Contamination: Dead Instinct (Contamination Post-Apocalyptic Zombie Series) (2 page)

He turned sideways, hoping to gain leverage so he could lash out if needed, but his movement was restricted. If the trunk were to open suddenly, he doubted he'd be able to react in time. Something pushed against the fabric of the seat in front of him, and he heard the breathing and moans of the things inside the car. Things that looked more like
creatures
than people. They were everywhere.

He was surrounded. Utterly and hopelessly surrounded.

A few hours earlier, he'd been traveling the streets of Phoenix, hoping to find something safe to eat. Before his roommate had died, they'd heard the rumors that the food and water had been contaminated, and Isaac hadn't wanted to take any chances. His roommate had ignored the warnings.

Yesterday, Harry had turned, and Isaac had been forced to kill him. He'd barely escaped with his life.
 

For the past day, he'd been subsisting on rainwater from the roof of his apartment; finally, the gnawing in his stomach had driven him to the streets.
 

He'd barely escaped his roommate. And now, despite staving off his former friend, Isaac was going to die anyway. Trapped in the trunk of a vehicle that he'd shut himself in. He didn't know which fate was worse.
 

At least if he'd been killed, it would have been done and over with.

Isaac readjusted in the trunk, his limbs aching. From somewhere above him, he heard the scratching of nails, the hiss of hot breath through rotten teeth. He wasn't sure how many of the infected were out there, but he knew there were a lot. If nothing else, the creatures liked a crowd. Oftentimes, they'd follow each other in pursuit of a meal. He'd seen it happen to others.

He'd just never imagined it happening to him.

It was hard to believe how fast the city had turned. In just days, almost everyone had been infected—families had been torn apart, acquaintances had become unrecognizable, and civilization seemed to have disappeared. It saddened Isaac to think of how many lives had been lost.
 

With his roommate gone and no other survivors in the area, Isaac had no reason to stay in Phoenix. His plan had been to vacate the city, hoping to find his way back to his parents in Oklahoma. And now that plan had shit the bed.

Isaac sucked in a breath. He tried to keep from hyperventilating. He could almost feel the air growing thin as he depleted it, and the heat was threatening to smother him. He wasn't sure how much longer he'd last in here—maybe minutes, maybe hours—but he knew it wouldn't be forever. Sooner or later, the lack of oxygen would pull him under.

That is, if those things didn't pull him out first.

His eyes fluttered, and his brain began to wander, reviewing the most memorable moments in his twenty-two-year existence. There'd been a few. He'd been a first baseman in high school, and his team had won the state championship. He could still remember the look of pride on his father's face when he'd brought home the trophy. Despite a hectic work schedule, his father had managed to make every game.

He'd also travelled—from Oklahoma to Phoenix, most recently—and gotten to see things he never thought he'd see. Growing up in a small town had been nice, but he hadn't had a chance to see the country. He'd made up for that after high school.

But none of that mattered now. If he died, there'd be nothing left to experience and nothing left to say. He'd never be able to tell his parents he loved them again. He'd never be able to find the woman of his dreams, or have children of his own...

A
thud
on the lid of the trunk snapped him to attention. The creatures were growing impatient, trying harder to get in. He heard the wrinkle of metal above him, and for a second he thought the trunk was about to cave in. Why wouldn't the things just
leave
? His hope had been that he could wait them out, that they'd find something else of interest and meander off, but that hadn't happened yet. Instead, they seemed more focused with each passing second.

Isaac repositioned, sipping breath. A wave of unconsciousness was washing over him, and he fought it, knowing that if he passed out, he might never wake up. He needed air. But the only air was outside, and so were the creatures threatening to do him in.

He felt around the trunk, hoping to stumble on something he'd missed. He could feel several articles of fabric—clothing, perhaps—but nothing that might help him.

He ripped at the trunk lining, trying to get to the compartment beneath, but the weight of his body prevented it. Even if he could get in there, he doubted it would assist him.

Isaac's hands shook. He thought of his mother and father, and he clasped his hands together and prayed.

