Contamination: Dead Instinct (Contamination Post-Apocalyptic Zombie Series) by T.W. Piperbrook
Authors: T.W. Piperbrook
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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.
"Sorry I don't have better news."
"It's OK. We've been prepared for the worst," Ronald said. "Ever since we heard about the virus, we knew we had to be careful."
Ken glanced at the fire. "I don't know what you've heard, but it seems to be spread through ingestion. The food and water supply has been breached."
"That's what we've figured out, too."
Ken elaborated, relaying the knowledge he'd gained over the past few days. He told of the agents and the infected, and what he'd discerned through his encounters with others. Most of it was familiar to Ronald and Forest.
Ken eyed the survivors, taking in their pale forms and their gaunt arms. Although it'd only been a few days, they already looked skinny and malnourished. He paused.
"I have some safe food that I came across," Ken offered, after a minute's hesitation. "I took it from the agents."
"You do?"
Ronald and Forest exchanged a glance. Ken unzipped his bag, then withdrew a bound, labeled package of fruits. He unwrapped it and tossed it over to them.
"We've been afraid to eat. We knew the infection came from the food and water—we even saw some of the agents you were talking about. But we couldn't get ahold of any of their food. It was too dangerous," Ronald explained. "We've been making do with what we can find."
"I understand."
"We didn't want it to come to this," Forest said, as if reciting a mantra.
Ken wrinkled his brow, confused.
"To what?"
He looked from one to the other, trying to decipher what they were saying. Then he followed their gaze to the fire.
It was then that he smelled it.
His eyes wandered over the flames, where a pile of bones and ash lay in the embers. Ken sprang to his feet, backing away from the makeshift campfire and its inhabitants. Ronald and Forest remained seated, staring at him, faces blank and expressionless. The boy had stopped playing with the object in his hand. It was a sharp stick, and it was coated with remains.
In Ken's haste to get to them—in his surprise to find other survivors—he hadn't been paying attention to what they were cooking.
"What did you do?"
"They were already dead. They weren't infected, though, so we should be safe, right?" Ronald asked.
"We were so hungry," Forest mumbled.
Choking on his bile, Ken picked up his bag and ran.
Ronald and Forest called out to him, but Ken kept going, afraid to look back. Although the pair didn't seem to be following him, the image of what he'd seen had washed over him like a bad dream. He couldn't fathom what the people had done, and he wanted nothing more than to leave it behind.
He could see his station wagon in the distance, and he kept it in focus, dashing as fast as his legs would travel. The car represented safety and comfort—a reprieve from the world around him—and right now he could use any link to sanity he had.
He reached the car and skirted around the hood, jumping into the driver's seat. Then he slammed the door behind him and locked it. His ragged breathing filled the air. His hands shook.
He chanced a look across the desert.
The fire had been doused, and the two forms were moving in the opposite direction, heading away from the camp they'd established. A needle of guilt worked its way through his insides. Could he have helped
"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.
"Sorry I don't have better news."
"It's OK. We've been prepared for the worst," Ronald said. "Ever since we heard about the virus, we knew we had to be careful."
Ken glanced at the fire. "I don't know what you've heard, but it seems to be spread through ingestion. The food and water supply has been breached."
"That's what we've figured out, too."
Ken elaborated, relaying the knowledge he'd gained over the past few days. He told of the agents and the infected, and what he'd discerned through his encounters with others. Most of it was familiar to Ronald and Forest.
Ken eyed the survivors, taking in their pale forms and their gaunt arms. Although it'd only been a few days, they already looked skinny and malnourished. He paused.
"I have some safe food that I came across," Ken offered, after a minute's hesitation. "I took it from the agents."
"You do?"
Ronald and Forest exchanged a glance. Ken unzipped his bag, then withdrew a bound, labeled package of fruits. He unwrapped it and tossed it over to them.
"We've been afraid to eat. We knew the infection came from the food and water—we even saw some of the agents you were talking about. But we couldn't get ahold of any of their food. It was too dangerous," Ronald explained. "We've been making do with what we can find."
"I understand."
"We didn't want it to come to this," Forest said, as if reciting a mantra.
Ken wrinkled his brow, confused.
"To what?"
He looked from one to the other, trying to decipher what they were saying. Then he followed their gaze to the fire.
It was then that he smelled it.
His eyes wandered over the flames, where a pile of bones and ash lay in the embers. Ken sprang to his feet, backing away from the makeshift campfire and its inhabitants. Ronald and Forest remained seated, staring at him, faces blank and expressionless. The boy had stopped playing with the object in his hand. It was a sharp stick, and it was coated with remains.
In Ken's haste to get to them—in his surprise to find other survivors—he hadn't been paying attention to what they were cooking.
"What did you do?"
"They were already dead. They weren't infected, though, so we should be safe, right?" Ronald asked.
"We were so hungry," Forest mumbled.
Choking on his bile, Ken picked up his bag and ran.
Ronald and Forest called out to him, but Ken kept going, afraid to look back. Although the pair didn't seem to be following him, the image of what he'd seen had washed over him like a bad dream. He couldn't fathom what the people had done, and he wanted nothing more than to leave it behind.
He could see his station wagon in the distance, and he kept it in focus, dashing as fast as his legs would travel. The car represented safety and comfort—a reprieve from the world around him—and right now he could use any link to sanity he had.
He reached the car and skirted around the hood, jumping into the driver's seat. Then he slammed the door behind him and locked it. His ragged breathing filled the air. His hands shook.
He chanced a look across the desert.
The fire had been doused, and the two forms were moving in the opposite direction, heading away from the camp they'd established. A needle of guilt worked its way through his insides. Could he have helped
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