Contamination: Dead Instinct (Contamination Post-Apocalyptic Zombie Series) by T.W. Piperbrook Page B
Authors: T.W. Piperbrook
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long-haired kid stared at the ceiling. "At least a month. Shit, man, that's depressing."
A few in the room snickered.
"I wonder if there are any girls left," Scotty said thoughtfully. He took another drag from his cigarette. "Maybe they're all dead."
"Come on, man," Ferris said. "That's just stupid."
"You think we're the only people alive? I'm sure there are plenty of others out there," Jimmy agreed. "In fact, I don't even know why we're still hanging around this shit-ridden city."
"Because we voted to stay. Remember that?"
"Not me. I voted to leave. I'm sick of this place," Jimmy spat.
"Me, too," Spencer said from across the room. "I don't see why Rick's vote still counts."
"No one's stopping you, are they?" Scotty glared at the two men. They locked eyes for several seconds and then broke their stares. The rest in the room fell back into silence.
Isaac let his eyes close. He was sitting in a ripped recliner in the corner of the room. Although it was hardly comfortable, he was so exhausted that he almost didn't care. The only thing that stopped him from sleeping was his uneasiness. He was still on the fence about his companions, and he was hesitant to relax. He barely knew them, after all. What if he woke up to find them gone?
What if they left the door open?
"Go ahead and sleep, man."
Isaac's eyes snapped open, and he found Scotty staring at him. He must've been dozing.
"I'm not tired," he lied.
"It sure looks like it. You were cooped up in that trunk for a while. Ferris and I will keep watch. We'll take our turns later, after you've gotten some rest."
"OK."
Isaac didn't realize he'd agreed until he felt his eyes closing again. He heard the sound of someone snoring from across the room, and within minutes, the rhythmic noise had become the soundtrack to his dreams.
In his dream, Isaac was home again.
He didn't remember how he got to the painted white colonial, but all of a sudden he was there, standing on the front porch, staring at the brass knocker that'd been there for as long as he remembered. He tugged open the screen door, listening to the familiar creak of the hinges, and turned the doorknob.
He prepared a smile.
Mom and Dad would be waiting in the living room, ready to receive him with kind words and open arms. He'd told them he was coming, and his mother would have dinner waiting, the kitchen table set for three.
Even though he'd moved out years ago, it was always the same. The house in Oklahoma was the one constant in his life. The one thing that never changed.
No matter how far he roamed, or how long it'd been since he last visited, he could always count on his parents to provide him stability and comfort. The house was a place of refuge, a safe haven from the world outside.
He didn't visit as often as he'd like, but he was always glad to be back.
Still smiling, Isaac pushed open the door. He waited for the assault of familiar sights and smells, indicating that all was right with the world.
Only it wasn't.
Something was wrong.
He sucked in a breath, gasping for air. The room was dark and humid and oppressive , as if he'd walked into an underground cavern rather than his parents' comfortable colonial. He immediately threw his arms in front of his face, realizing that he couldn't see, and groped his way through the dark.
It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust, but when they did, he could detect the outlines of familiar objects in the living room: the couch, the loveseat, and the hutch. None of them had changed. But something else had.
He could feel it.
He plodded forward, using his memory to guide him rather than his vision.
"Mom? Dad?"
The words died just inches from his mouth, as if he were speaking into a bottle. He tried to talk again, but his words were still lost. He navigated past the furniture, straining to see in the dark, but saw no sign of his parents.
He moved into the kitchen.
A pale light was glowing midway through the room.
A few in the room snickered.
"I wonder if there are any girls left," Scotty said thoughtfully. He took another drag from his cigarette. "Maybe they're all dead."
"Come on, man," Ferris said. "That's just stupid."
"You think we're the only people alive? I'm sure there are plenty of others out there," Jimmy agreed. "In fact, I don't even know why we're still hanging around this shit-ridden city."
"Because we voted to stay. Remember that?"
"Not me. I voted to leave. I'm sick of this place," Jimmy spat.
"Me, too," Spencer said from across the room. "I don't see why Rick's vote still counts."
"No one's stopping you, are they?" Scotty glared at the two men. They locked eyes for several seconds and then broke their stares. The rest in the room fell back into silence.
Isaac let his eyes close. He was sitting in a ripped recliner in the corner of the room. Although it was hardly comfortable, he was so exhausted that he almost didn't care. The only thing that stopped him from sleeping was his uneasiness. He was still on the fence about his companions, and he was hesitant to relax. He barely knew them, after all. What if he woke up to find them gone?
What if they left the door open?
"Go ahead and sleep, man."
Isaac's eyes snapped open, and he found Scotty staring at him. He must've been dozing.
"I'm not tired," he lied.
"It sure looks like it. You were cooped up in that trunk for a while. Ferris and I will keep watch. We'll take our turns later, after you've gotten some rest."
"OK."
Isaac didn't realize he'd agreed until he felt his eyes closing again. He heard the sound of someone snoring from across the room, and within minutes, the rhythmic noise had become the soundtrack to his dreams.
In his dream, Isaac was home again.
He didn't remember how he got to the painted white colonial, but all of a sudden he was there, standing on the front porch, staring at the brass knocker that'd been there for as long as he remembered. He tugged open the screen door, listening to the familiar creak of the hinges, and turned the doorknob.
He prepared a smile.
Mom and Dad would be waiting in the living room, ready to receive him with kind words and open arms. He'd told them he was coming, and his mother would have dinner waiting, the kitchen table set for three.
Even though he'd moved out years ago, it was always the same. The house in Oklahoma was the one constant in his life. The one thing that never changed.
No matter how far he roamed, or how long it'd been since he last visited, he could always count on his parents to provide him stability and comfort. The house was a place of refuge, a safe haven from the world outside.
He didn't visit as often as he'd like, but he was always glad to be back.
Still smiling, Isaac pushed open the door. He waited for the assault of familiar sights and smells, indicating that all was right with the world.
Only it wasn't.
Something was wrong.
He sucked in a breath, gasping for air. The room was dark and humid and oppressive , as if he'd walked into an underground cavern rather than his parents' comfortable colonial. He immediately threw his arms in front of his face, realizing that he couldn't see, and groped his way through the dark.
It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust, but when they did, he could detect the outlines of familiar objects in the living room: the couch, the loveseat, and the hutch. None of them had changed. But something else had.
He could feel it.
He plodded forward, using his memory to guide him rather than his vision.
"Mom? Dad?"
The words died just inches from his mouth, as if he were speaking into a bottle. He tried to talk again, but his words were still lost. He navigated past the furniture, straining to see in the dark, but saw no sign of his parents.
He moved into the kitchen.
A pale light was glowing midway through the room.
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