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

by T. W. Piperbrook

The object clattered to the ground.

  Isaac bolted forward. He covered half the distance, then he drew a bead on the creatures. He wasn't sure how much damage he could do—he'd never fired a weapon in his life, but he had to do something.

  He squeezed the trigger on his automatic rifle, filling the air with gunfire.

  Several of the creatures broke away from the pack. Before they could advance, they were hit with bullets. A creature with a shaved head plummeted to the ground, its knee disabled. Another tripped over its freshly wounded foot. Although Isaac's aim wasn't the greatest, it looked like some of his bullets were connecting.

  "You fucking moron!" Jimmy yelled. "What are you doing?"

  The bulk of the creatures had broken formation, and they were now sprinting toward Isaac, Jimmy, and Spencer. Isaac continued to fire. His companions joined the effort, yelling and swearing. Several more creatures dropped onto the road, incapacitated by the gunshots. Several more were still emerging.

  The girl had backed up on the roof, steadying herself against the building. She covered her head with her hands, as if hoping to erase the situation before her.

  After a few more seconds of shooting, Isaac heard a break in the noise. He stopped firing and looked back at Jimmy. Jimmy had lowered his automatic rifle. He took a few steps back. Spencer was retreating, as well.

  "Where are you going?" Isaac yelled.

  They didn't answer. Before Isaac could press the issue, a group of four creatures darted at him. Distracted, he fired the rifle, and the creatures ahead of him flailed and shook.

  A few seconds later, the street went artificially quiet. He'd managed to rid the streets of the majority of the creatures, but he could still hear the groans of things approaching from blocks away. When he looked behind him, Jimmy and Spencer were fleeing in the other direction.

  "Wait!" he screamed, but neither appeared to be listening.

  The girl had uncovered her face, and she stared at the fleeing men with a look of terror.

  "It's OK!" Isaac shouted. "I'm coming!"

  Isaac darted forward, skirting the dead bodies of the infected, barreling for the girl on the roof. When he reached the foot of the railing, he lowered his weapon.

  "Can you get down?" he called.

  The girl inched to the edge of the balcony.

  "I'm not sure!" she yelled, holding out her arms for balance.

  "Hold on! I'll help you!"

  Isaac boosted himself up onto the railing, then reached for her hands. The girl took hold of him and then leapt down, falling into a crouch as she hit the pavement.

  "Thank you," she whispered. Her eyes darted in all directions. "I'm—"

  "Not now! Let's get the fuck out of here!" Isaac interrupted.

  He grabbed hold of the girl's arm and they took off at a jog. A few of the infected they'd shot were still moving. As they passed, one of the things reached out for the girl's leg, taking hold of her ankle, and she kicked it off with a scream.

  "What's your name?" Isaac huffed as they ran.

  "Kate," she said.

  "I'm Isaac."

  They forewent additional conversation, concentrating on keeping a safe distance from the infected. Whether the bullet-ridden things were dead or not, Isaac wasn't sure, but it was best not to take any chances. The groans had increased in volume from around them.

  He focused on following the two men in front of him. Jimmy and Spencer were already a hundred yards away, rounding a distant corner. Isaac called out to them, but they showed no signs of slowing down, and they didn't look back.

  "Hurry, Kate!"

  "Where are we going?"

  "Someplace safe!"

  They cleared the block and rounded the corner, following the path Isaac had taken earlier. They ran for the parking lot. Isaac bounded up a curb, barreling through a pile of fresh mulch and carrying some of it with him onto the asphalt. He tripped over his own feet as he struggled to keep up with the two men in front of him. Although he and Kate were running at a good clip, they were still way behind.

  The patter of feet broke his attention, and Isaac glanced over his shoulder. A group of creatures had spilled from the mouth of an alley and were fanning out across the parking lot.

  "Shit!" he yelled.

  They darted around the side of the shopping center, approaching the back alley. As they cleared the building, Isaac studied the row of doors, trying to recall the one he'd gone through a few hours earlier. All the doors were now closed. Jimmy and Spencer were nowhere in sight.

