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

by T. W. Piperbrook

  He crouched down, setting the piece on the floor.

  "We can work this out," he said.

  He stared at Tony, doing his best to get through to him. The man's eyes were wide and frightened, and Ken could see that his hands were shaking.

  "We're all going to walk out of here," Ken reassured him. "You'll go your way, and we'll go ours, and no one will follow each other."

  "All we want is to find our son," Roberta added.

  It was the first time she'd spoken since the attack, and Ken's eyes welled up at her words. That's all they'd ever wanted, ever since this whole thing had started. To find Isaac. To make their family whole again.

  Ken's eyes roamed from his wife to the man holding her. He could see the man was shaking, but it looked like they were getting through to him. His demeanor had softened, and he'd relaxed his grip on the knife.

  Ken held up his hands, taking a step toward him.

  "Just put it down, Tony, and we'll—"

  "No," the man said. "I can't do that."

  Without another word, he slit Roberta's throat.

  PART TWO: WRATH OF SANITY

  Chapter Eight

  Ken screamed, but no sound came out. He watched in horror as Roberta's head sagged forward, blood spilling over her shirt like an apron. Tony laughed, tossing her body aside as if she were little more than a sack of garbage. Then he reached for his weapon.

  Ken lunged for the gun he'd set down. Before he knew it, the piece was in his hands and he was firing. The gun blasts echoed through the store, reverberating through his ears and muffling the world around him.

  He saw Tony fall. Saw Roberta writhing. Both spewing blood. And then both were still, and Ken was on his knees, and the sounds that came from his mouth sounded like they were from some other person, in some faraway place. He turned his wife over, hoping that somehow he'd mistaken what he'd seen, that she'd spring to life and join him, but she remained hopelessly still.

  Roberta was dead.

  Ken's entire body felt numb, as if he'd been pierced with a powerful anesthetic, one that dulled his mind as well as his senses. He stared around the room at the tiled floor—a floor now littered with bodies and blood—and tried to make sense of what had happened.

  But there was no sense in any of it.

  Just minutes ago, he'd been surrounded by three living, breathing beings, and now he was alone. Ken began to scream. The sound was shrill and piercing, and it erupted from somewhere deep in his stomach. He knelt over Roberta, feeling for a pulse, but she was gone. Her eyes were dim.

  After a few seconds, he clamped his hand over his mouth and stifled the sound coming out of it. His throat burned with bile, and he swallowed back the taste. Ken staggered to his feet and headed for the front of the store, unable to look at his wife's body any longer.

  His feet competed with broken bottles and merchandisers, and he barely made it outside before he heaved up the contents of his stomach. He bent to his knees, trying to catch his breath, and then peered up at the sky.

  Clouds rolled lazily across the horizon. Several birds flitted from one end of the sky to the other. As if the world hadn't missed a beat. As if three heartbeats hadn't ceased to exist.

  How could this have happened?

  He and Roberta had known the danger they were in when they'd fled from Oklahoma. They'd seen enough bloodshed and carnage to last a lifetime, and yet somehow Ken had kept his faith, certain that they'd make it through.

  And now none of that mattered.

  What would he tell Isaac, if he found him? What purpose was there in carrying on?

  He glanced around the parking lot, as if someone would give him the answer, but the only things he saw were broken-down vehicles and bodies of the infected.

  How could God have allowed this? Why hadn't He stepped in?

  Ken shook a trembling fist at the sky. He'd always lived his life as prescribed, never asking for more than he got, never expecting more than he put in. But what was the point if he couldn't ask for his family's safety? He let out an enraged cry and slammed his fist against the wall of the store, then sank to his knees and sobbed.

  His world had been torn down around him, and Ken had no idea how to pick up the pieces.

  He cried for what seemed like hours, until his body was sore and his throat was raw and his stomach was cramped. His mind and body were spent, and all he wanted was for everything to be over. All of it. He couldn't live like this.

  He couldn't live without her.

