contamination 7 resistance con

by Unknown

  The door burst open, smashing against the wall. Hector hurled the phone, watching it clatter uselessly in the hallway as the men retreated. Hector saw they were wearing jeans, boots, and grimy white t-shirts. They smiled at him. Desperation washed over him as he saw them looking past him at Marcia and Anabel.

  "Leave them alone!" he cried.

  Hector needed to do something. If he didn't, his family would be victimized. He'd seen enough people in similar situations to know that. The closest man was fifteen feet away. Hector held up his knife. If he could reach him in time, maybe he could do something. The man took a step closer, smiling as he raised his rifle and pointed it at Hector's chest.

  "Stay back, you son of a bitch!" Hector yelled.

  A gunshot ripped through the air, knocking into the man.

  The man toppled sideways and landed on top of his weapon. The other shrieked in pain as a bullet tore through his calf. He dropped to the ground, too, losing his gun and crawling toward Hector and safety.

  Hector wouldn't let him get to him or his family.

  Hector tackled the man to the ground as he came through the doorway. His knife skittered from his grasp, but he didn't let that stop him. He swung a fist at the man, striking him in the face. He hit him again, and again, thinking of his family and all the people who had fallen prey to men with similar intentions. He thought of what this man would do if he reached them.

  The man cried out in pain and struck back, thrusting his knee out, catching Hector in the groin. Hector doubled over and fell back. He heard footsteps and shouts in the hallway, but he didn't have time to confirm whom they belonged to. The man was reaching for something on his ankle. A gun.

  Hector was about to dive for cover when another gunshot sounded and the man fell back to the floor. Looking up, Hector found Simon hovering in the entrance of the supply room, his pistol raised. His teeth were clenched, as if he might shoot the man again, even though the man was already dead.

  "Are you hurt?" Simon asked.

  "You saved us," Hector said, unable to contain the emotion in his voice.

  "Are you okay, though?" Sandy asked.

  "We're fine," Hector said, looking at his family to make sure.

  Marcia and Anabel wiggled out from behind the copying machine and embraced Hector. Hector's body stung from the blows he'd taken, but the pain was nothing compared to what he'd feel if Simon hadn't stepped in. Sandy watched them worriedly.

  Hector studied the two dead men on the floor, as if they might spring to life and attack him again. Their eyes were rolled back in their heads; last, venomous words stuck on their lips.

  "We saw them pulling in when we were in the utility shed," Sandy explained. "We came as soon as we could."

  Without another word, Sandy collected the men's weapons from the ground. She looked them over and handed a rifle to Hector. Hector didn't know a lot about firearms. He'd only used them a few times while guarding the shack at the lumberyard.

  "Take it," Sandy said.

  "I'm not the greatest shot," he admitted.

  "Me, neither," Sandy admitted, holding the pistol she'd taken from the man's ankle holster. "But I have a feeling by the end of this, we're going to need to be."

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Sandy patted the pockets of the dead men on the ground while Simon acquainted Hector with the rifle. She grimaced as she rolled one of the dead men over. She'd patted down a few dead people in St. Matthews, but she'd always done it with a sick feeling in her stomach.

  The first man's pockets were empty except for a can of chewing tobacco, a handful of lint, and a wallet. She slipped out his license and read the name. Dwight Pickman. The name meant nothing to her. She rifled through a stack of credit cards and membership licenses, but nothing stuck out. The man was the same as any other violent person she'd seen since the infection had hit, taking advantage of people's weaknesses, rather than trying to help. A bitter, angry pit took root in her stomach. The unprovoked cruelty of these men reinforced her disappointment in humanity.

  This is how we treat each other when the walls break down? Like animals?

  The second man's name was Samuel Black, according to his wallet. He had a set of keys and a folded piece of paper. Sandy took them and stepped back, as if he might come to life, reach over, and snatch them. Being around the dead men gave her a prickle of unease that she wanted to be rid of.

