Contamination: Dead Instinct (Contamination Post-Apocalyptic Zombie Series) (3 page)

Did they know he was in here?

Despite his predicament, Isaac had somehow kept quiet, fearing that he'd draw more attention to himself. He'd prayed the things would go away, even though he knew it was unlikely.
 

Now his hope was renewed.

He kept his hand on the trunk latch, waiting for the gunfire to cease. He noticed the commotion around him was dying out. Even the creatures in the interior of the car—the ones that had been pushing on the other side of the backseat—seemed to have grown still.
 

With the area now immersed in quiet, Isaac could hear only the pounding in his ears. His face dripped with sweat; his clothes felt like they'd been dipped in water. Still he waited.

Although he was pretty sure the creatures around him had been eliminated, he found himself faced with a new fear. Who was on the outside? If someone had come to rescue him, why hadn't they tried to open the trunk?

He had the sudden fear that someone was waiting to mow him down, too. He'd seen some violent survivors since the infection began—mostly from a distance, because he'd been careful not to get close. What if one of them was outside waiting for him?
 

He held his breath, hoping for a clue as to his rescuer.
 

As the seconds ticked by, his anxiety deepened. How long should he wait? Between the heat exhaustion and the lack of oxygen, he wanted nothing more than to spring from the vehicle, to suck in fresh air and relieve the aches and pains that belabored his body. Ten seconds, he decided. He'd wait ten seconds, and if he heard nothing in that time, he'd exit.

He began counting slowly.

One-one-thousand, two-one-thousand, three-one-thousand...

Nothing.

Four-one-thousand, five-one-thousand...

Still not a sound.

When he reached ten, he ran his fingers over the trunk latch. Although he was terrified to open it, he was even more terrified to stay.
 

What if the creatures came back and trapped him for good?
 

He was about to hit the latch when he heard the scuff of a shoe on the pavement. The noise was tentative, almost inaudible, and he strained his ears to hear it again. Someone coughed, and Isaac's skin prickled. Whoever it was
knew
he was in here; they were just waiting for him to come out.
 

He could either stay, hoping to outlast the person or persons, or he could take a chance and make his presence known.

His breath came in shallow gasps; the trunk felt like it was searing him alive. He reached for the latch.

"Don't shoot! I'm coming out!"

He listened for a response, but all he heard was the subtle gust of the wind, blowing through the cracks and corners of the city. Somewhere overhead, a bird cawed, as if to make up for the lack of noise on the street below it.

Isaac hit the latch and popped the trunk open. He tried to catch it on the way up, hoping to keep his cover, but he lost his grip. Before he knew it he was in the open, the sun shining in his face.

Slowly but surely the world came into view. All around him were remnants of the creatures that had attacked him. Their bodies littered the street: face down, sideways, and on top of one another.
 

Standing about fifty feet away, guns locked on him, were five young men.

Isaac studied the group. All of them appeared to be several years older than him—in their mid-twenties, if he had to guess. They were wearing tattered clothes, and each of them sported some combination of beard or moustache.

He held up his hands, his body half-in and half-out of the trunk, and called out to them.

"Don't shoot," he said. "Please."

The men stared at him, but none of them moved. His eyes roamed the group, searching for some indication that they meant him harm. Were they going to cut him down? If so, what were they waiting for?

The men's eyes were hollow and empty, and none of them spoke. After a few seconds, one of them—a young man with a backwards baseball cap—lowered his weapon and walked toward Isaac. His hair was long and stringy; his face was matted with grime.

"Can you walk?" he asked.

Isaac nodded.
 

"Are you sick?"

"I don't think so," Isaac replied.

"If you are, you better tell us."

"I'm not sick."

The man gave a sideways glance at the group, then turned back to Isaac.

"Come out of there, slowly. If you fuck with us, we'll shoot you dead."

As if in response, several of the men took aim, hunching their shoulders. Isaac held his hands higher, as if his pale palms were white flags.
 

"OK, OK," he said. "I'm coming out slowly."