  After he'd spent his tears, he pulled himself to his feet. He needed to return to his wife. He couldn't leave her like this. He needed to bury her. He stepped back through the wreckage and the rubble, his feet still prickly and numb. It felt like he was walking on someone else's legs, living someone else's life. He longed for nothing more than to bring Roberta back to Oklahoma. But he knew that would be impossible.

  Even if he were to start driving now, even if he were able to navigate the maze of stalled traffic and bodies, he'd still have the infected to contend with. And he couldn't abandon Isaac.

  When he reached Roberta's side, he leaned down and kissed her forehead. Her skin was still warm to the touch. Her eyes were wide and fearful, and they stared past him at the ceiling. He closed her eyelids, his fingers trembling.

  Then he went to look for a shovel.

  He searched through most of the store, bypassing bottles and cartons and supplies. He finally found one in the backroom, though he had to remove the barricade behind the counter to get to it. Once he'd discovered what he was looking for, he brought his wife's body out behind the store and started digging.

  The dirt was hard and compact; the sun beat down mercilessly on his face. Each shovelful brought a new wave of tears, as if he were picking a wound rather than digging a grave. When he'd finished digging the hole, he bent down and placed his wife inside. He stared at the body for some unknown period of time.

  Could've been minutes. Could've been hours.

  When he was done, he retrieved the shovel from the ground. Before he started replacing the dirt, he grabbed hold of the cross around his neck and ripped it free.

  He examined the necklace for several seconds, then threw it on top of Roberta.

  Ken collected the weapons from the fallen men and placed them in his backpack. The men were sprawled out behind the counter, lying haphazardly in all directions. He'd barely glanced at them after Roberta had been murdered. His only thought had been to take care of his dead wife.

  He left them where they'd fallen and walked from the store.

  He glanced at his watch—a windup that Roberta had given him for his birthday—and verified the time. It was almost one o'clock in the afternoon, which meant there'd be plenty of daylight before nightfall. He wanted nothing more than to get on the move. Every minute that passed was another minute his son was out there.

  He'd find Isaac. No matter what it took. Roberta would've insisted on it.

  He scoured the parking lot. The station wagon was still where they'd left it, parked behind a dumpster. His eyes roamed the lot. There were several other vehicles that had been ditched there, the tires flattened. He reached into his pocket, pulling out a set of keys he'd taken from Tony's body. It didn't take him long to locate the Ford Explorer they'd been riding in.

  He walked over to the car and opened the door, searching the contents. The car was filthy. A few piles of empty beer cans littered the front; a stack of pornographic magazines lay on the backseat. There was nothing else of value. He threw the keys on the seat and slammed the door shut.

  Then he returned to his station wagon.

  Before firing it up, he glanced in his rearview mirror. It still felt surreal that Roberta was gone. At any second, he expected her to walk out of the liquor store and get into the passenger's seat. But the store remained silent and empty.

  Ken started the car, then pulled out from the lot and onto the road.

  The sun was bright and blinding, and Ken squinted from the glare. He
located a pair of sunglasses between the seats and put them on. Ahead of him, he could see signs for I-40 West. The town they'd stopped in was called Albertsville, just a few miles from the Arizona border. He veered onto the highway, swerving to avoid a fallen motorcycle, and then took to the right lane.

  The highway was as wrecked as he remembered it. When he glanced behind him, he could see the overturned semi that had derailed them in the first place. That was why they'd gotten off at the exit. The memory whisked him back several hours, and before he knew it he was overwhelmed with guilt.

  We shouldn't have stopped at the liquor store.

  They'd needed supplies, and the place had seemed empty. But Ken should've kept going, should've found someplace farther from the highway. He tried to recreate the scenario in his head, but the reality was that even if they'd continued, there was a good chance they would've run into the men regardless. If not today, then tomorrow. Or the next day.

  In a world overrun by madmen, there were a million opportunities to die. He just wished it'd gone differently. He wished it'd been him instead.

