Contamination: Dead Instinct (Contamination Post-Apocalyptic Zombie Series) (10 page)

Its eyes were devoid of emotion.

He tried to recreate the landscape. In his haste to get underneath the car, his mind was scrambled, and now he was having trouble remembering. If he were to be forced out of hiding, he'd need to react quickly. He shouldn't have wedged himself underneath the car.

It was a lapse in judgment that hopefully wouldn't prove fatal.

The footsteps continued in his direction—slow and deliberate, as if the person were aware he was listening. Ken pointed the gun in front of him, grinding his elbows into the asphalt.

A few moments passed in silence. For a brief second, Ken convinced himself that the person had retreated, that they were silently making their way back to the car. But before he could celebrate, a pair of feet came into view.

Black boots with black laces. Men's.

The man was standing next to the dead body, and he appeared to be examining it. Ken could hear the man's breathing—a hoarse, accelerated rasp.

Ken's pulse pounded behind his eyeballs. He could feel his heart thumping against the ground, and for a minute, he swore the person could hear it, too. The man bent down, inspecting the dead body. Ken glimpsed the lower half of his face—bearded and dirt-stained.
 

He couldn't see the man's eyes.
 

The man righted himself and walked toward the car diagonal from Ken. Ken heard him fiddle with the door handle, swing it open, and then lean inside. He could see the back of the man's shirt as he rifled through the interior.
 

Seconds later the man was finished, and he closed the door. The bang sent a jolt to Ken's nerves, and he squeezed the gun tighter between sweaty palms.
 

The man was on the move again. Walking toward Ken.

Had Ken been spotted? Although he couldn't see the man, it was perfectly possible the man saw
him
. His mind screamed at him to squirm out from underneath the car, but he ignored the impulse, knowing he'd be overtaken.
 

He waited in silence as the man approached. His boots were inches away now—close enough that he could reach out and touch them. Close enough to shoot. For a brief second, Ken contemplated squeezing the trigger. It'd be a risky maneuver, but one that might buy him time to flee.

The man paused. Silent.

Then he opened the station wagon door. Ken listened in horror as the man dug through the contents of the glove compartment. The keys were still in the ignition. The engine was still warm, for god's sake. If the man noticed either of those things—if he looked closer and inspected the trunk—

The door slammed shut. Ken watched in disbelief as he moved toward another vehicle. He kept his grip on the gun, still unsure of the calm. There was still a chance the man could come back and find him. Still a chance he'd be pulled out and killed.

After a few more agonizing minutes, the man's feet disappeared, and Ken heard the sound of a vehicle being thrown into drive. The engine growled and the tires spat gravel.

The man was gone.

Ken waited a few extra minutes, then crawled out from under the vehicle, thanking a God he was sure had written him off.

Being on the road again was a relief. As cluttered and demolished and barren as I-17 was, it was better to stay moving than to keep still. After days of travel, Ken had gotten used to the obstacles, as if they'd always been a part of the road, as if they were as normal as the yellow and white lines that colored the pavement.

He tried to disassociate himself from the chaos around him and focus on the mission at hand: getting to Phoenix, and locating Isaac.

Despite the trauma he'd faced, Ken was eerily calm and collected. It probably helped that he was engrossed in a ritual task, one that occupied his hands as well as his mind. If the road had been clear and his path unimpeded, he'd have had more time to think.

More time to reflect on Roberta. On Ronald and Forest. On all the other things he'd seen.

He reached over to the passenger's seat, digging through a small package of safe food that he'd opened. He sifted through the contents, pulled out a handful of crackers, and shoved them in his mouth, chewing mechanically.
 

He wasn't hungry, but he needed to eat. He just hoped he could keep the food down.

He was getting closer to Phoenix, and he'd need all the strength he could get. He swallowed the mouthful of food, studying a road signs that had sprung into view.

Phoenix 50 MILES

It was impossible to believe he'd almost made it. When Ken had left Oklahoma City four days ago, he'd never envisioned what his journey would entail. He couldn't have predicted it if he'd tried. And yet here he was, drawing near to the city where his son resided.
 

He just hoped he'd be able to find him.

Ken had never been to Phoenix before. The farthest he'd been was the New Mexico state line, and that'd been years ago. When Isaac had left for the city, Ken had promised his son he'd come and visit. He just hadn't gotten around to it yet.

It was a shame it'd taken an apocalypse to bring him here.

Even though he'd almost reached the city, he'd only crossed one hurdle. He'd still have to find Isaac when he got there. And that was assuming that his son hadn't been infected—that he'd survived, that he was healthy, and that he hadn't fled. It was a string of chances that added up to a very slim possibility.

But it was a possibility Ken needed to believe in. Both his life and his sanity depended on it.

He slipped his hand into his jeans pocket, searching for the photograph he'd shown to Ronald and Forest. The photograph was wrinkled and crushed, but it was still there, and he pulled it out and gave it a glance.

It was the last professional photograph he'd had taken of his son—a picture of Isaac at his college graduation. He studied the boy's brown hair and chiseled features. Anyone who'd seen Ken and his son had remarked on how striking the resemblance was. Isaac was Ken's spitting image, a younger and more vibrant version of himself. He desperately needed to believe he was alive.

He needed it to be true.

Ken tucked the photograph back in his pocket, careful not to lose it. He had more pictures at home, but he didn't think that mattered anymore. There was nothing left for him in Oklahoma.

All he cared about was finding his son.