He kept his head bowed, preserving his air, and did his best to ignore the banging of hands coming from all around him.
   

At the sound of approaching footsteps, Ken motioned for Roberta to cover David. She scooted over and trained her gun on him. Then Ken stood in a half-crouch and peered over the liquor store counter. David continued to scream.

"Help! Back here!"

"Shut up!" Ken barked.

He caught sight of Willy and Tony. The two men had just stepped through the entrance and ducked behind two toppled shelves.
 

"Stay back!" Ken shouted.

He heard a laugh from the front of the store. One of the men coughed loudly, as if to taunt him. He saw a faint reflection in the glass of the store window, then the glint of a gun.

"I mean it!"
 

Ken jumped as a bullet connected with a display case to his left. He thrust his pistol over the counter and squeezed the trigger. The shot went wide, shattering a bottle of wine on a nearby shelf. The last thing he wanted was a firefight, but Ken needed to drive the men back. If he could hold his position, maybe he could get the men to leave.

Then maybe he and his wife could escape.

"We're not looking for trouble!" he shouted. "But we'll shoot you if you don't leave us alone!"

The store returned to silence. Ken studied the fractured storefront window, trying to pinpoint the men's position. He thought he saw Willy's reflection on the left-hand side of the store, but he couldn't be certain. A moment later, he heard the pop of a can, then the fizz of carbonation.

"We're just looking for a drink," Willy called out. "Who you got back there? Is that David?"

"Yes!" David screamed.

Ken lashed out with his foot, connecting with the man's leg, and David howled in pain.

"Look, we're just passing through," Ken said. "We don't want any trouble. Throw down your weapons and lie on the ground. Then we'll be on our way."

"Why don't you come on out and we'll talk?"

"I don't think so."

"How about this? We'll head outside, and when you're ready, you come on out and join us."

Ken stared over the counter. He heard the scrape of boots on glass, then the sound of the men getting up. Two figures had emerged from behind the shelves, heading for the doorway. He kept his grip on the pistol. Despite the man's words, he was far from convinced. He watched the men tread over the debris and slip through the door, certain they'd turn around and open fire.

But neither of them did.

He glanced back at Roberta. Her hands trembled as she held the gun on David. Her eyes contained the same doubt and uncertainty that he had. David was rocking back and forth on his haunches, clutching his leg.

"Tony! Willy! Wait!" he screamed.
 

Before Ken or Roberta could stop him, David lunged for freedom, heaving over the counter. David kicked behind him, knocking over several displays.
 

"There're only two of them!" he shouted. "An old man and a woman! These pieces of shit have been holding me back here. Come get th—"

A gunshot rang out from the front of the store, and David's forehead exploded with red. He rolled off the counter in a heap, landing on top of Ken and Roberta, and they scrambled to push him off. He came to rest on the floor, his eyes staring at the ceiling.
 

"You moron!" Willy yelled, as if the man could still hear him. "Why'd you have to go and get caught?"

Roberta screamed.

Her voice was shrill and piercing, and fear shot up Ken's spine like a slithering snake. He pushed the dead man aside and clung to his wife, aiming the pistol wildly. He heard laughter from all around him, as if the men had somehow multiplied and surrounded them. He grabbed for his wife, struggling to keep her calm.

"It's going to be OK," he whispered. "Stay put."

He attempted to stand, but Roberta clung to him with shaky hands, as if he were the last vestige of her sanity. He pried her fingers from his shirt, whispering reassurances he didn't believe, and then crept back to the counter. The men had disappeared again, but he could sense their presence.

They were still in the building. He was sure of it.

Outside in the parking lot, he could see the tail end of the Subaru Outback he and Roberta had been driving, which they'd tucked behind a dumpster.

They'd stopped at the liquor store in search of supplies—it was the closest building off the highway, and they'd been hoping to find a first aid kit. Both Roberta and Ken's feet had blisters from constant travel, and they needed bandages. Earlier, they'd been with another man they'd encountered on the road, but that man had fallen victim to the infected. Now it was just him and Roberta.
 