  Marcia had taken Anabel away from the gory scene, calming her down at the end of the hallway. "It's going to be okay, honey," Marcia said. "We're going to be all right."

  Sandy wondered how many times Marcia had told her similar things. Too many, she was sure. Having finished their conversation about the rifle, Simon and Hector walked over and rejoined Sandy.

  "What did you find?" Simon asked.

  "Some spare ammunition, and some keys," Sandy said. "And this." She held up a piece of paper and unfolded it, determining it was the page of an atlas with handwritten notes were scribbled along the edges.

  "What the hell is that?" Simon wondered.

  "I heard them talking," Hector said, furrowing his brow as he put something together. "It sounded like they killed some people and took it. They mentioned a room on the mountain, and a map. It sounded like someone made notes for them."

  "A room in the White Mountains?" Sandy asked, furrowing her brow.

  "I think so. I assumed they were headed to a hideaway of some kind."

  "Can I see that?" Simon asked, reaching for the atlas page.

  "Sure." Sandy handed it over. She watched as he traced his hand over the pictures and lines, reading the words scrawled on the side of the map.

  "I've heard rumors of preppers creating bunkers in the mountains, usually in the vicinity of White Mountain Lake," Simon said. "Between the mountains and the thick forest, you could get lost and no one would ever find you, if you picked the right spot. We originally talked about getting away, but this might be another option if we can't find help."

  "Can you read what it says?"

  "It's a little hard to make out, but we might be able to decipher it."

  "How far away is this place?" Sandy asked.

  Simon paused as he studied the paper. "I'm not too familiar with the area, being from Tucson, but I've read some maps before. It looks like this place is about ten miles from here. If they have supplies there, chances are they'll be safe to eat. Most of these guys stockpile things for years."

  "We can get supplies and decide what to do from there," Sandy added.

  "Maybe we can wait it out until things are safer."

  "How will we know that?" Hector asked.

  "I'm not sure," Simon admitted, shrugging his shoulders. "It's an option, that's all."

  Simon and Sandy watched Hector as he contemplated their words. He scratched his chin and looked at his family. "From everything we've seen, that sounds like a better plan than waiting here. I say we do it."

  A soft wind blew through Sandy's hair as she surveyed the beat-up minivan. Simon crept toward the vehicle. The others hung back, pointing the weapons they'd taken from the dead men, cautiously watching. Although Sandy had only seen two men inside, she knew better than to trust that assessment. There might be others.

  Simon scurried alongside the van and looked through the tinted windows. After a moment, he proclaimed it was empty.

  Sandy exhaled. Not only was she grateful to be out of danger, but also she was grateful to be away from the dead men. She prayed they'd be the last violent people they'd meet, though she knew better than to believe it.

  "It looks like they found the rest of the supplies from our truck," Simon pointed out, holding up some familiar red packages of food and water. "They must've stopped before they came here."

  "That will save us the trip back," Sandy said gratefully.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Reginald walked through the trees, falling against a few of them. Maybe he was more fucked up from the accident than he realized. Despite the aches in his body, he couldn'
t stop his thoughts from wandering. He needed water. He needed—

  Reginald tensed as movement skittered through the trees. Was someone stalking him? He squinted from the glare of the sun, trying to determine who was hunting him down. He raised his rifle. Hearing nothing, he took a tentative step, startling several birds into taking flight from a distant perch. He whipped his gun in their direction. He looked all around, certain he'd find someone staring at him, or one of the creatures, salivating, waiting to pounce.

  Nothing.

  Mustering his courage, Reginald forced another step. If he saw someone, he'd shoot them. He'd take the fucker out, whoever it was. No one would harm him. He paused before walking further, realizing the forest had settled into the same quiet as before. He wiped sweat from his brow with his arm as he dismissed whatever illusion he'd convinced himself he'd seen.