He lowered his hands and steadied himself on the edge of the trunk, finding purchase on the pavement. His knees wobbled. The men instructed him to empty his pockets, and he complied. He placed a set of keys, his wallet, and his pocketknife on the ground. He'd lost everything else.

"Kick the pocketknife over to us," the young man said.

Isaac hesitated, then booted it over to them. It was a Swiss Army knife—a present from his father. He'd had it for ten years. The thought of losing it made him feel sick.

But what choice did he have?

"What's your name?" the kid with the baseball cap asked him, plucking up the knife and examining it.

"Isaac."

"You picked a shitty place to hide, Isaac."

Isaac nodded. The men around him were no longer aiming their weapons at him, but had turned them on the street and were surveying the area.
 

"You're damn lucky we showed up."

Isaac nodded.

"How long were you in there, anyway?"

"I don't even remember. It felt like a long time."

"Jimmy over here noticed a cluster of those things by the car you were stuck in, and he figured there was someone inside." The kid nodded to one of the others, a man with a thick beard. "I'm Scotty, and the others are Rick, Spencer, and Ferris."

The group turned their heads slightly at their names, but none of them made any further introductions. Without another word, they started off down the street.

"Follow us," Scotty said.

Isaac recovered his wallet and keys. To his relief, Scotty handed him back his pocketknife. He tucked it in his pocket. The street was garbage-strewn, filled with abandoned cars and rubble. Isaac glanced back at the vehicle he'd been trapped in. The trunk still hung open, as if to commemorate his time inside. He'd almost died in there.
 

If these men hadn't come along, he would have. He shuddered at the thought.
 

"Where are you from?" Scotty asked.

"An apartment a few blocks away. I was with my roommate, but he...he didn't make it."

"Did he turn?"

"Yeah."

"Do you have any idea how far this thing has spread, Isaac?"

"No, I don't."

"Do you know what we should avoid? Any of the products that have been contaminated?"

"I'm not sure. I was hoping to find that out myself."

"See, I told you he'd be useless," Jimmy called back, pawing at his beard. "We should've left his ass in the trunk."

Isaac stared at the ground.

"You'll need to look after yourself," Scotty said. "None of us are going to babysit you. Got it?"

Isaac nodded. One of the men grunted, and Jimmy rolled his eyes. Despite the fact that they'd rescued him, he felt no sense of allegiance from them. It was as if they'd already expended their kindness, and now it was up to him to prove his worth.

Scotty pulled a hunting knife from a sheath in his belt and handed it to him.

"Take it," he said.
 

Isaac gripped the blade. His mind flew to the battle he'd had with his roommate. He could still see Harvey's contorted face, his inky black eyes. Isaac had tangled with him for almost ten minutes, crashing into walls and furniture, destroying the apartment they'd once shared. He'd finally buried a dirty kitchen knife in Harvey's head, watching as his former friend convulsed. The sight still haunted him.

He couldn't imagine doing that again.
 

But he'd have to, if he wanted to survive.

He followed the men through the blood-soaked streets, stepping around bodies in various stages of decay, and tried to dispel images of Harvey.

They'd only gone a block when the men began shouting. A group of creatures was approaching from their right, pouring from an alley. Scotty swore and swiveled his automatic rifle in their direction.
 

"I knew we shouldn't have made that much noise."

"Keep moving!" Jimmy barked.

The men fell in line, fleeing toward the closest building—a movie theater. Isaac could see posters in the window, the names of several blockbusters on the marquee. In spite of the chaos in the streets, the building was relatively intact, as if there were a full audience inside, waiting to spill out of the foyer. He followed the group at a close distance, his legs still stiff and sore, trying to calm his frantic heartbeat.
 

Isaac glanced at the blade he'd been given, feeling helplessly underequipped. The rest of his companions had guns. What was he going to do with a knife? The others had reached the front entrance and ripped open the door.
 

Scotty picked up speed, leaving Isaac behind.
 