Ken had known stopping would be dangerous, but he hadn't expected
this
.

He glanced at the dead body next to them. In spite of David's violent demeanor, Ken had been willing to release him. All he'd wanted was to be able to leave. And now the man was dead.

Ken swallowed and surveyed the store, his eyes roving over broken beverage bottles and overturned racks. Although he was outnumbered, he'd sworn a silent oath to himself: that no one would harm his wife, and that they'd escape this madness together.

Spotting nothing over the counter, he ducked back down and made his way to the far edge. His hope was to get a better view of the store, a different angle that would allow him to locate their attackers.
 

As he snuck along, he fought back the image of David's exploding head. Since leaving Oklahoma, he and Roberta had seen some awful things—things they'd never forget—and now this incident had been added to the memories. He wanted nothing more than to flee the liquor store, to get his wife to the car and leave.

But he knew these men wouldn't rest until they were dead.

Ken reached the edge of the counter and peered around, keeping his body low to the ground. He'd never been a violent man. Up until a week ago, he'd never even struck anyone. He'd owned a rifle when he was younger—a .22—but it'd been years since he'd fired a weapon.
 

The infection had changed everything.

In just a week, he'd gone from elementary school groundskeeper to survivor, and things hadn't been the same since. Gone were the nights of home-cooked meals and relaxing in front of the television. Gone were the days of sitting on the porch with Roberta, watching the sun set over the distant hills. Now the only sunsets they saw were from the back of the station wagon, hoping they'd escape the infection, praying that they'd avoid the violent whims of other survivors.

Praying they'd find their son.

Isaac had moved to Phoenix six months ago. For the past four days, Ken and Roberta had been crossing the Midwest to get to him. And now these men were trying to cut their journey short, for no reason other than their own sadistic enjoyment.

The thought filled Ken with rage, and it gave him a renewed sense of determination, a will to survive what they were up against.

He wanted everything back the way it was, dammit. He wanted his family safe and together, and back in Oklahoma. He'd do anything to make that happen.

We're coming, Isaac.

He gritted his teeth with resolve. In the front of the store, he caught a glimpse of army pants, the fabric of a black T-shirt. He aimed his gun at the shelf, ready to pull the trigger as soon as the man came into view.

But he never got the chance.

Before Ken could act, a man tackled him to the ground, and the blade of a knife pricked his throat.

Isaac was light-headed again. He'd been trying to control his breathing for what felt like an eternity, and even still, he was running out of strength. The heat from the enclosed space felt like it was closing in, threatening to choke the life from his weakened body.
 

His instincts screamed at him to get out of the trunk. The only thing stopping him was the constant banging of the creatures. Not only were they still there, they seemed to be growing in number. He only had a vague sense of how many there were, but based on the groans, he guessed there were a lot.

More than enough to rip him limb from limb. More than enough to unravel his intestines with their teeth and gnaw on his bones. He clenched his eyes shut and tried to dispel the image, but it was one he'd seen too many times. Of course, that was back when there'd been more survivors left. Back when there'd been hope.

It'd been almost a week since the start of the infection.

Ever since, days had felt like weeks, and each horror had seemed worse than the last. The altercation with his roommate had only reinforced his decision to leave the apartment. Of course, now he found himself wishing he'd stayed.
 

Even death by starvation seemed preferable to this.
 

He could feel himself succumbing to claustrophobia, could feel his muscles and limbs crying out from holding the same position. Even when he moved, there was nowhere to go, no way to fully stretch.
 

His body begged for a reprieve.

Without realizing it, he unclasped his hands, reaching for the latch that would spring him from the trunk. If he could just get some air, relieve some of the heat...

He was halted by the sound of gunfire.

Short, intermittent bursts erupted from somewhere outside, and he heard the sound of bodies hitting the pavement. One of the creatures shrieked above him, and nails skidded off the exterior of the trunk. Who was out there? Was it the military? Was it
help
?