Suzanne Robb - Contaminated - A Zombie Survival Novel

On his front porch, a manila envelope waited for him, and he realized the full extent of the knowledge of the people he was dealing with. They made Sunset Inc. look like a bunch of charity do gooders.

Carson opened the envelope and memorized the face of the person in the photograph. His orders were to bring the individual back alive, or not bother returning himself. His last orders were to make sure no one else came out, and the building was inoperable.

He would have to kill his team. He wondered if he would be able to do it, then remembered his gambling debts and the fact they were ready to collect his legs as motivation. Yep, he could kill his buddies. He didn’t get along with most of them anyway.

Carson grabbed a set of keys out of a container marked cookies and went out to his shed. Shoving the worktable aside, he unlocked the latch and prepped his go bag . On site, he would be provided with whatever body armor was necessary to the mission, but he liked to take his own weapons.

A couple of M4 Carbines, Beretta, Desert Eagle, and a Ruger. Ten magazines each sounded like a good number as he counted them off. A few grenades and thirty pounds of Semtex rounded out his haul. A bright light lit up his yard for a moment and he knew the stealth helicopter Hooks sent for him was waiting. The latch was locked once more and the table put back into place.

He hefted the bag over his shoulder. Time to go.

Monroe paced the floor of the kitchen as he waited for his team to arrive. He knew it wouldn’t take long as he stationed them all within a five-minute helicopter ride from the facility. He made sure, only the best would come in, but it didn’t make him any happier. When he’d been put in charge of the operation, he thought, it would be a cakewalk.

Threaten scientist.

Watch scientist.

Oversee construction of lab.

Steal samples when they arrived.

Stick samples and scientist in lab.

Move on to better job.

Now, as he sat and watched analysts prepare a mission plan for the strike team, determining possible ways to enter the silo and collecting as much data as possible for them, he wanted to shoot himself for being so thorough. Hooks told him to make sure the silo was impenetrable.

Well, he did that and then some. In his mind, a situation like this would only be caused if someone tried to sabotage or break into the silo. An explosion in the lab would not have caused all the bells and whistles they were hearing, as well as shutting them off completely from the inside.

Something else was at work, and Frank didn’t like it when he didn’t have all the cards. He and his men were going into a situation with unknowns and variables, and he hated it. He also didn’t like the fact he was under orders not to say anything to the rest of the team.

An analyst was explaining that whatever had occurred, the security system rated it as catastrophic, therefore the power was the first thing to go off. Communication of any kind would be impossible with the outside world. Lastly, each floor would have a security measure they would need to bypass, and not average ones at that. Frank already knew this part.

He rolled his shoulders as he prepared to break into a facility, which he spent two years ensuring could not be breached.

“Monroe, the team members are in the air. We have ten minutes to find a way in,” one of the analysts said.

Frank nodded and walked outside as he pulled a cigar from his breast pocket. Most likely, it would be the last one he ever had. He forced out the mental images of some of the test runs on the prevention tactics he’d instituted.

The terrors they had awaiting them were meant for other bad guys, not him and his team. He hoped a few of them made it out, or at least the ones that died didn’t owe him money. His attempt at morbid humor did nothing, and he puffed away, wondering how his life ended up this way.

He’d had good parents and a sister at one time. He was the football star in high school and a great college student until the phone call. He rushed home as fast as he could, but his whole family died before he could offer a hand of comfort or whisper a reassurance.

After that, he went on a drinking binge, which ended up in him being kicked out of college. The military found him, or he found it. He couldn’t quite remember. Either way, he served eight years before a man named Simard approached him. He said Frank was wasting his talents and he would pay him five times what he was making at the time.

The offer seemed too good to be true, but when Tim Lightfoot called him up, someone he’d done a tour with, he listened. His papers came down and he was honorably discharged. A day later, he went to Simard’s office and accepted the position, not even knowing what it was.

For years, he spent time on security details, taking care of problems, and spent spare time tinkering with ideas about new weapons. Frank never forgot about his family. He remembered the pictures of the wreckage of their car after the bomb went off. He also remembered the name of the suspected bomber who was trying to make a political statement at the expense of a few tourists.

The sounds of a helicopter approaching roused him from his musings. Revenge had driven him his whole life. He’d never bothered to get married or have kids, and now he was going to die without fulfilling the promise he made when he spread the ashes of his family – that he would avenge them. Instead, he would be going into a security-laden silo of his own design.

Things were not going to end well.

“Barrows, where are you? Get the hell in here!” John yelled. Over fifteen minutes passed since the explosion and he didn’t have a live feed. Even though the place went into lockdown, he’d spent a fortune installing fiber optic cables and insulating them in case of an emergency like this.

The door opened and a red-faced Barrows entered. “I’m sorry, Mr. Hooks, I was putting the last minute details together for the strike team.”

“Don’t feed me that crap of an excuse. Tell me why I have no cameras? Why can’t I see what the hell is going on in there? The electronics division should have made this their priority dammit!” John yelled as he felt his pulse race.

“Sir, please try to calm down. I’ll go and find out everything I can from the technicians.”

“Wait, I need you to take this image from Level 8 and find out who it is. They don’t look familiar to me and I know every face that went in there. Second, I need you to find out all the experiments they were working with today on Level 14.”

“Yes, Mr. Hooks.” Barrows left the room in a rush.

Dixon ejected the magazine out of his Desert Eagle and slid in a new one, pulling back the slide to chamber a round. He loved the gun, but found its limited capacity an irritation at the moment. The armory was about thirty yards down the hallway and he hoped they didn’t run into any other problems.

The group approached the first door after the lab, the supply closet. Dixon raised his hand so the others would stay put as he slowly turned the knob. There might be something the others could arm themselves with, if they were lucky. The breath was knocked out of him as he took in the smell of rot.

Two bodies lay in a twisted tangle. When their vacant eyes set on Dixon, they pulled themselves out of the small room with decayed fingers. He didn’t know who they were, no lab coats or patches were visible.

Benson jumped over the bodies scaring the crap out of Dixon and he went into the closet. A second later, he reappeared with a mop in hand. If two contaminated people with blood spewing from their mouth were not attempting to stand up and attack him, Dixon might have laughed.