  He'd gone another twenty feet when something appeared through the trees. He stopped in his tracks, pointing his pistol and his rifle. A figure stood a hundred yards away, unmoving. Reginald saw glimpses of dark clothing and a hat. He couldn't make out any of the person's features. He tried to remain still, even though his body was shaking.

  If you come any closer, motherfucker…

  The person hung in the shadows, watching. Reginald waited and aimed. Whoever it was, he'd blast them back to whatever hell they came from. Despite his bravado, Reginald found himself glancing over his shoulder, gauging the distance to the road.

  The person bounded toward him. Their feet crunched over leaves and branches as they skirted trees and scraggly brush, gaining ground. Reginald fired twice, sending bullets pinging off the trees. The person was moving too fast and too erratically to hit. Reginald swore and backpedaled a few steps, his face drenched with sweat. Between the glare of the sun and his shaking hands, he couldn't get off another shot. It seemed like there were two people running at him, even though he knew there was only one.

  Dammit!

  Hisses filled the air. The person—thing—got closer. Reginald saw a bearded, dirt-stained face underneath the hat, and hands outstretched in anticipation of digging into his flesh. The creature's eyes were black. He wouldn't let it get to him.

  He fired off several more shots, landing one in the creature's arm. The thing swayed but kept coming, getting close enough that he could see its red, stained teeth before he fired again.

  This time he struck the creature in the head and the thing toppled to the ground in a heap. He watched the creature as if it might come back to life, even though he'd obviously killed it. He blinked the sweat from his eyes, his heart racing so fast he could feel it through his body.

  "Piece of shit," Reginald muttered, gaining some of his courage back.

  He swiveled around the forest as if more might be waiting to spring at him, even though the woods had gone silent. Satisfied he was alone, Reginald wiped his face and kept walking.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Before leaving the school, Sandy and the others repacked the food in the minivan, as well as the medical supplies Simon had found the night before. They also packed a few things from the utility shed: the shovels, the box cutter, and a few tools.

  "You never know when we might need them," Simon said, as they shut the back door.

  Sandy agreed. She looked over at her companions, grateful that they'd made it this far. Every day seemed like a gift in a world that didn't have many favors left to give.

  "Do you want me to drive?" she asked, thankful for the rest she'd gotten.

  "Sure," Simon said.

  Sandy dug out the keys and got in the driver's seat. Hector, Marcia, and Anabel rode in back, while Simon took the passenger's seat, studying the atlas page.

  Sandy clenched the wheel as they drove out of the elementary school parking lot and toward the distant mountains. The sun cast beaming rays onto the asphalt, creating a shimmering glare. She had to squint to see. Sandy took in their surroundings. The rising, majestic landscape seemed more suited for photographs than reality. The sloping mountains rose and fell gracefully, as if they were made of fluid rather than earth and stone, their sides speckled with trees and green foliage.

  "I remember coming this way with my brother," Sandy recalled wistfully. "We used to take drives all the time when we first moved, before things got busy."

  "They always do," Simon said.

  "I'd give anything for one last drive with him."

  "I'd been meaning to take a camping trip with my sister. I never thought I'd make it up here this way."

  Sandy smiled grimly. "Have you ever been to the White Mountains?"

  "No," Simon said. "I heard a lot about it, while living in Tucson. I know the camping is supposed to be really nice."

  "How long have you lived in Tucson?"

  "Only about a year. I was still getting used to the area."

  Sandy nodded. She watched as several buildings passed by the roadside—one-story constructs that looked like they hadn't harbored life in years. Occasionally they drove past a splattered, gruesome carcass on the road as they got closer to the mountains. Sandy imagined fleeing survivors running over the things on their way to safety. She'd seen plenty of that in the beginning, back when there had been enough survivors that she couldn't count them all. Now they'd be lucky to find one.

  She glanced down at the pistol in her lap, feeling safer with it in her possession. It was much better than the knife she was carrying. Simon held one of the dead men's rifles. He'd given his pistol to Marcia, while Hector took the other rifle.

