contamination 7 resistance con Page 7

  His lap felt warm. Years of experience with similar feelings—side effects of drugs—made him wonder if he'd let his bladder loose. He looked down, but instead of dark urine, he saw Billy lying on top of him. Blood gushed from Billy's head onto Reginald's pants. Billy's face was mashed and unrecognizable. Reginald dry-heaved and tried to get away from the dead man. Before he could, Billy latched onto him.

  "Get off of me!" Reginald yelled, flailing wildly.

  It took him a second to realize it wasn't Billy grabbing him, but that it was his seatbelt. Reginald reached around Billy's body, frantically hitting the clasp and undoing it. When he freed himself, he noticed someone else in his peripheral vision. Reginald turned around, locating Tom. The man's head was bent over between his legs. He wasn't moving, either.

  "Tom?" Reginald's voice was raspy, unsure. The man didn't answer him.

  I'm the only one who survived.

  A momentary sense of elation hit Reginald, tempered by the realization that he might be injured and not know it. He checked himself for wounds, but found only a few scrapes. Looking in the twisted rearview mirror, he saw some shallow cuts on his face. The blood on his pants seemed to be Billy's.

  Reginald had no idea where he was. The last thing he recalled was driving up the mountains on Route 191, trying to spot Dan before heading back to the lumberyard. Even that memory was blurry and distorted, as if he couldn't trust it. Reginald reached for the door, peering out through the cracked windshield, noticing the thick, looming tree the car had wrapped around. Brush and foliage extended as far as Reginald could see. He'd reached the bottom of an incline.

  I'm somewhere in the mountains.

  Shifting out from underneath Billy, Reginald wriggled out of the vehicle and found purchase in the dirt and grass. His legs were shaky. He held the top of the door to keep upright, peering back in at his companions, but they remained in the same positions. A glint of metal on the floor reminded him of the gun he'd been carrying. Reginald reached in and grabbed it. Another gun was on the floor underneath Billy, wedged beneath the dead man's leg. He didn't see Tom's weapon. Leaving the door open, Reginald made his way around the car, gritting his teeth at a few sparks of pain in his legs. He was sore, but nothing felt broken. It seemed like the few scratches and cuts were his only injuries.

  He reached the passenger's side door and tugged on the handle, grunting as he reached inside and claimed Billy's gun. As he got out, he gave a cursory glance at the totaled car, wrapped so tightly around the tree that he couldn't imagine what it had looked like when it drove. He'd never get it working.

  He had no transportation. No food. All Reginald could think about was the lumberyard.

  He needed more meth.

  Chapter Twenty

  Simon held the pistol in his hands as he peered through the crack in the door of the utility shed, fear melting the sympathy in his expression. Sandy joined him, looking out as the sound of the car engine got closer. From their vantage point, Sandy saw only the sliver of road past the school that a few inches of the open door allowed, and the distant form of the approaching vehicle. She knew better than to open the door all the way.

  "What should we do?" she hissed.

  "Stay put. Maybe it'll keep going," Simon said, but his tone indicated that he wasn't sure.

  They hung next to the door as the car approached, waiting for a glimpse of whomever was inside. Sandy realized that, while her initial reaction was fear, there was a possibility the vehicle contained someone who was willing to help.

  Maybe someone is looking for survivors.

  She tabled that hope as she saw the vehicle's occupants. Two men with guns were inside, leaning out the windows and surveying the landscape, their faces hard and determined. The car slowed and its brake lights flashed as it approached the school. Her heart sunk.

  "Shit," Simon muttered.

  "They must've seen our truck down the road," Sandy guessed. "That means they might've found the rest of our supplies."

  That fear was made worse by the fact that the men were coming closer. The van slowed and turned into the school parking lot. Within seconds, the vehicle was out of view. The brakes squeaked. A door opened. A man said something she couldn't hear, and footsteps pounded the pavement in front of the building.

  "They'll find Hector and his family," Sandy hissed, her pulse pounding behind her temples.

  "I'm sure they'll hide," Simon tried, but his shaky voice showed he wasn't convinced.

  A moment later, glass shattered and the men burst into the school.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  By the time Reginald had reached the top of the incline, he'd forgotten all about Billy and Tom. His companions were worthless. They'd proven that in the city. He'd be better off without them. He concentrated on pushing his legs up the hill, using roots and shrubs to catch his balance. Though he wasn't sure where he was going, Reginald knew he needed to reach the road. That would give him the best chance of figuring out where he was, and making it back to the lumberyard.

  That would get him back to his stash.

  The sun beat down overhead, baking blood and sweat into stains on his clothes. He'd never get rid of that foul odor. Reginald cursed. He tried to remember the last time he'd showered, but couldn't. Staying alive—and high—had become more of a priority.

  He grunted as his ankle twisted on a rock. He pushed off it and caught his balance, sending the stone tumbling down the ravine as fresh pain sparked in his leg, making him angry.

  Dan and Quinn did this to me.

  Reginald gritted his teeth as he found someone to blame. Here he was, grunting and sweating like a pig while they stole away, laughing. They'd evaded him like he was nothing. And the people at the lumberyard were no better. Hector and the rest of them probably thought he was dead. They were probably locking him out and stealing his food and supplies.

