given the events of the past few hours, the gesture was comforting and familiar, and Ken heaved a nervous breath of his own. After scouring the landscape, he settled into the dirt next to them.
"Where are you from, Ken?"
"Oklahoma City. How about you?"
"We're from Tucson. Forest and I have been on the road for almost five days. We've been avoiding everyone we see. I think that's the only reason we've made it this far."
"I can't say I blame you."
"Are you alone?" Ronald asked.
The pair stared at him intently. Ken recalled the events that had occurred earlier—his stop at the liquor store, the altercation with the men, the death of his wife. The last thing he wanted to do was rehash the memories.
"Yes," he said finally. "I'm looking for my son Isaac. He lives in Phoenix." He pulled a picture from his pocket and showed it to them.
"This might be a long shot, but have you seen him?"
"No, I'm sorry, we haven't," Ronald replied.
"Have you seen anyone who can help us?" Forest asked.
Ken shook his head. "Can't say that I have."
Ronald and Forest stared at their shoes, as if they'd been expecting a different answer.
"Sorry I don't have better news."
"It's OK. We've been prepared for the worst," Ronald said. "Ever since we heard about the virus, we knew we had to be careful."
Ken glanced at the fire. "I don't know what you've heard, but it seems to be spread through ingestion. The food and water supply has been breached."
"That's what we've figured out, too."
Ken elaborated, relaying the knowledge he'd gained over the past few days. He told of the agents and the infected, and what he'd discerned through his encounters with others. Most of it was familiar to Ronald and Forest.
Ken eye
d the survivors, taking in their pale forms and their gaunt arms. Although it'd only been a few days, they already looked skinny and malnourished. He paused.
"I have some safe food that I came across," Ken offered, after a minute's hesitation. "I took it from the agents."
"You do?"
Ronald and Forest exchanged a glance. Ken unzipped his bag, then withdrew a bound, labeled package of fruits. He unwrapped it and tossed it over to them.
"We've been afraid to eat. We knew the infection came from the food and water—we even saw some of the agents you were talking about. But we couldn't get ahold of any of their food. It was too dangerous," Ronald explained. "We've been making do with what we can find."
"I understand."
"We didn't want it to come to this," Forest said, as if reciting a mantra.
Ken wrinkled his brow, confused.
"To what?"
He looked from one to the other, trying to decipher what they were saying. Then he followed their gaze to the fire.
It was then that he smelled it.
His eyes wandered over the flames, where a pile of bones and ash lay in the embers. Ken sprang to his feet, backing away from the makeshift campfire and its inhabitants. Ronald and Forest remained seated, staring at him, faces blank and expressionless. The boy had stopped playing with the object in his hand. It was a sharp stick, and it was coated with remains.
In Ken's haste to get to them—in his surprise to find other survivors—he hadn't been paying attention to what they were cooking.
"What did you do?"
"They were already dead. They weren't infected, though, so we should be safe, right?" Ronald asked.
"We were so hungry," Forest mumbled.
Choking on his bile, Ken picked up his bag and ran.
Ronald and Forest called out to him, but Ken kept going, afraid to look back. Although the pair didn't seem to be following him, the image of what he'd seen had washed over him like a bad dream. He couldn't fathom what the people had done, and he wanted nothing more than to leave it behind.
He could see his station wagon in the distance, and he kept it in focus, dashing as fast as his legs would travel. The car represented safety and comfort—a reprieve from the world around him—and right now he could use any link to sanity he had.
He reached the car and skirted around the hood, jumping into the driver's seat. Then he slammed the door behind him and locked it. His ragged breathing filled the air. His hands shook.
He chanced a look across the desert.
The fire had been doused, and the two forms were moving in the opposite direction, heading away from the camp they'd established. A needle of guilt worked its way through his insides. Could he have helped them? Should he have stayed?
It seemed like they'd gone insane.
But as sickening and vile and unimaginable as their actions had been, they were just struggling to survive. Same as him. He thought of the things he'd done over the past few days—the things he'd been forced to do—and tried to justify his own actions.
Could it all be answered for? Explained?
He couldn't fixate on it now. Somewhere out there, his son was navigating the same broken world, perhaps facing similar choices. He needed to get to him, and he needed to pull him out of this dark hole that threatened to consume them.
He started the engine. The station wagon fired without hesitation, as if it had been waiting to resume its journey.
He drove around the stalled vehicles, the opened doors, and the bodies, and continued on I-40. As he drove, he focused on earlier memories, things he was afraid he'd lose. The birth of his son. Isaac's first smile. His first steps.
He needed those things now more than ever.
Anything to take his mind off what he'd seen.
He struggled to remember cherub-faced Isaac waddling from room to room, clinging to the edges of furniture. Isaac had always been independent. Ken had watched him with pride as he found his footing. Watched with anxiety as he'd ridden his first bike. And eighteen years after he was born, he'd watched with sorrow as his son had left the family home behind. The images made him nostalgic.
Ken wished he'd picked up the phone more. He should've called Isaac when he'd had the chance. Now he longed to hear his son's voice, to remind him that everything he was doing was for a reason.
