Suzanne Robb - Contaminated - A Zombie Survival Novel

Then he saw what would be a problem. Some of the guards must have had time after the alarm sounded to get into gear. Over thirty men approached them – in helmets.

“Crap, they have head gear on,” Frank said.

Lightfoot walked up next to him. “Face shots, no big deal, but we need someone to take out the mutts. They might not be moving fast, but I have a feeling we don’t want to get cornered.”

Frank nodded. “Right, you take care of the dogs with Newell. Carson and Grimwood, you’re with me.”

The two men took flanking positions a few feet behind Frank. In the rear, he heard the occasional low growl before a shot silenced it.

Frank thought they might actually make it out of this mess alive. The things were slow and they didn’t use weapons, other than their teeth. How much of a threat were they?

Seventy feet separated them from the cadaverous guards heading toward them. An additional twenty men were scattered around coming at them from various positions. Overhead emergency lights continued to flicker on and off, staying dark longer and longer.

Frank squeezed the trigger and heard it click. Ejecting the magazine with one hand, he reached into his backpack, felt around for the proper one, and slid it in. He glanced up and determined they had about sixty feet left. He set his weapon to three round bursts and aimed at necks. As his bullets ripped through them and tore the flesh open, thick dark fluid oozed out slowly. Frank caught a whiff of some of it and he almost lost his lunch.

Death and decay were smells he was familiar with, but not to this degree. It was as if everyone in the silo had died weeks ago, not less than an hour. But how the hell were they moving about, nothing made sense.

One of the things stood five feet away and got his attention with a low moan. This new tactic was not as effective as a headshot and he realized killing the things had to do with destroying their brains somehow. Here he was fighting for his life in some B-movie from his childhood. He lifted the SCAR and aimed at the roamer that had somehow escaped their notice.

Frank knew the thing was dead, but it still didn’t register. What the hell kept it on its feet? He took careful aim and put a round in its ear. Brain matter, then chunks of bone erupted out of the side of its head and it dropped to the floor like a sack of potatoes.

“We need to destroy their brains,” Frank yelled to the others as he targeted the eye of another. The helmet flew in the air and bounced off the wall.

The horde moved as one, step after step, and Frank knew if they didn’t get the situation under control, they were as good as dead.

Newell and Lightfoot were making good progress with the hounds of hell as Frank referred to the attack dogs. Every time he saw one, he was reminded of death in a whole new way. People who looked and smelled dead were one thing. He’d seen enough of it when he’d served in the marines. Animals were different, and though no one ever accused Frank Monroe of having a heart, if he did, there would be a soft spot for dogs.

Nothing was right, everything was wrong, and Frank didn’t have an answer for any of the million questions floating in his head. If he found out Hooks knew about this, he’d kill him.

Arthur scurried up the stairs. The tone of Dixon’s voice alerted him that something was wrong. The door was cracked open and what lay beyond disgusted Frank. According to the map, this was some sort of Med Lab. He’d naively assumed it was for the people who lived in the silo; a place to go if you got the flu or needed something for a migraine. He couldn’t have been more wrong.

The area closest to him was a large room eight feet wide and at least forty feet deep. The lights flashed red in this room and he saw small cots lining the walls, sheets that covered them on the floor or dragging behind naked people, some wearing thin hospital gowns. They groaned like a hungry mob and paced the floor in search of a meal.

“What the hell is going on in there Dixon? Human experimentation, I thought this place was on the up and up,” Arthur yelled.

Dixon shut the door then pinned Arthur against the wall. “I’m sorry. Did you forget I’m in charge here? Just in case, let me refresh your memory. You do what I tell you. You do not draw attention to us. You do not ask questions. Are we clear?”

Arthur nodded, the thick forearm against his throat making it impossible for him to respond verbally. Dixon moved his arm and lifted his Sig.

“We need to clear them out before they form a group and overtake us like last time,” Dixon said.

“Why are we wasting time killing these things? They’re slow, can we run by them and access the other stairwell and keep moving?” Benson asked.

Dixon looked up with an expression bordering on murderous. “We don’t know what’s beyond the lab doors. There could be a hundred people in there, and if we need to turn back, we have to face a room full of them because we didn’t clear it. Not to mention these things can open doors when enough of them lean on it and all the exits open outward, get it, genius?” Dixon stood, raised his weapon and stared down at Benson. “Does that answer your question? If not, feel free to run ahead and let us know how that works out.”

Dixon shook his head and pulled open the door. Arthur followed with Smith and Benson in the rear. The start of gunfire was instantaneous and Smith had to be reminded not to fire in panic mode or she’d run out of ammunition in seconds.

Arthur lifted the Baby Eagle when he didn’t have time to get a new magazine for the XM-25. The sound it made caused his ears to ring, but the head of the contaminated blowing into a hundred tiny pieces along with the one behind it made it worth it.

The air filled with smoke, and as the visibility decreased to almost nothing, since the lights kept crapping out, so did the accuracy of their shots. Arthur moved so he was closer to Smith. He knew she would be distracted looking for her husband, and if he turned out to be contaminated, which was looking very likely, and came at her, she might not be able to handle it.

Half of the horde had been taken down, but as Dixon pointed out, there was no way to know what was behind the door on the other end of the lab. Arthur watched as Dixon downed several with a head level spray from his gun. He ejected the magazine and fired his Makarov intermittently as he reached for a new magazine. Once he had it, Arthur watched as he slid it into the Sig with ease and started kicking ass anew.

Arthur glanced around for Benson and saw a huddled shadow in the corner. He knew it was Benson, and he knew the bastard was hiding, looking for his opportunity to take off and leave them on their own. For some reason, Benson gave Arthur the creeps, something about the guy didn’t seem right. For the moment, it was the fact he wasn’t helping them. He seemed quite content to let the others do the dirty work. Arthur focused on the matter at hand and he aimed at the heads of the contaminated. When he had clear shots, he took them. Moments later, the room was clear and everyone took a moment to reload their weapons.

“We should go back down and refill our stock. This is taking a lot more ammo than I anticipated,” Dixon said as he walked toward the stairwell entry. The handle didn’t turn.

“Crap, whatever they’ve done, there’s no going back.” Dixon punched the door.

Arthur used the time to peruse the desk at the end of the room for any sort of information as to what Sunset Inc. was doing in here. The bodies were skeletal, skin hung off them in flaps. They resembled the people from downstairs, but the rate of decay seemed quicker.

The only bit of information he found was on an empty vial, bearing a sticker that read TV-9. He sniffed it, then remembered the mask and felt like an idiot. He tossed the item in his backpack and let out a scream when an icy hand wrapped itself around his arm. He turned and saw a man in a lab coat, stethoscope still in place.