Contamination Prequel (Post-Apocalyptic Zombie Series) (2 page)

Dan recoiled in fear. Frank’s face was demolished: his bare head was split open at the center. His shiny round head had become a red canvas, painted with a mural of blood and exposed bone. His nose was splintered into fragments, and his mouth dangled open, held together by a few pieces of teeth and loose gum. His eyes were rolled up into his head. They were pitch black.

“He was reaching for the water cooler. It looked like he was thirsty. I went to give him a cup—you know, to be nice,” Howard eyed his friend, as if afraid he wouldn’t believe him. “And then he grabbed me, man! When I broke free, he went crazy. He kept smashing his head against the bars, over and over, trying to get to me, until his face just…oh Jesus fuck!”

Howard shook his head from side to side, trying to keep his composure. The senior officer had been shot twice—and had survived some of the toughest neighborhoods in California—but tonight he had finally cracked.

“Did you see his eyes?” Howard waved his good arm towards the cell. “What the fuck could have happened to him?”

Dan replaced the blanket, feeling his stomach tighten. He stepped back, bumping into an object on the floor. A plastic cup rolled away from him and came to rest underneath the bench.

In his five years on the force, this was one of the most violent deaths he had ever seen. Dan was worried.

Mickey Sonstrom arrived on the scene first, even before the ambulance. He was fair-skinned and freckled, sporting a tuft of red hair that crept out from underneath his police hat. His chin pointed outwards, as if to constantly reaffirm his position of authority. At twenty-two, he was the youngest officer on the force.

“Howard, what’d you do, man?” he kidded, punching the stocky officer on the arm. “Oh shit, man, I didn’t know you were hurt. Are you all right?”

“It’s not funny, Mickey,” Dan scolded him, “Howard is lucky to be alive.”

“Is Frank really dead?”

“Yes, he is. We should wait for Sheriff Turner before we do anything.”

The red-haired officer peered over their shoulders into the cell, catching a glimpse of the blue blanket. Dan had placed it back over the body, both to preserve the evidence and to avoid looking at it again. Over the past few years, there had been a few gruesome deaths in St. Matthews, but certainly nothing to this extent.

Mickey headed off into the locker room.

“I’ll get the camera,” he said.

Howard sat behind the wooden desk in the room, applying pressure to his wound. They had raided the emergency kit in the station and wrapped his arm with gauze and a bandage while waiting for the paramedics. Dan was sure the man would need stitches.

Frank had sliced into a piece of the man’s upper bicep, presumably with his nails. Dan struggled to figure out how the prisoner had done so much damage—especially without a weapon.

“I should call my wife,” Dan said. “She’s probably worried.”

“Why don’t you go home, man—have dinner with the family,” Howard offered.

“Absolutely not. I’ll tell her not to wait up.”

Dan retrieved his phone and walked into the corridor. The sound of his footsteps bounced off the station walls as he dialed the number. His wife picked up on the first ring.

“Dan, where are you?” Julie said. “I thought you’d be home already.”

“We had an accident at the station, honey. Howard’s been hurt. He’ll be ok—but there is an incident that I need to deal with.”

“Oh my God. I knew it. Will you be home soon?”

“I don’t think so,” he said. “In fact, I’m pretty sure it will be a while.”

“I’ll wait up for you. I can heat up dinner when you get back.”

Dan smiled, feeling a sense of relief at the sound of her voice. Howard was still alive. Julie and Quinn were safe at home, miles away from the carnage he had just witnessed. Things could be much worse.

“That sounds great. If you guys get hungry, feel free to start without me,” he said. He doubted he would have much of an appetite.

Dan hung up the cellphone and stared at his reflection in the glass. His adrenaline was still flowing, and he tried to steady his hands. The ambulance would be here soon, and they would need to assess the crime scene. He tried to regain his composure. From somewhere outside, a car door slammed shut. He slipped the phone back into his pocket and adjusted his hat.

Even before he had a visual, Dan heard his boss breathing from the parking lot outside. A few seconds later, the door swung open with a
crash
, and Sheriff Turner’s massive figure filled the entrance. He lumbered down the hall towards Dan, his massive legs shaking the ground beneath him.

“Is Howard ok?” he asked.

“I think he’ll be fine,” Dan assured him. “But he’ll need stitches.”

The Sheriff muttered something and wiped away a stream of sweat from beneath his cap. His short white hair was matted into clumps, and his thick black eyebrows quivered with worry. Labored breaths wracked his body. Dan figured it had probably been a while since the man had moved so fast. By all accounts, his boss was sorely out of shape. However, his intentions were some of the purest that Dan had ever known.

Sheriff Turner had taken over the position from Bill Turner, his father, who had retired after forty years on the force. The family had occupied St. Matthews for generations, each member holding a career in public service. Almost anywhere the sheriff went, he was greeted by warmth and respect. He once joked that his body belonged to the townsfolk. Dan thought he should have been a politician in another life.

The sheriff’s red cheeks puffed in front of him, and he resumed walking.

“Thank God he’s all right,” he said. “Where the hell are the medics?”

It was after 9 o’clock when Dan finally left the police station. At that point, there wasn’t much more he could do. Howard had been taken to the hospital to be stitched up, insisting that his co-workers stay behind. Dan had completed the necessary paperwork and the three remaining officers had documented the scene.

