Contamination: Dead Instinct (Contamination Post-Apocalyptic Zombie Series) (6 page)

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.

"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.

"See anything you like?" Ferris asked with a grin. "If we had power, I'd give you a free one. Of course, we could always do it old school with needles and ink."

"I'm fine," Isaac replied. He glanced uncomfortably from one face to the next, realizing the group was staring at him. As isolated as he'd felt outside, he was starting to wonder if he'd made a mistake in coming here with these men.

"Relax," Jimmy said after a few seconds. "You survived another few hours out there. That's got to be worth something."

"Sure," Isaac said.
 

He didn't know if he agreed, but he wasn't about to argue. He noticed a pile of red wrappers on the floor. Although there was nothing left, it appeared they'd contained food.
 

"Was that—?" he asked.

"Yup. I'd offer you something to eat, but it's all gone."

"Aren't you afraid of the infection?" Isaac asked. His eyes roamed from man to man, as if at any moment, one of them would turn and spring.
 

"It's from
them
," Scotty said from a chair in the corner. "So it's safe."

"From whom?"

"The agents. Don't you know about them?"

The confusion on Isaac's face must have been evident. Scotty continued.

"The men in white coats that have been patrolling the city. They're responsible for this whole thing. We overheard some of them talking a few days ago. They were going through the streets, looking for survivors so they could gun them down. They're the ones spreading the virus, Isaac, and they've been making sure no one's left."

Isaac stared at the floor, doing his best to process the information. Although he'd known something—or someone—must be responsible, he'd had no idea whom or what it could be.
 

"So you're saying this whole thing was done on purpose?" he asked.

The group nodded in unison.

"Who the hell are they? Is it some sort of terrorist group?"

"We don't know. But whoever these fuckers are, they did it, that's for sure."

Isaac shook his head in disbelief. The idea that someone could've perpetrated the infection was almost beyond his comprehension. At the same time, he'd known the world was a dangerous place, and lately, it'd only been getting worse.
 

"Have you heard the gunshots in the past few days?" Jimmy said.
 

Isaac nodded.

"Those were most likely the agents shooting down the last of us." Jimmy took a long drag on his cigarette, letting the ash curl over the end. "I think they moved on, though."

"I assumed it was other survivors. I thought they were fighting off the infected."

"Hard to tell. We got the jump on one of the agents, though. That's how we got this." Jimmy pointed the butt-end of his cigarette at the pile of wrappers.
   

"What was it?"

"Uncontaminated food. The fuckers brought their own with them so they wouldn't get infected."

"We tried to ration it, but it didn't go very far," Scotty said. "That's why we were out there today. We were looking for more."

The others nodded their heads.

"So what happened to the agent?" Isaac asked. "The one you got the jump on?"

The room fell silent, save the crackle of cigarettes and the occasional cough. After a pause, Jimmy answered.
 

"He didn't make it."

Ken glanced up the highway. There was an exit about a hundred yards ahead, but the ramp was cluttered with vehicles, and there'd be no getting through it.
Dammit.
The fire was about half a mile away—he could probably reach it in a few minutes on foot. He removed the key from the ignition and exited the vehicle, then closed the door and began running.

He trekked through the desert shrubs and sand, his boots kicking up dust as he progressed. He could hear voices in the distance. One of them sounded like a child's, though he couldn't be sure. He'd already removed his pistol, and he ran with weapon in hand, ready to fire if necessary. His backpack was slung over his shoulders, and it bounced off his shoulder blades as he plowed forth.

His breath came in short, ragged gasps, and his body ached from the strain. Although Ken was in decent shape, it'd been years since he'd endured such intense physical exertion. The past four days had been grueling. It was as if he were an Olympic athlete, thrust into the heat of the games without a tryout.
 

Even if he'd been warned, Ken wasn't sure he'd have believed what was coming. How could
anyone
have believed it?

As he crossed the desert, he kept his eye on the flames, watching for signs of life or danger. Next to the fire were several shapes—objects that grew in size as he approached. It took him a few seconds to realize they were human.

His initial assumption had been correct. The voices belonged to a man and child. To his surprise, they didn't appear to be in any immediate danger, but they were hunched over the flames. When they caught sight of him with the gun, they raised their hands in the air.

"Don't shoot!"
 

"It's all right!" Ken yelled.

He reduced his pace to a jog and lowered his weapon. The pair kept their arms in the air anyway, as if he might change his mind and fire upon them.
 

As he approached, he got a better look at them. The man was middle-aged, sporting the beginnings of a beard. He was wearing an untucked business shirt with the sleeves rolled up. It looked like he'd once had a tie. His pants and shoes looked like they'd been expensive, but they were tattered now. The boy was about eight years old, with sandy hair and an Arizona Diamondbacks shirt.
 

"I'm not here to hurt you," Ken explained. "I saw the fire from the road, and I thought someone was in trouble."

The man sighed. "We're fine. We were hoping no one could see us from the road, but I guess that didn't work."

"What are you doing out here?"

"Cooking some food."

The pair lowered their hands, breathing a joint sigh of relief. Ken tucked the pistol in his waistband, then walked over to join them. He slid off his backpack and set it in the dirt.

"What are your names?"

"I'm Ronald, and this is my son Forest."

"I'm Ken. Ken Smith."

"Nice to meet you, Ken."

Ken reached over, offering his hand, and the man took it gratefully. Given the events of the past few hours, the gesture was comforting and familiar, and Ken heaved a nervous breath of his own. After scouring the landscape, he settled into the dirt next to them.

"Where are you from, Ken?"

"Oklahoma City. How about you?"

"We're from Tucson. Forest and I have been on the road for almost five days. We've been avoiding everyone we see. I think that's the only reason we've made it this far."

"I can't say I blame you."

"Are you alone?" Ronald asked.

The pair stared at him intently. Ken recalled the events that had occurred earlier—his stop at the liquor store, the altercation with the men, the death of his wife. The last thing he wanted to do was rehash the memories.

"Yes," he said finally. "I'm looking for my son Isaac. He lives in Phoenix." He pulled a picture from his pocket and showed it to them.
 

"This might be a long shot, but have you seen him?"

"No, I'm sorry, we haven't," Ronald replied.

"Have you seen anyone who can help us?" Forest asked.
 

Ken shook his head. "Can't say that I have."

Ronald and Forest stared at their shoes, as if they'd been expecting a different answer.