He swerved around a downed road sign, inspecting the faded letters on its face. A car had slammed into the pole, knocking it at a ninety-degree angle with the ground. He glanced inside the vehicle, catching sight of a few bodies. Their faces were stiff and lifeless.
 

A twinge of sadness overtook him.

When this was all over, who would bury the bodies?

A mile later, Ken hit a roadblock.

He could tell the accident was bad before he even reached the vicinity. By the looks of it, a tractor-trailer had careened into several cars, crushing them when it had overturned. He'd seen the aftermath of a few such accidents. But unlike the ones he'd seen, this one looked like it'd happened recently.

Smoke billowed from the hood of one of the vehicles.

He approached with caution, riding along the edge of the road. The station wagon had four-wheel drive, but he'd done his best to stay on the highway, afraid he might pop another tire. A few feet later, the debris thickened and he was forced off the interstate.

The desert dirt grumbled beneath the tires, and Ken's heart beat in frantic rhythm, accompanying the sound. He kept his hands tight on the wheel, ready to change course at the slightest hint of trouble. He'd learned his lesson several times over.

His goal was to get around the accident, not to be hindered by it. He'd only exit the vehicle if absolutely necessary.
 

Pulling closer, he reduced his speed, approaching to within fifty yards. The tractor-trailer was lying horizontal across the road, crushing two sedans beneath it. Smoke billowed from its engine.
 

He saw no survivors. Judging by the scene, he couldn't imagine anyone had walked away. Had the two vehicles been fleeing the city at the same time? Had someone been in pursuit of them?
 

He drew up within twenty yards, driving at a crawl. Inspecting further, he thought that he'd see a slew of creatures on the other side of the pickup—some evidence as to what had transpired. It was then he saw blood on the crushed hoods of the sedans.

He averted his eyes, the crackers swirling in his stomach. He knew he shouldn't have eaten.

As he rolled past, his eyes were drawn to the cab of the semi. He could see an arm hanging out the open window, the top of a man's head. There was a bullet wound in the driver's forehead—a quarter-sized hole that looked fresh. Someone else had been here. Recently.
 

Ken snagged his pistol off the passenger's seat. He'd just passed the tractor-trailer when he noticed a vehicle parked on the other side. A white SUV.

The agents.

Ken ground to a halt, but not before bullets slammed the hood of the station wagon. He put the car in reverse: one hand on the gun, the other on the steering wheel. He had no idea how many there were. No idea of what he was up against.
 

But he knew he couldn't best them in a gunfight.

Not while driving, anyway. He'd encountered the men before—had stolen food from them, in fact—but he'd never faced them head on.

The station wagon tires kicked up loose dirt and stone, and suddenly he was flying in reverse, gaining distance from the scene. He saw movement in front of him, and he stared past the tractor-trailer at the emerging SUV.

Shit. Shit. Shit.
 

Ken cut the wheel, spun the car around and put the vehicle into drive. A cloud of dust burst onto the road, and he drove through the dirt and debris, desperate to regain visibility.

In the rearview mirror, he could see the SUV on his tail. It'd already gained ground. It looked like the occupants were trying to ram him. He mashed the gas pedal to the floor, but the station wagon stuttered.
 

The SUV collided with his rear bumper, sending the station wagon lurching forward in the desert. Ken clutched the wheel, struggling to retain control, but the tires seemed to have a life of their own. He swerved back and forth, hoping he didn't crash.

If he did, the agents would be on him in seconds.

When the dust cleared, he could see two men in the vehicle behind him. The one on the passenger's side was leaning out the window, aiming an assault rifle. Ken regained control of the wheel and stared at the highway.
 

Unfortunately, the interstate was rife with obstacles, and there was no way back onto it. For the moment, at least, he was stuck riding on the highway's unpaved shoulder. Stones and scrub brush tore at the undercarriage, filling the air with awful sounds.
 

The gunfire resumed. Several bullets clanked against the bumper, and he figured it was only a matter of time until one connected with the windshield or a tire.
 

He had to do something.
 

Ken let one hand off the wheel and retrieved the pistol on his lap. He flung his arm out the window, doing his best to aim, and fired off a shot. He looked in the rearview. The SUV was still on his tail. There was no indication he'd connected.

Dammit.

He'd just pulled his hand back in the window when he felt another crash. The station wagon skidded in the dirt, veering to the right. The vehicle groaned. He could hear the men behind him yelling and swearing, and their cries filled Ken with a sense of foreboding. Was this the end?
 

Were those the last sounds he'd hear?

He strained to see through the windshield. The last impact had kicked up another swell of dust, and he squinted to see through it, struggling to keep track of his surroundings. When it cleared, Ken caught sight of the highway again. The image gave him a glimmer of hope.

Finally, it was clear—unbelievably, mercifully clear. No broken-down vehicles. No bodies or debris.
 

Ken yanked the wheel to the left and tore back onto the road. The station wagon jolted as it met the asphalt, and suddenly he was back on the pavement, accelerating rapidly.
 

The SUV's engine growled as it sped up behind him.

"What are we going to do?" Kate screamed at Isaac.

Isaac glanced from the door to the creatures careening around the side of the building. Any head start he and Kate had had was eliminated. He pounded on the tattoo shop door one last time, hoping for a miracle, but the door remained closed. There was no sign of his companions.

They'd written him off. Just like they'd written off Rick back at the movie theater.

In any case, there was no time to consider it further. If he and Kate didn't move, they'd be torn apart. He latched onto Kate's wrist, dragging her further down the plaza, his breathing hard and fast.