  He ran from one door to the next in a panic, trying all the handles. None of them would open. The girl was breathing frantically beside him. He finally recognized the door he'd gone through earlier, and he stopped in front of it.

  "This one!" he yelled.

  Isaac tugged the handle, ignoring the groans of the horde behind them. They'd made it just in time. If they'd been a few seconds later...

  But there was a problem. The door wouldn't budge. He rammed it with his fist, screaming for his companions.

  "Jimmy! Spencer!"

  He tugged the handle again, but the door held firm. From inside, he heard a scraping noise. Were they unlocking the door? Getting ready to let them in? It took him a second to realize what was happening. The men inside weren't letting them in, but reapplying the barricade.

  Isaac and Kate had been locked outside.

  Chapter Fourteen

  By the time Ken had finished changing the tire, his shirt was soaked in sweat and his body was sore. He wiped his face with his shirt and stood.

  For the past few days, Ken had only slept a few hours, and the sheer exhaustion was catching up to him. But he was so close to Phoenix. He couldn't stop now.

  He looked down at his arm. It was still throbbing. Thankfully, the wound had stopped bleeding.

  The interstate shimmered from the desert heat, creating a twisted mirage of downed cars and debris. He stared into the horizon, hoping to discern what lay ahead. The interstate was still and calm.

  And then it wasn't.

  Ken squinted, thinking he was imagining things, but his vision was clear. A car was heading in his direction, maneuvering between the wreckage, weaving in and out of view. At its rate of speed, it would be upon him in a minute or less.

  There was no time to drive off—at least not without being seen.

  His only choice was to hide.

  Ken caught a glimpse of the dead infected, and it sparked an idea. Ducking low, he slid the tire iron and the jack underneath the station wagon. Then he sucked in a breath, dropped to the ground, and crawled in after them.

  The vehicle was barely high enough to wedge himself under, and Ken kicked and squirmed until his body was covered. He'd seen people try and hide in their cars before, and the result was never good. Hopefully the person wouldn't think to look underneath the car.

  With any luck the driver wouldn't stop at all.

  Ken withdrew his pistol from his waistband. He peered out from his hiding place, taking in the undercarriages of the surrounding cars. In his limited line of sight, he had no idea of the approaching vehicle's whereabouts. His only clue was the distant murmur of the engine.

  He tried to control his breathing as he listened to the crunch of tires. Although he couldn't be certain, it sounded like the vehicle was a hundred yards away now. Maybe closer.

  All at once, the noises subsided. It sounded like the vehicle had stopped.

  Shit, Ken thought.

  Was the driver at an impasse? Had the person seen something that had drawn their attention? He could only guess at what was happening. In any case, he knew better than to move, and he knew better than to make noise.

  A car door creaked. Feet hit the pavement.

  The person walked several steps and then stopped, as if listening for something. Listening for him. Ken's eyes flicked from left to right, trying to determine an escape route if he needed one. Getting out from underneath the car would be difficult, and it definitely wouldn't be fast.


  He hoped he hadn't made a mistake.

  He clenched his teeth, trying to quell the pinpricks of fear that ran through his body. The desert air was quiet, but he could hear the soft purr of the car engine idling just a few car lengths away. He stared at the adjacent vehicles, trying to get a glimpse of the driver, but his view was blocked by rubble and car tires. The dead body stared at him from across the pavement.

  Its eyes were devoid of emotion.

  He tried to recreate the landscape. In his haste to get underneath the car, his mind was scrambled, and now he was having trouble remembering. If he were to be forced out of hiding, he'd need to react quickly. He shouldn't have wedged himself underneath the car.

  It was a lapse in judgment that hopefully wouldn't prove fatal.

  The footsteps continued in his direction—slow and deliberate, as if the person were aware he was listening. Ken pointed the gun in front of him, grinding his elbows into the asphalt.

  A few moments passed in silence. For a brief second, Ken convinced himself that the person had retreated, that they were silently making their way back to the car. But before he could celebrate, a pair of feet came into view.