Even though he was within a group, he might as well be alone.

Ken went stock-still. He could feel one of the men behind him holding the blade to his neck, and he didn't dare move. The man's grip was firm and unyielding. The man had already ordered Roberta to toss her gun, and she'd complied. Now Ken's wife was huddled in the corner, her eyes wide and disbelieving.
 

Ken scanned the floor, searching for his own gun. When he'd been tackled, the weapon had skittered from his hands, and he'd lost track of its location.

In his peripheral vision, he could make out the silhouette of David's body on the floor. He closed his eyes and reopened them, wishing he could somehow teleport himself from the scene, that he could make things different.

But nothing had changed.

This wasn't how things were supposed to end. Ken had
promised
himself. He'd promised Roberta. Panic started to overtake him. He tested his captor's grasp, but the man squeezed him tighter.

"Move and I slit your throat," the man warned.

He could tell by the voice that it was Willy.

Ken let his arms go limp. He contemplated struggling further, but he quickly abandoned the idea. If he were to get himself killed, he'd be of no use to his wife. Instead, he resolved to comply, biding his time until he could figure another way out.
 

He heard the stomp of boots, the crunch of glass, and then Tony sprang into view, holding a serrated knife. Both men had holstered their guns.
 

It was as if they'd already determined they'd won.

Tony bent down on his knees and stared Ken in the eyes.
 

"Is that your wife over there?" he asked.

Ken's body tensed at the words, and his hands shook with anger. He met the man's gaze but didn't respond.
 

"She seems like a nice woman. Doesn't she, Willy?"

"Yep. Sure does."

"What's her name?"
 

Ken felt a wave of nausea. The prospect of this man harming his wife—hell, even
saying her name
—made him sick to his stomach. He maintained eye contact with the mustached man, trying to avoid a reaction. He couldn't give the man the satisfaction. Tony was looking to express his dominance, to assert his control, and the last thing Ken wanted was to grant him that power.

He held his silence.

"I asked you what her name was. Did you hear me?"

No answer.

"Maybe I'll ask her, then."

At the sound of the man's words, Roberta cried out from the corner. The man took a step toward her.

"Roberta!" Ken yelled. "Her name is Roberta!"

Tony stopped. A smile flitted across his lips, and he hunched back down in front of Ken. From behind Ken, Willy started laughing—an awful, repugnant sound that reminded Ken of everything wrong with the world.

He shut his eyes, fighting the dizzy wave of helplessness that had overtaken him.

"I guess he's going to listen, after all. Huh, Willy?"

"Yep. Damn right he is."
 

Ken began to pray. He recited the words loudly in his head, attempting to will away what was happening, hoping someone was listening. He closed his eyes again, wishing the horrid scene would be over.
 

Instead, he opened them to find Tony peering at him. The man was perched only a few inches away, on his knees, and Ken could smell the odor of alcohol when he exhaled.
 

"Like I said, Roberta seems like a nice lady," Tony said. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "I wouldn't want to do anything to upset her. Would you?"

Ken shook his head. As sick as the man was, as disingenuous as his words were, Ken couldn't help but agree.

"So here's the deal. Willy and I are going to carve you up a little. And you're going to do your best not to scream. Do you hear me?"

Ken nodded, fighting off the moisture that crept into his eyes. Tony held his knife like a spear, jabbing it in the direction of his face.

"If you scream once,
just once
, I'll make sure Roberta dies as slowly as you. But if you keep quiet, I'll make sure she goes quickly. Does that work for you, Ken?"

Ken clenched his eyes shut, unable to stave off the tears. He could hear his wife sobbing quietly. He opened his mouth to answer but couldn't get out the words.

"I asked you a question, Ken." Tony poked the blade into his cheek. "I need an answer."

Ken's body tensed, and in response, the arm around his neck tightened its grip. There was no way he could overpower these men. Even if he could ward them off temporarily, there was no way that Roberta could escape. She was wedged in the corner about five feet away from him, as doomed as he was.