  Roberta should be here right now. Not me.

  He bit back his guilt and concentrated on the road. There were still several hundred miles between him and Isaac, provided his son had stayed in Phoenix. Even then, it'd take a miracle to find him.

  He repressed the thoughts that had plagued him since the beginning—thoughts of his son being infected, or wounded, or killed—and tried to be optimistic. He couldn't bear to think negatively. Not now.

  Right now, Isaac was the only thing keeping him going.

  Needing a distraction, he sifted through his memories, thinking back to when Isaac had been a boy. In his son's younger years, Ken had spent weekends with him fishing in the brook, or playing catch at the local ball field. Ken's job at the machine shop had been grueling, but he'd worked hard throughout the week, doing his best to provide for his family so he could enjoy his time off.

  Ken's own childhood had been tumultuous—his parents had separated when he was six—so he'd tried to give Isaac all the things he hadn't had.

  When Isaac had finished school, Ken had retired from his job as a machinist, switching careers to become an elementary school groundskeeper. The hours were better, and the new job gave him more time to spend with his family.

  Six months ago, he'd watched Isaac travel to Phoenix with a heavy heart. Even though they'd stayed in touch, their visits had been few and far between, and he'd felt the distance between them growing. It wasn't anyone's fault, really—Ken knew what it was like to be young and to find one's place in the world.

  Everyone's path was different, and his son needed space and time to find his.

  In the meantime, he'd been meaning to visit Isaac in the city; he just hadn't gotten the chance. Now he hoped he wasn't too late.

  The car jolted as he ran over a bump in the road, and Ken's seat belt grew tight around his waist. Even in the wake of an apocalypse, he'd buckled it. Old habits, he supposed.

  The road had started to wind, and he curved with it, straddling the edge of the road where it met the dirt shoulder. I-40 had been a mess for miles, and it didn't seem to be getting any better. Since he'd left Oklahoma, things had gotten progressively worse. Eventually, he'd need to look for I-17 south, which would carry him from Flagstaff to Phoenix. But he wouldn't come across it for a while.

  He was so engrossed in the drive that he almost didn't notice the smoke from the side of the highway until he was upon it. When he did, Ken hit the brakes and slowed the vehicle. For the most part, the road on either side of the interstate was barren, but deep in the distance, past a few commercial-looking buildings, flames licked the air.

  He rolled down the passenger's side window, trying to get a better look. From where he was situated, it was impossible to tell the source. His foot hovered over the brake pedal.

  The road was a mess of tangled cars. One of them—a mini-van—was folded like an accordion. Several human bodies were scattered among the wreckage. The rear doors were hanging open, and there was a car seat inside. Had a child been in it?

  Ken didn't realize he'd pulled over until he was stopped at the side of the road. He stared at the crushed vehicle, then at the fire in the distance. What if the two were somehow connected? What if there was a child out there?

  It was a leap of reasoning, but the more he thought about it, the harder it became to ignore. His mind jumped to thoughts of his own son, and before he knew it, Ken was reaching for his pistol.

  He desperately wanted to get to Isaac. But right now, his conscience begged him to wait.

  Chapter Nine

  "Take this," Scotty said, handing Isaac a rifle. "It was Rick's, but he won't be needing it anymore."

  Isaac stared at the weapon. The gun was black and metallic and heavier than he expected. He'd never fired one before; up until a few days ago, he'd never even imagined holding one.

  He crept through the streets amongst the others, casting nervous glances in all directions. He kept his pace even, positioning himself in the middle of the group. The last thing he wanted was to be left behind again.

  Although he'd managed to survive the last encounter alone, he doubted he'd fare so well again. Scotty was on his right, staring intently at the ruined streets, as if his eyes alone would ward off danger.

  "Where are we headed?" Isaac asked.

  Scotty didn't break his glare. "Back to the tattoo shop."

  "Tattoo shop?"