  They were armed better than they'd been before. At least that was a relief.

  Thick, ponderosa pines sprung up as they curved onto Route 191, headed into the mountains. Sandy had envisioned taking this route many times, usually while keeping watch at the lumberyard, or huddled in some building in the center of town, praying she'd escape and find help. She'd dreamed of rescue so many times that it felt unreal to be driving here now.

  St. Matthews was a wasteland, a place littered with bodies and bones and the remnants of a life that she knew was over. The sight of several creatures wandering in the woods reinforced that thought.

  "Look out!" Anabel said from the backseat, pointing at one of them, who had sprung out into the road. Its black eyes surveyed the vehicle. Sandy swerved away from it. Another creature ran from the woods, tearing after the minivan.

  "Jesus," Marcia mumbled.

  "They seem more animal than human," Hector observed, leaning forward. "It's hard to believe these were somebody's neighbors, their friends."

  "I miss the people back home," Marcia said with a sniffle.

  "You're from Truth or Consequences, right?"

  "Yes," Hector confirmed. "In New Mexico."

  "Did you have a lot of family there?" Sandy asked them, sensing their sadness. Although they'd talked about their escape, she didn't remember hearing much about their relatives.

  "We had some family." Hector lowered his head. "Marcia's aunt and uncle. And lots of friends in town. We tried finding them when this happened, but most of them were caught up in the rush of people trying to leave—the people who hadn't turned, of course. They didn't make it. We found Marcia's aunt and uncle in a line of cars a few blocks away from their house. Lots of others were killed alongside them."

  "Hector didn't want to leave until he knew what happened to them," Marcia said.

  "That was brave of you," Sandy said.

  Hector sighed and hugged Marcia. "I thought I could save them. Maybe I should've known better. We spent several days sneaking from building to building, hiding from those things, but things only seemed to get worse. That's when we came to St. Matthews, hoping things would be better. I wish we were right."

  Sandy nodded grimly.

  They drove past a few other creatures lingering in the trees, who were watching intently, as if Sandy and her companions might pull over and open the doors, allowing them inside. Soon the creatures disappeared and they were left with only thick forest on either side of the road.
<
br />   "Hopefully we'll see less of those things as we travel up into the mountains," Simon suggested.

  Sandy clung to that thought as the road curved sharply upward. She wiped a line of sweat from her forehead. With the day getting hotter, the interior of the minivan was growing warmer, as well. Sandy rolled the window down as far as she dared. Looking in the rearview, she saw Hector, Marcia, and Anabel sweating, too.

  Sandy flicked on the air conditioning, but the unit only growled, spitting hot air.

  "I guess that doesn't work," Sandy said.

  "Better than being stuck out there." Hector waved an arm, gesturing out the window.

  They drove until the trees got thicker and shielded the vehicle from some of the heat. Signs warned of an altitude climb. A few marked turn-off roads that led to campgrounds and retreats. Sandy had been into the mountains before, but the lack of guardrails was still surprising. She'd heard of several accidents on the roadways, when camping and alcohol had mixed. Often people had gotten careless and forgotten their steep surroundings.

  She looked over to find Simon studying the map.

  "Any idea where I'm going?"

  He furrowed his brow. "It looks like the map directs us to a campground. Wherever this place is, most of the path will be on foot after that."

  "That makes sense," Sandy said. "Whoever built it must've hidden it."

  "Stay on the main road for now."

  They drove for a while, taking the turns slowly to account for the dangerous travel. The campground signs seem to have gotten fewer and farther apart. The roads Sandy saw were little more than paths that wound to places they couldn't see.

  A gasp from the backseat made her tense and hit the brakes. "What is it?" she asked.

  She turned, noticing Hector pointing at something down the road. She followed his finger. A figure moved in the distance, but she couldn't make out many details. She swallowed and reduced speed. Simon sat forward, holding his rifle.