Without Roberta, there was no one left to restore his faith, to convince him that things would turn around. There was only an open road filled with bodies and blood and men doing unthinkable things.
The highway was littered with reminders of what he was up against.
A sign whipped past, and Ken was so caught up in his realm of memories that he almost missed it. He'd been driving for several hours without stopping.
I-17 52 MILES
He was getting closer. Thankfully, he'd been able to avoid the obstacles in his path, and he'd yet to encounter anyone else. As if on cue, a fallen road bike and a mini-van appeared in the road. Just past them was a state cruiser, the lights still flashing, the tires flat. Inside, he could see a uniformed officer. There was movement in the car.
Was the officer alive? He tried to quell his hope.
He slowed the vehicle to take a look. As he passed, he expected to find the policeman peering back in his direction. Instead, he saw two rabid-faced infected, snarling and biting at each other as they picked at the fallen officer. They glared at him with hunger-stricken eyes as he drove past.
He thought of Dan Lowery and Quinn, the police officer and daughter he'd met on the road several days earlier. They'd given him the station wagon he was driving. Had they made it to Oklahoma? Had they found the little girl's aunt? He hoped so.
He glanced around the vehicle, his eyes settling on an empty soda can and a pile of wrappers. They were reminders of a happier time, he supposed. Back when life was as simple as eating and talking and keeping company with those you loved.
He hoped to do that soon with Isaac.
He smiled at the thought, picturing Isaac's chubby baby legs as he waddled from coffee table to couch. When he found his son again, he'd share that memory with him.
The image persisted, even as he steered around a pile of mangled bodies and a pool of blood drying in the midday sun.
Chapter Eleven
"When's the last time you were with a girl, Isaac?"
Scotty tilted his head back, blowing a stream of smoke in the air.
"I don't remember," Isaac said.
The rest of his companions laughed. A few seconds ago, they'd been more interested in the posters on the wall than him, but now they were paying attention.
"That long, huh?" Scotty asked. "How about you, Jimmy?"
The long-haired kid stared at the ceiling. "At least a month. Shit, man, that's depressing."
A few in the room snickered.
"I wonder if there are any girls left," Scotty said thoughtfully. He took another drag from his cigarette. "Maybe they're all dead."
"Come on, man," Ferris said. "That's just stupid."
"You think we're the only people alive? I'm sure there are plenty of others out there," Jimmy agreed. "In fact, I don't even know why we're still hanging around this shit-ridden city."
"Because we voted to stay. Remember that?"
"Not me. I voted to leave. I'm sick of this place," Jimmy spat.
"Me, too," Spencer said from across the room. "I don't see why Rick's vote still counts."
"No one's stopping you, are they?" Scotty glared at the two men. They locked eyes for several seconds and then broke their stares. The rest in the room fell back into silence.
Isaac let his eyes close. He was sitting in a ripped recliner in the corner of the room. Although it was hardly comfortable, he was so exhausted that he almost didn't care. The only thing that stopped him from sleeping was his uneasiness. He was still on the fence about his companions, and he was hesitant to relax. He barely knew them, after all. What if he woke up to find them gone?
What if they left the door
open?
"Go ahead and sleep, man."
Isaac's eyes snapped open, and he found Scotty staring at him. He must've been dozing.
"I'm not tired," he lied.
"It sure looks like it. You were cooped up in that trunk for a while. Ferris and I will keep watch. We'll take our turns later, after you've gotten some rest."
"OK."
Isaac didn't realize he'd agreed until he felt his eyes closing again. He heard the sound of someone snoring from across the room, and within minutes, the rhythmic noise had become the soundtrack to his dreams.
In his dream, Isaac was home again.
He didn't remember how he got to the painted white colonial, but all of a sudden he was there, standing on the front porch, staring at the brass knocker that'd been there for as long as he remembered. He tugged open the screen door, listening to the familiar creak of the hinges, and turned the doorknob.
He prepared a smile.
Mom and Dad would be waiting in the living room, ready to receive him with kind words and open arms. He'd told them he was coming, and his mother would have dinner waiting, the kitchen table set for three.
Even though he'd moved out years ago, it was always the same. The house in Oklahoma was the one constant in his life. The one thing that never changed.
No matter how far he roamed, or how long it'd been since he last visited, he could always count on his parents to provide him stability and comfort. The house was a place of refuge, a safe haven from the world outside.
He didn't visit as often as he'd like, but he was always glad to be back.
Still smiling, Isaac pushed open the door. He waited for the assault of familiar sights and smells, indicating that all was right with the world.
Only it wasn't.
Something was wrong.
He sucked in a breath, gasping for air. The room was dark and humid and oppressive, as if he'd walked into an underground cavern rather than his parents' comfortable colonial. He immediately threw his arms in front of his face, realizing that he couldn't see, and groped his way through the dark.
It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust, but when they did, he could detect the outlines of familiar objects in the living room: the couch, the loveseat, and the hutch. None of them had changed. But something else had.
Contamination: Dead Instinct (Contamination Post-Apocalyptic Zombie Series) Page 5