Frank’s mangled body had been taken to the morgue shortly after. The coroner, Jonas Cutler, hadn’t offered much of an explanation. Even with an autopsy, he explained, it would be impossible to gauge the man’s motives. For now, he was chalking it up to a stomach full of alcohol and a bad temper.

Dan pulled out of the parking lot. He contemplated calling his wife. Given the late hour, he decided against it. In the event his family had gone to sleep, he didn’t want to wake them—though he was certain Julie would be up, waiting for him.

As he sped home, he tried to picture the plate of re-heated potatoes and ham that awaited him, but only succeeding in conjuring up images of Frank’s missing face. He blinked hard a few times, trying to get a grip on his stomach. Work was work, and home was home. He kept reminding himself of that fact. A few minutes later, he pulled into the driveway.

The Lowery residence was a quaint, single-story home situated on a slightly wooded lot. The front lower half was comprised of red brick, the upper made of white wood panels. Two elm trees sat in the front yard, providing a nice contrast to the desert backdrop. In better times, the landscape would have bolstered the property’s resale value. Now, with the town in the throes of a recession, it was simply a source of enjoyment for its current owners.

Dan felt above the visor for the garage remote, and then reconsidered, parking the cruiser where he had pulled in.

Just in case they were asleep.

He exited the vehicle, locking the car door and starting up the walkway. A dim light was on in the dining room. He felt a sense of relief wash over him. It was good to be home.

3

H
oward winced as the nurse
threaded the first stitch. The pain was actually quite bearable, but he wasn’t a fan of needles. He looked away and concentrated on a diagram on the wall. A row of letters and numbers lined the poster, each varying in size and shape.

“Can you read all of them?” The nurse smiled at him. She was a cute blonde, probably no more than twenty-eight, if he had to guess.

“Let’s see, A, F, G. Yep—got ‘em all.” He grinned, flexing his bicep.

“You’ll have to stay still, sir.”

“No problem, ma’am,” he said.

Howard thought back to the last time he had been in the hospital, back in Sacramento. That was when he had received the gunshot wound to his calf. Now, that was some scary shit.
This is nothing
, he reminded himself.
Nothing at all.

He closed his left eye and tried reading the letters on the chart backwards. He realized that the patients who took the test were probably farther away, but it felt good to practice nonetheless. He sighed, pushing away the tinge of fear that had plagued him since the beginning of his shift.

He had known something was going to happen tonight even before it did. He should have paid more attention. He regretted giving Frank that cup of water. He had realized it was a bad idea as soon as he had leaned toward the metal bars.

But would avoiding that confrontation have made a difference? Surely, Frank would have been on the streets the next morning, trolling for his next drink. And when the next person had angered him, he would have exploded just the same.

Howard closed both eyes as the needle wove in and out of his arm. He could feel a steady pinching even though he had been given an anesthetic. He pictured his arm slowly coming back together, and tried to dispel the image of Frank’s face coming apart.

“All set!” the nurse said, standing up proudly.

Howard wondered how many stitches she had given before. From the look in her eyes, she was quite impressed with the work she had done.

“Looks good!” he confirmed, but figured he wouldn’t have known the difference either way.

The nurse beamed and began to put away her supplies.

“Hey, if you ever get bored, I work at the precinct downtown,” he said. “You should stop by. Ask for Howard.”

“Definitely!” She smiled, but her blue eyes remained on the equipment. A few seconds later, she handed him a sheet of paper. “All of your post-care instructions are listed here on the bottom. We’ll see you in two weeks to remove the stitches.”

Howard thanked her and slid off the chair. He retrieved his cap from the table, and exited into the hallway.

The emergency room waiting area was surprisingly quiet. Two rows of red plastic chairs lined the walls, all of them empty but for a few magazines that had been left on the seats. Behind the front desk, an older woman sat with her back to the room, scribbling away on some paperwork.

A television hung from the ceiling, displaying the local newscast. The sound was barely audible, but Howard could make out the story from the tagline below. The reporter was covering the town’s yearly festival. Several residents had planted a variety of trees on the center green. The caption switched a few seconds later to an alert on a recall of ground beef.

“I could go for a burger,” he mumbled to himself, wishing he were hungry.

He exited through the automatic doors and back into the night.

Howard drove aimlessly for a few hours, rounding the streets of St. Matthews in the police cruiser. He wasn’t sure where he was going, but home felt like the wrong place to be. For a second, he considered calling Dan, perhaps stopping in for some ham and potatoes, but thought better of it.

A glimmer of pain rippled up his arm, and he loosened his grip on the steering wheel. Going to the gym was out of the question; that was for sure.

For a Friday night, the streets were unusually empty. Normally, he would find himself stuck behind some drunk who was driving far less than the speed limit, painfully aware of the cruiser behind him. Tonight, he was greeted by nothing more than the traffic lights and an occasional foot traveler.

Howard circled the town several times before he realized where he was headed. He pulled into a small side street tucked in the commercial center of town and turned off his headlights. A row of brick buildings loomed overhead, the adobe cracked and worn from both time and lack of concern. A few patrons were standing in the alleyway, but quickly dispersed when they saw the patrol car. He noticed that one of them pointed in his direction. It looked like he mouthed the officer’s name.