Read Contamination: Dead Instinct (Contamination Post-Apocalyptic Zombie Series) Online
Authors: T.W. Piperbrook
Contamination: Dead Instinct (Contamination Post-Apocalyptic Zombie Series)
About Contamination: Dead Instinct
Part One - Situation Degenerates
Preview of Contamination Boxed Set
CONTAMINATION: DEAD INSTINCT
CAN BE READ AS A STANDALONE OR COMPANION TO THE CONTAMINATION SERIES!
Don't trust what you eat. Don't trust what you drink. The infection is spreading...
In a world plagued with violence and infection, Ken and Roberta Smith want nothing more than to find their son. Having been on the road for four days, they must now cross the remaining three hundred miles of desert wasteland to get to him.
Isaac Smith has been trapped in Phoenix since the infection began. The city is virtually impassable, and the infected are everywhere. Will he escape the carnage around him? Or will he die in the city he once called home?
138 pages/36,000 words.
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CONTAMINATION
DEAD INSTINCT
by T.W. Piperbrook
Chapter One
"If you say a word, I'll kill you," Ken said, pointing the gun at the man next to him. He pulled the man behind the liquor store counter, his gaze flitting across the aisles. Ken's wife was crouched on his right. She stared at him with panicked eyes. She was holding a gun, too, but she'd never used one.
Ken peered over the counter, past the aisles and through the shattered storefront windows. Two men in dark T-shirts were heading toward the store, their boots crushing gravel. Both were tall and muscled—in much better shape than Ken—and both wore army pants. One of them sported a mustache, and his face was twisted in a grin.
In his hand was the head of one of the infected.
Ken had watched the man slice it from an already-dead body in the parking lot, joking with his friend at the mess he'd made. Now he was holding it by the hair. Ken could only guess what the man would do to him and his wife if they were found.
He watched in horror as the man tossed the head across the parking lot. The head rolled across the pavement, picking up speed, and then ricocheted off a nearby Dumpster.
A week ago, a virus had ravaged the Southwest, overtaking the majority of the population with sickness. Once-normal people had been turned into bloodthirsty lunatics, bent on rending the survivors limb from limb. Those that hadn't turned wished they had. Aside from the roaming infected, the streets were filled with violent, sadistic individuals.
Men like the ones outside.
Ken swallowed as he watched them approach.
Their voices echoed across the parking lot.
"Let's have a look in the store," the mustached man said to his friend, gesturing toward the building.
"Sounds good."
"Is David in there?"
"Damned if I know. The fucker is always taking off. I told him to wait, but he wouldn't listen..."
The two men advanced toward the store.
Ken heard a muffled cough to his left and turned to face the man he was pointing the gun at. The man was covered in dirt and blood, and his forehead was bleeding. A few minutes earlier, the man had stumbled on him and Roberta and tried to attack them.
Luckily, Ken had gotten the upper hand.
"Let me go, or they'll kill you," the man hissed.
Ken jabbed the pistol into the man's side, prompting him to be quiet. The truth was, the men would kill them either way if they were discovered.
Ken's eyes darted to the rear of the store. Behind him was a back door that was barricaded with boxes and shelves. More than likely, a survivor had secured the door when the infection began. There'd be no getting through it easily. He met Roberta's eyes. He could tell she was contemplating the same thing.
"We'll never make it," he whispered to her.
She nodded, tears forming in the corners of her eyes.
"At least let me stretch," the injured man complained. "My legs are getting cramped. Both of you have guns, anyway. What do you think I'm going to do?"
Ken looked at his pistol, then back at the man.
"No way. Keep still."
Even if he wanted to let the man go, it was too late. All he could do now was try to keep the man quiet in the hopes that the three of them could stay undetected.
The men in the parking lot were getting closer, surveying the convenience store. Every once in a while, they gestured toward a dead body on the ground, snickering at the chaos around them.
Ken couldn't comprehend the cruelty of some men. But then again, he'd always been a God-fearing man, and he'd let his faith guide his actions. It was unfair to assume everyone did the same. He let one hand off the gun and felt for the cross around his neck.
Something brushed his pant leg, and he startled. When he looked down, he found his wife's hand clenched to the fabric of his ripped jeans. He'd been married to Roberta for twenty-five years. He loved her more than life itself.
He couldn't let it end this way. Not here, not now.
He let go of the cross and laced fingers with his wife.
The men in the road had reached the store's entrance. Ken watched the mustached man rip open the door, then heard him chuckle.
"Will you look at this, Willy?"
His friend leaned over his shoulder.
"A thirty-pack. Untouched. Now that's some lucky shit, right there."
Willy slapped the mustached man on the back, letting out a hoot.
"Hot damn, Tony, and I thought we'd be sober all afternoon!"