  "Yep. Streamline Tattoo. Ferris works there. Or used to, anyway."

  Isaac wrinkled his brow. He hadn't heard of the place, but then again, he hadn't been in the city long. He repressed his hunger, deciding to wait until they'd arrived at the tattoo shop to broach the subject of food and drink.

  "Got it," he said.

  They'd left a cluster of buildings behind, entering a sprawling parking lot. Trees were planted in a row in the center, providing a hint of shade. The remainder of the area was empty and open. Only a few dented cars occupied the parking spaces in between.

  The men darted through the lot, guns raised. A few of the creatures ambled amongst the cars, but their heads were down, and they seemed preoccupied. Isaac kept his gun trained on them as he ran.

  Since leaving his apartment behind, he'd seen few other survivors. For the first several days, he and his roommate had remained locked in their apartment, watching the chaos from a second-story window. They'd seen cars plow into one another, seen people ripped from their vehicles by other survivors, and seen stores looted and smashed. Several times they'd tried to intervene, but their attempts had proved fruitless, and they'd usually ended up in danger themselves.

  A few days after the infection began, the city had quieted, and the sirens had stopped.

  With the majority of the city infected or killed, the screams had disappeared; the only sounds left were the scrapes and groans of the infected, roaming the city they'd effectively taken over.

  Given the lack of human contact he'd had over the past few days, Isaac was still surprised he'd encountered a group as large as the one he was in. It'd been days since he'd seen another survivor.

  The only thing he'd heard was gunshots.

  After passing the line of trees in the middle of the lot, the men veered toward a plaza filled with storefronts. The buildings were run-down, sporting an uneven combination of wood and white paint. Although there were signs at the top, many of them were cracked and faded, ruined with age.

  Among the buildings, Isaac noticed a pawnshop, a check-cashing center, and a convenience store. Due to the disheveled condition of the windows and doors, it was impossible to tell which shops had been in operation prior to the infection. As they got closer, he recognized one of the signs.

  Streamline Tattoo.

  Like the other storefronts, the tattoo shop's windows had been shattered, and fragments of glass clung to the panes. However, the front wall had been barricaded with furniture and appliances, and Isaac could make out nothing of the
interior. Instead of heading right toward the building, the group skirted past it, heading around the side.

  Spencer cleared the building first, taking a wide berth. Jimmy and Ferris followed. Scotty brought up the rear with Isaac.

  Isaac turned the corner with unease. These days, every turn was fraught with danger, and he no longer trusted anything not in his line of sight. To his relief, the side of the plaza was empty.

  "This way," Scotty said, directing him with a nod.

  After a few more steps they'd cleared the rear corner and entered the back of the lot. Isaac studied a line of closed doors and tattered dumpsters. The group went past the first few doors and then stopped at one that was unmarked. After fiddling with the keys, Spencer flung it open.

  "Let's go!" he said to the others.

  The men crossed the threshold single file, and before Isaac knew it, he was stepping inside. The glare of the sun was replaced by the gloom of a darkened interior. No sooner had his eyes adjusted than the door slammed shut behind him, and he heard the click of a lock. A flashlight winked on, and Jimmy and Spencer slid a refrigerator in front of the exit.

  The men collapsed on couches and chairs.

  "Well, that was a fucking bust," Jimmy said, lighting up a cigarette.

  "No kidding," Ferris said.

  "Half the day wasted, and not even a thing to show for it."

  Isaac was still standing, holding his weapon.

  "Why don't you grab a seat?" Jimmy suggested, motioning to an empty chair. "We're not going anywhere for a while."

  Isaac took him up on the offer, setting the weapon on his lap. He studied the room. A wall of cabinets, tables, and appliances lined the front of the room, effectively blocking off the outside. Sunlight peeked through a few narrow cracks and crevices, providing a thin stream of light. The walls were covered in artistic sketches—pictures of colorful tattoos that occupied every bit of wall space. Isaac's gaze wandered from birds to flowers to skeletons.