  And his meth.

  Fuckers.

  Anger propelled him harder and faster, until he was at the lip of the road, scrambling and pulling himself to the asphalt. He looked up and down the vacant roadway, but saw no one.

  Of course he didn't.

  Reginald was alone on this god-forsaken mountain. Hell, probably in this whole town. His high was long gone, and Reginald was agitated. Jittery. It'd be a long walk back to the lumberyard, unless he could secure a vehicle. He carried the rifle and pistol pointed in front of him as he stole down the street.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Hector hugged his family as he listened to the armed men burst into the downstairs hallway of the elementary school. He'd been watching them from the window. He'd seen their guns. He knew the looks on the men's faces. They were the same looks he'd seen on some of the people in New Mexico, and then St. Matthews, after the infected had spread and the weak had been separated from the strong.

  Hector liked to think he and his family were some of the strong, but having witnessed some of the brutal things people could do, he knew they had to be smart, too. Hector had learned there were times when they should hold their ground, and times when they should hide.

  Now was one of those latter times.

  Between his injury and their lack of weapons, he and his family wouldn't be able to get the upper hand.

  A few moments earlier, Hector had led Marcia and Anabel to the second floor, in hopes of gaining another layer of protection. He looked around the room in which they'd shut themselves. Broken copying machines, old rotary telephones, and shelves filled the room. They were in a supply room with no windows. At the time, it had seemed safer than the classrooms with their windows and glass panes in the doors. Now he questioned that logic.

  Hector stared at the door across the room, which was locked with a thin bolt. He doubted the door would withstand a well-placed kick. In Hector's hands was the largest of his knives and a telephone. It was a last-ditch defense, good only for hurling at someone, should they break in. Marcia had her knife out, too.

  He listened intently as the men's voices grew louder d
ownstairs. They were working their way through the building. Doors banged against walls. Every so often, a desk scraped against the floor as the men ransacked a room. Hector wasn't sure what they were looking for, but he knew better than to risk himself and his family by coming out.

  His last, desperate hope was that the men would skip the second floor.

  Maybe they'll lose interest and move on.

  Where were Sandy and Simon?

  Hector knew better than to rely on his companions. If they were smart, they were hiding, too. Hector met Marcia's eyes as she looked between him and the door. If he could speak, he'd conjure some inspiring words that would give her and Anabel the courage to face yet another nightmare. Instead he could only listen as the men got closer, unwilling to risk it.

  His heart sank as footsteps hit the stairs. The men got closer.

  "Be quiet," he mouthed. Marcia and Anabel nodded, tears in their eyes. The men's conversation drifted down the hallway as they reached the second floor landing. Each footstep was a reminder of how fragile the family's position was. All they could do was listen and wait.

  "This place brings back shitty memories," one of the men said, chuckling quietly. "I hated school."

  "If we find something here, it'll be worth the detour," a second voice said. "We'll have plenty of time to stare at each other on the mountain."

  "What if we can't find the place?"

  "We have the map. And the notes they gave us."

  "They might've been lying."

  "Well, we can't ask them now." The second man laughed. "And besides, we'll find out soon enough, won't we?"

  A door smashed against a wall down the hallway. "This place fucking stinks like bleach."

  "Believe me, if we find someone to have a little fun with first, it'll be worth it."

  Hector's blood ran cold. He tried to make sense of what the men were talking about. Whatever their conversation meant, they sounded as violent as some others they'd run into. He swallowed and herded his family behind him. He raised the telephone and the knife.

  Shoes squeaked on the linoleum as the men kicked in another door.

  "I'm telling you, whoever was here already left, Dwight."

  "We'll check the rest of the floor first. Then we'll get the hell out of here."

  Hector's hope turned to despair as the footsteps grew louder. It sounded like the men were a room away. He flexed his hands, preparing for what might be the last confrontation of his life.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Simon and Sandy peeked through the crack in the doorframe of the utility shed, hoping to determine the men's location. Bangs echoed from inside the building as the men made their way through the school. The smell of garden tools and cut grass filled Sandy's nostrils. She felt claustrophobic, trapped. She wanted nothing more than to leave the utility shed and get to Hector, Marcia, and Anabel.

  "We need to help them," she whispered frantically to Simon.

  "If we go out, we risk getting killed," Simon hissed. "We have to hope they'll stay hidden."

  "What if they don't?"

  A particularly loud crash made them both tense up. Simon wiped his face and blew a breath, thinking. After a few seconds, he said, "All right. Stay close and follow me."

  Without giving her a chance to answer, Simon pushed open the door and ran in a crouch, making his way across the parking lot. Sandy followed, her pulse knocking violently as she anticipated the gunshot that would take her to the ground.

  None came.

  She looked toward the distant, tree-filled mountains, hit with the sudden, selfish feeling to run. But losing Ben had taught her a lesson about guilt that she wouldn't soon forget.

  She'd help her friends, even if it meant putting herself in danger. That was the promise she'd made, after she'd freed Dan and Quinn and hadn't gone with them.