The mustached man—Tony—reached down and tugged at the closed carton, snatching a can of beer from inside. For a split second, he juggled his beverage and his gun, working to open the container. He popped the can, releasing a spray of carbonation.
The men laughed as the beer dripped onto the floor.
They were twenty yards away.
Ken contemplated breaking his cover and firing at them. Although he wasn't the best shot, he had a fair chance at hitting one of them, and he'd have the element of surprise on his side. As if she sensed his thought, Roberta tightened her grip on his hand. He sucked in a breath and waited.
He couldn't justify shooting a man in cold blood.
He couldn't.
He kept his eyes glued on the men, peering at them between the bars of a cigarette display case. The store was a mess. It looked like it'd been raided several times over; most of the items had been ripped open, stolen, or consumed. Before the men had arrived, Ken and Roberta had gone inside in hopes of finding supplies.
Now Ken wished he'd never come in at all.
He watched as Tony guzzled the beer he'd opened, foam dripping off his chin. Willy laughed.
"Gimme one, Tony."
Tony frowned.
"Get your own, you lazy son of a bitch."
Willy leaned down and retrieved a can, sliding it out of the carton. Ken noticed both men's shirts were stained with blood, and their hands were covered in dirt. He wondered how long they'd been on the road.
He could only guess at how many people they'd killed.
"Why don't we see if there's any money in the register?" Tony suggested.
"You really think there's anything in there?"
"Worth a look. If things ever go back to normal, we might need it. If we find any cash, we'll split it."
"What about David?"
"He's not here. He missed the boat."
The two men laughed.
Ken's eyes darted across the counter. The cash register hung open to his right, just above Roberta's head. He caught a glimpse of his wife's expression—her eyes had widened, and her hand shook in his.
He pried himself from her grasp and placed both hands on the gun.
Willy stepped in the direction of the counter, still sipping his beer. His eyes roamed the tipped display cases on the counter, passing a string of untouched lotto tickets, a case of chewing tobacco, and a pack of cigarettes. A second later, they locked on the register. He took another step.
Ken ducked lower into the shadows. He watched the opposite end of the counter—the place where the man would eventually appear—and waited, his gun still trained on the man he held hostage.
At any moment, he'd be forced into a confrontation, and once that happened, there'd be no going back. He knew he couldn't hesitate. A second lost would mean a missed opportunity, and a missed opportunity would cost them their lives.
There'd be no reasoning with these men. He could sense it.
He tightened his grip on the gun handle, gritting his teeth so hard he thought they'd crack. He could feel his pulse beating through his neck, the driving rhythm of a song on its last chorus.
He heard footsteps from the other side of the counter. The crack of another beer can. In just a few seconds he and his wife would be exposed. He cast a sideways glance at his prisoner, just in time to catch the man stifling a cough.
"You hear that, Willy?"
"Hear what?"
Ken's heart leapt in his chest.
"I heard something."
The room went silent for a minute as both men listened. Ken stared at David, prodding his gun deep into the man's stomach, warning him to keep quiet.
"I don't think so, man. You must be drunk already," Willy chided.
Ken held his breath, keeping his aim on the end of the counter. His eyes ran across spilled snack displays and scattered packs of cigarettes. He heard the clink of a can being set on the floor.
"I'm not messing around, man. I have perfect hearing. In fact, my mother said—"
"I don't give a fuck what your mother said."
The room quieted. Ken heard the scuffle of boots on the floor, the sound of men breathing. After a few seconds, a voice broke the silence.
"I think it was just a car passing by," Willy said.
"All right. Let's go check it out."
"Where's David?"
"Who cares? He'll catch up."
Two pairs of feet crunched the floor again, this time headed in the opposite direction. Ken felt a flood of relief. Just moments ago, he'd been ready to engage in a gunfight—one that could have cost them their lives. And now, by a stroke of luck, the crisis had been averted.
His gaze wandered to his wife, then to the man next to him. Both appeared as relieved as he was. He adjusted his stance on the ground, fighting the cramps that had crept into his legs, listening to footsteps fade in the distance. He'd wait a minute; then he'd risk a glance.
He was about to look over the counter when David screamed.
"In here! Help! They've got me hostage!"
Ken leapt at the man, hoping to silence him, but it was too late. The footsteps had changed direction.
The men were racing back to the store.
Isaac had been in the trunk of the Buick for three hours, and it felt like he was running out of air. All around him were the
thud
of bodies and hands on the exterior, trying to get in the car. He blinked several times, hoping his eyes would penetrate the darkness, but he could only make out a pinhole of light—probably from the keyhole in the trunk. Sweat moistened his body, and the temperature in the trunk seemed to be growing hotter by the second.
He didn't know how much longer he could survive. Even worse, he knew that he couldn't go outside. If he did—
they'd
get him.