Suzanne Robb - Contaminated - A Zombie Survival Novel

He grabbed the XM-25 and checked to see if it had been adapted for infrared use. He pointed it toward the door and a chill ran down his spine. None of the bodies registered, even though he could see them moving, plain as day.

The others peered outside and seemed to reconsider their next move. Arthur took careful aim at one of the contaminated and fired at its knee. He watched as the joint shattered and the man fell to the floor, but he kept moving as if nothing happened. Not the slightest sign of pain registered on the man’s face. Arthur fired again, this time into the chest – at the heart. Again, nothing happened.

Arthur sighed as he set his sight on the face of the man and pulled the trigger. His target’s head flipped back like a possessed candy dispenser and bits of brain erupted before the body fell to the ground, no longer moving.

With a plan in mind, he grabbed several magazines of 25mm ammo for his new favorite weapon and told the group what he knew.

“These things, whatever they are, can only be taken down with a shot to the head. All brain activity needs to be stopped, severed, or whatever you want to call it. Body shots, hacking at limbs, hell even gutting them is not going to do anything,” Arthur explained.

“If I couldn’t see and hear what is just outside that door, I’d call you a lunatic and have you locked up,” Smith said, it was the first time she’d spoken since she announced how much time they had on their suit’s air purifiers.

“If it helps, they’re dead. No body temperature at all. We’re doing the humane thing by putting a bullet in their head,” Arthur said.

“What does that mean? How can they be dead?” Benson asked, as he held an M4 close to his chest.

“Probably part of the contamination process. I’ll be able to figure out more as we move forward, but as of now, something is keeping them up and moving,” Arthur responded.

“And eating people, you know what that makes them--” Dixon threw in.

“Don’t even say it. That sort of talk just creates panic, and right now, we need to stay calm,” Arthur pled in a low voice.

“But it’s the only explanation--” Smith started.

Arthur cut Smith off. “This is not up for discussion. We can take a few shots from here and clear the area around us then it’s just a matter of taking them down one at a time.”

Dixon laughed, “What, you turn into a soldier all of a sudden? Do you even know how to use that gun in your hands?”

Arthur didn’t bother with a response. Instead, he went to the crack between the door and the frame, and he fired eight shots. He stood back and let Dixon move in to see the eight bodies for himself.

“Dr. Covington, you have secrets. Your files didn’t indicate you knew how to handle weapons, let alone that you were proficient with them,” Dixon accused.

“I’m sure we all have talents we like to keep hidden.” Arthur went back to the opening and took aim. A man in a janitor’s uniform, who was missing his left arm and right hand, stood about a foot in front of the door. Arthur noticed a woman in a lab coat, her ear dangling by a thin strand of flesh, limping her way toward them.

He fired six more times, dropping the ones furthest away. The janitor, however, now leaned right up against the door and covered the area Arthur was using. Standing up, he reloaded the gun, sliding the magazine into place with a satisfied look at Dixon.

“Half of them are down now. If we open the door and work together we can take out the rest and move up to the next level,” Arthur pointed out.

Dixon lifted his Sig and nodded. Benson and Smith held their M4’s, but didn’t seem as gung-ho as before. Arthur didn’t question it. If he did, he would have to ask why he decided to grow a set at the worst possible time ever.

“Wait, is this thing point and shoot?” Smith asked Dixon.

The guard grabbed her weapon. “This is the safety, now it’s off. This switch here determines how many bullets you fire. I’m setting it to three at a time. When you’re empty, you hit this and the magazine drops out. Grab a new one, slide it in until you hear the click and start firing. Got it?”

Smith looked overwhelmed, but nodded as she stared at the gun in her hands.

“Let’s do this,” Dixon said and kicked open the door, knocking the former janitor to the floor.

Marshall Simard smiled for the first time in five years. He’d planned meticulously for this moment, and with all the players in place, he intended to make sure he won. Of course, having three specially placed people from his team inside gave him a considerable advantage.

The screen in front of him showed two things at once via a split screen. The side with movement concerned him. Dr. Covington wasn’t supposed to get out of the lab. He didn’t expect that and he hoped his man did his job and kept the scientist safe. More importantly, he wanted those samples. He flipped a switch on the control panel in front of him and watched the progress of Monroe.

He punched a key on his intercom and asked for a second monitor to be set up in his office. Both teams needed to be watched carefully. They didn’t know the horrors awaiting them. A scene of someone in the med lab falling to the floor with convulsions replayed in a continuous loop on one side of his monitor.

Everything went to hell from that moment on, the infection spread quickly. The moment for him to put his plan into action. He pulled his cellphone out of his pocket and dialed.

“ Yeah ,” a gruff voice answered.

“It’s Simard. I need you to get the team ready. You go in as soon as your feet hit the ground.”

“ Yes, sir .”

A knock sounded on his door before it swung open and someone from the tech department rolled in with several monitors and wires to hook them up. Ten minutes later, six monitors skipping through the various floors at random lined the back of Marshall’s office.

The sound quality was poor, but there was no mistaking the screams for help and gunfire, when the system switched to a new floor. The technician tried to steal a look, but Marshall thanked him and ushered him out.

Marshall had one last call to make. As he dialed the number, he watched as over two dozen men in full gear fell to the ground.

“Collins,” a male voice answered.

“It’s me, I need you to make sure all the locking mechanisms are disengaged for the team going up, and the one going down, but don’t let either of them backtrack.” Marshall played with a pen as he watched someone slowly corner another and attack them, then rip them apart with their teeth.

Interesting turn of events , he thought.

“Monitoring now, if you need anything else let me know,” Collins said.

“One thing, what’s going on with the lights? I thought you said we’d have control over them,” Marshall asked in an annoyed tone. He’d adjusted his monitors several times before he realized it wasn’t an issue on his side.

“I’ll look into it, but my guess is the generator was over worked after the explosion. I have minimal control.”

Marshall sighed. “That will have to do for now, we have other tricks up our sleeves to set in motion later.” Marshall hung up with a smile.

On one of the screens, a spray of blood covered the camera and he leaned back. This was better than a movie, he thought.

Frank repelled down the elevator shaft and two hundred feet later came in contact with the top of the elevator carriage. He shook his pack off and switched on a small light attached to his mask. The pry bar was cold in his hands for the first few minutes but warmed up.

Using all his strength, he jammed it into the emergency exit on the roof. Seconds later, it popped open. With a sigh, he dropped into the elevator as the other members of his team landed on the roof. Lightfoot stood next to him a moment later and the both of them put the claw tool into position and eased the doors open.