  Simon motioned her toward the building. Sandy swallowed the acidic taste in her throat and followed him as they reached the back entrance of the school in a quick dash. Soon they were standing at either side of the door. Inside, Sandy heard the muffled voices of men. It sounded like they'd already passed by the break room.

  "They're upstairs," Simon mouthed.

  Sandy clung to the hope that Hector and his family hadn't been found. Simon scooted over, hissing quietly in her ear, "Let's check the break room first. Maybe Hector and his family are still there. We can signal them and leave."

  Sandy nodded. Simon unlocked the door and glanced into the building. The men continued kicking open doors on the upper floor. Simon mouthed the words, "one, two, three," and then they were whipping down the hallway.

  Sandy's heart pounded like a jackhammer as she flew by classroom after classroom. Most of the doors hung open. In the middle of the hallway, she saw the break room where they'd slept. The door hung ajar. Sandy suppressed the thought that Hector, Marcia, and Anabel were inside, riddled with blood and bullets. But she hadn't heard gunshots. She hadn't heard shouts.

  They had to be alive.

  At least, she told herself that.

  Sandy and Simon reached the door and peered cautiously inside. The couches and chairs had been moved sideways, but no one was there, as if the room was home to ghosts. The bags of food were gone.

  Hector and his family took them.

  The realization was both relieving and frightening. It meant Hector and his family were safe, at the moment. But the men would find them if they looked hard enough. And when they did—

  A scream pierced the air.

  The noise was high-pitched, terrified, and unmistakably Marcia's. Sandy and Simon raced back into the hallway.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Reginald walked until the sun rose in the sky and warm rays of heat penetrated the boughs of the trees. He was parched. He tried to determine what time of day it was. It felt like mid-day. In the time he'd been walking, he hadn't seen a car. Neither had he seen any signs of life.

  But that made sense, now that the world was over.

  He needed to find a car, or some unfortunate survivor he could convince to give him a ride. At least, he told himself that as he fought through his headache.

  He ground his teeth together, a habit he'd picked up without realizing it, and pressed his lips together. His throat was so dry that he couldn't think about anything other than getting some water.

  Reginald cursed as he walked down the road. His best chance was back at the lumberyard. He didn't know if he could wait that long for uncontaminated fluid. His hands shook as he held the rifle and the pistol in his hands, making him increasingly agitated. He looked up and down the winding, wooded road, wishing a car would appear and give him another option.

  He'd gone another half mile when he saw a log cabin through the trees, a few hundred feet from the road. He chewed his lips and wandered from the road into the forest. Where there was a cabin, there might be cars, or maybe a stream or a brook nearby, something that would be safe to drink so he could quench his intolerable thirst.

  He hated the woods.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Marcia screamed as a boot hit the door. Hector shielded his wife and daughter, fear slamming his stomach. Marcia's scream had given them away, but they would've been discovered anyway.

  "Stay back!" Hector shouted through the door, throwing as much ferocity into his voice as he could muster. He held the phone over his head as if it was a bomb he might set off, instead of a useless electronic device.

  "Who's in there?" one of the men shouted, as if Hector might answer honestly. It sounded like the men had stepped back to regroup.

  "Get back or I'll shoot!" Hector screamed, grabbing for a desperate ploy.

  The men were quiet, as if they were contemplating what he'd said. He heard a few whispers, then a stifled laugh.

  "If you had a gun, we'd know it by now," the second man said. "The people who aren't dead already aren't afraid to shoot."

  The guess was accurate, though Hector would never admit it. "I'm going to warn you one more time,
and the next warning is a bullet," he yelled. "Get the hell out of here!"

  "You're on foot," the first man guessed, as if Hector hadn't spoken. "We saw your truck down the road. It looks like you need help. We'll give you a ride."

  The hallway went silent. As much as Hector would like to believe the lie, he'd already heard the men talking. They were ill intentioned, like too many others in this new world. They'd boasted about killing others. At least, it sounded like it.

  "The police are right up the road," the second man added. "We'll bring you to them."

  Lies, Hector thought. He knew the rest of the force in St. Matthews was dead. Dan had passed that information along to Sandy. For all Hector knew, so were the police in every other town.

  "We don't need help," Hector said, trying to control the waver in his voice. "I told you to get away from the door. We can manage just fine."

  The hallway remained quiet. Hector prayed the men might leave. Instead, the door handle rattled. Anabel cried out in fright. Panic and rage surged through Hector. If he had a weapon, he'd shoot through the door, just like he'd promised, and he'd keep firing until these men were dead.

  Footsteps echoed in the hall. Suddenly, the door caved and a boot appeared in the center. The boot twisted and turned as the man attached to it tried to pull it free. Hector looked around, pointing to a small space between a copier and a table where Marcia and Anabel could hide.

  "Get in there!" he hissed.

  Hector pressed himself flat against the wall as the boot retracted. He lifted the phone over his head. As soon as the door opened, he'd hurl it. Then he'd charge with his knife. He knew he was no match for a gun; his best hope was taking the men by surprise. He didn't have any other options. He couldn't let his family be subjected to the whims of these men.