  Black boots with black laces. Men's.

  The man was standing next to the dead body, and he appeared to be examining it. Ken could hear the man's breathing—a hoarse, accelerated rasp.

  Ken's pulse pounded behind his eyeballs. He could feel his heart thumping against the ground, and for a minute, he swore the person could hear it, too. The man bent down, inspecting the dead body. Ken glimpsed the lower half of his face—bearded and dirt-stained.

  He couldn't see the man's eyes.

  The man righted himself and walked toward the car diagonal from Ken. Ken heard him fiddle with the door handle, swing it open, and then lean inside. He could see the back of the man's shirt as he rifled through the interior.

  Seconds later the man was finished, and he closed the door. The bang sent a jolt to Ken's nerves, and he squeezed the gun tighter between sweaty palms.

  The man was on the move again. Walking toward Ken.

  Had Ken been spotted? Although he couldn't see the man, it was perfectly possible the man saw him. His mind screamed at him to squirm out from underneath the car, but he ignored the impulse, knowing he'd be overtaken.

  He waited in silence as the man approached. His boots were inches away now—close enough that he could reach out and touch them. Close enough to shoot. For a brief second, Ken contemplated squeezing the trigger. It'd be a risky maneuver, but one that might buy him time to flee.

  The man paused. Silent.

  Then he opened the station wagon door. Ken listened in horror as the man dug through the contents of the glove compartment. The keys were still in the ignition. The engine was still warm, for god's sake. If the man noticed either of those things—if he looked closer and inspected the trunk—

  The door slammed shut. Ken watched in disbelief as he moved toward another vehicle. He kept his grip on the gun, still unsure of the calm. There was still a chance the man could come back and find him. Still a chance he'd be pulled out and killed.

  After a few more agonizing minutes, the man's feet disappeared, and Ken heard the sound of a vehicle being thrown into drive. The engine growled and the tires spat gravel.

  The man was gone.

  Ken waited a few extra minutes, then crawled out from under the vehicle, thanking a God he was sure had written him off.

  PART THREE: DELIVER US

  Chapter Fifteen

  Being on the road again was a relief. As cluttered and demolished and barren as I-17 was, it was better to stay moving than to keep still. After days of travel, Ken had gotten used to the obstacles, as if they'd always been a part of the road, as if they were as normal as the yellow and white lines that colored the pavement.

  He tried to disassociate himself from the chaos around him and focus on the mission at hand: getting to Phoenix, and locating Isaac.

  Despite the trauma he'd faced, Ken was eerily calm and collected. It probably helped that he was engrossed in a ritual task, one that occupied his hands as well as his mind. If the road had been clear and his path unimpeded, he'd have had more time to think.

  More time to reflect on Roberta. On Ronald and Forest. On all the other things he'd seen.

  He reached over to the passenger's seat, digging through a small package of safe food that he'd opened. He sifted through the contents, pulled out a handful of crackers, and shoved them in his mouth, chewing mechanically.

  He wasn't hungry, but he needed to eat. He just hoped he could keep the food down.

  He was getting closer to Phoenix, and he'd need all the strength he could get. He swallowed the mouthful of food, studying a road signs that had sprung into view.

  Phoenix 50 MILES

  It was impossible to believe he'd almost made it. When Ken had left Oklahoma City four days ago, he'd never envisioned what his journey would entail. He couldn't have predicted it if he'd tried. And yet here he was, drawing near to the city where his son resided.

  He just hoped he'd be able to find him.

  Ken had never been to Phoenix before. The farthest he'd been was the New Mexico state line, and that'd been years ago. When Isaac had left for the city, Ken had promised his son he'd come and visit. He just hadn't gotten around to it yet.

  It was a shame it'd taken an apocalypse to bring him here.

  Even though he'd almost reached the city, he'd only crossed one hurdle. He'd still have to find Isaac when he got there. And that was assuming that his son hadn't been infected—that he'd survived, that he was healthy, and that he hadn't fled. It was a string of chances that added up to a very slim possibility.

  But it was a possibility Ken needed to believe in. Both his life and his sanity depended on it.

  He slipped his hand into his jeans pocket, searching for the photograph he'd shown to Ronald and Forest. The photograph was wrinkled and crushed, but it was still there, and he pulled it out and gave it a glance.

  It was the last professional photograph he'd had taken of his son—a picture of Isaac at his college graduation. He studied the boy's brown hair and chiseled features. Anyone who'd seen Ken and his son had remarked on how striking the resemblance was. Isaac was Ken's spitting image, a younger and more vibrant version of himself. He desperately needed to believe he was alive.

  He needed it to be true.

  Ken tucked the photograph back in his pocket, careful not to lose it. He had more pictures at home, but he didn't think that mattered anymore. There was nothing left for him in Oklahoma.

  All he cared about was finding his son.

  He swerved around a downed road sign, inspecting the faded letters on its face. A car had slammed into the pole, knocking it at a ninety-degree angle with the ground. He glanced inside the vehicle, catching sight of a few bodies. Their faces were stiff and lifeless.

  A twinge of sadness overtook him.

  When this was all over, who would bury the bodies?

  A mile later, Ken hit a roadblock.

  He could tell the accident was bad before he even reached the vicinity. By the looks of it, a tractor-trailer had careened into several cars, crushing them when it had overturned. He'd seen the aftermath of a few such accidents. But unlike the ones he'd seen, this one looked like it'd happened recently.

  Smoke billowed from the hood of one of the vehicles.

  He approached with caution, riding along the edge of the road. The station wagon had four-wheel drive, but he'd done his best to stay on the highway, afraid he might pop another tire. A few feet later, the debris thickened and he was forced off the interstate.

  The desert dirt grumbled beneath the tires, and Ken's heart beat in frantic rhythm, accompanying the sound. He kept his hands tight on the wheel, ready to change course at the slightest hint of trouble. He'd learned his lesson several times over.

  His goal was to get around the accident, not to be hindered by it. He'd only exit the vehicle if absolutely neces
sary.

  Pulling closer, he reduced his speed, approaching to within fifty yards. The tractor-trailer was lying horizontal across the road, crushing two sedans beneath it. Smoke billowed from its engine.

  He saw no survivors. Judging by the scene, he couldn't imagine anyone had walked away. Had the two vehicles been fleeing the city at the same time? Had someone been in pursuit of them?

  He drew up within twenty yards, driving at a crawl. Inspecting further, he thought that he'd see a slew of creatures on the other side of the pickup—some evidence as to what had transpired. It was then he saw blood on the crushed hoods of the sedans.

  He averted his eyes, the crackers swirling in his stomach. He knew he shouldn't have eaten.

  As he rolled past, his eyes were drawn to the cab of the semi. He could see an arm hanging out the open window, the top of a man's head. There was a bullet wound in the driver's forehead—a quarter-sized hole that looked fresh. Someone else had been here. Recently.

  Ken snagged his pistol off the passenger's seat. He'd just passed the tractor-trailer when he noticed a vehicle parked on the other side. A white SUV.

  The agents.

  Ken ground to a halt, but not before bullets slammed the hood of the station wagon. He put the car in reverse: one hand on the gun, the other on the steering wheel. He had no idea how many there were. No idea of what he was up against.

  But he knew he couldn't best them in a gunfight.

  Not while driving, anyway. He'd encountered the men before—had stolen food from them, in fact—but he'd never faced them head on.

  The station wagon tires kicked up loose dirt and stone, and suddenly he was flying in reverse, gaining distance from the scene. He saw movement in front of him, and he stared past the tractor-trailer at the emerging SUV.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  Ken cut the wheel, spun the car around and put the vehicle into drive. A cloud of dust burst onto the road, and he drove through the dirt and debris, desperate to regain visibility.

  In the rearview mirror, he could see the SUV on his tail. It'd already gained ground. It looked like the occupants were trying to ram him. He mashed the gas pedal to the floor, but the station wagon stuttered.