Suzanne Robb - Contaminated - A Zombie Survival Novel

“No! Don’t kill it. We need the damn thing to get the rest of the way.” Frank said as he kicked his foot and felt it make contact with the other one lingering by his feet, again. In the dark, knowing there was something lurking around waiting to eat him made the hair on the back of his neck tingle.

The thing on top of Frank squirmed free of his grasp and bit his forearm. Frank yanked his arm and watched in morbid fascination as it moved its head from side to side like a dog with a chew toy. Sick bastards. He continued to try to wrestle it into submission when he felt the other one back on his leg, and heard Newell scream.

“Boss, we’ve got this one,” Lightfoot said as he and Grimwood pulled the charred one off Frank.

“Someone, check on Newell,” Frank ordered as he sat up and he bashed the one eating his ankle with the butt of his gun.

Footsteps echoed as Carson went to check on Newell. Frank stood looking down at what had been persistently trying to get his leg. Half a man, or whatever it was, lay there. The tail end of the spinal column was trailing behind, along with bits of intestines and the mystery meat from lunch. Its left arm was gone from the elbow down, the right hand missing two fingers. The face, however, was what truly made Frank gag.

All the hair and skin had been seared off and the lidless eyeballs stared through him. It had a mouth with no lips or gums, just a black gnarled tongue trying to work the leather of his boot. Frank wanted to put it out of its misery. Something that was once a man should not be left in that condition, but the mission always came first.

“Guys, Newell’s dead. One of these nasty things got him. It was gone by the time I got there,” Carson said.

“You, bastard! Why the hell did you kill him?” Grimwood screamed as he punched Carson in the gut.

“Hey, I don’t have time for this,” Frank yelled. He glanced at Carson, not believing a word he said, knowing Grimwood was right.

Frank put a boot on top of the head of the “nasty” at his feet. “Carson, Newell is fifteen feet away. Unless you didn’t bother to go and check, there’s no way one of these things had time to kill him and escape your keen sense of observation,” Frank said in a dark tone.

“Let me go check.” Lightfoot intervened.

“What, you mean that you don’t believe me?” Carson asked defensively

“No, I don’t. You have a problem with Lightfoot making sure one of our friends is dead and not just left for dead?” Frank asked.

“Whatever, but be careful, there’s a nasty out there,” Carson mumbled.

Frank took hold of the body tossed his way by Lightfoot and used his flashlight to find Grimwood. “Get over here; use the one on the floor as a test dummy. Toss it a few feet at a time and make sure to let us know when you do.”

Grimwood picked up the body with obvious distaste as Lightfoot returned. His face told Frank everything he needed to know. Newell was dead and Carson was a liar.

“Newell’s dead, looks like he bled out. Not sure what caused it though, maybe a knife,” Lightfoot said with a glare at Carson.

“It was one of those damn nasties, I’m telling you. How do we know they can’t use weapons? We don’t even know what the hell they are,” Carson explained, with a tad too much defensiveness in his voice.

Frank sighed. “Well, keep a look out then.” As much as he wanted to beat the crap out of Carson, he needed the extra set of hands, and if he were to be totally honest, he probably saved Newell from an even more horrible death.

“Tossing,” Grimwood yelled as he lobbed the half body five feet into the air. Everyone ducked and did a mental count in their heads. When nothing happened, Grimwood smiled and moved forward. One foot away from the slithering thing, Frank opened his mouth to yell, and then an explosion lit up the room as another team member died.

Grimwood’s left leg went flying in the air, and the force of the impact caused his insides to liquefy and come out his nose and mouth when he landed a few feet from Frank.

“What the hell was that?” Carson cursed. “You said…”

Frank spun around, making sure to keep the nasty he was holding at bay from hurting anyone else. “That was my mistake, I didn’t realize the body wouldn’t meet the hundred pounds needed to trigger the plate,” Frank’s voice was filled with self-recrimination.

“Way to go, fearless leader, how many of us do you plan to kill before you get your shit in gear?” Carson accused.

“Hey, he didn’t plan it, so let’s continue. We still have this one left to use,” Lightfoot reasoned, as he took the wriggling nasty out of Frank’s hands and moved to the last place they knew Grimwood was safe.

“I’ll do this section and then it’s your turn Carson.” Lightfoot grinned into the flashlight beams aimed on him.

Frank watched as Lightfoot progressed about twenty feet with the thing until it hit a pressure plate. As soon as they heard the click, they bent over and covered their heads to avoid some of the grosser bits of decayed and rotten flesh embedding itself into the crevices of their gear.

“Christ, this smell is never going to wash out,” Carson complained.

Frank ignored him and examined the room with his flashlight. In the corner, he saw a large hole and assumed something backed up in the ventilation system and caused it to fail several levels up from the initial explosion and blew out up here.

The area was a good eight feet in a diagonal direction and something told him to go check it out. He wanted to ignore it, because he knew something bad would come of what he found, and there would be nothing he could do about it but worry. He turned toward Lightfoot.

“I’m going to go check over there. I thought I saw something. If the floor decides to turn me into salsa, you and Carson finish the mission, got me?”

Lightfoot nodded, and Frank made his way over to the hole. Each step felt like an eternity in the making. He blew out a breath when he arrived in one piece. He leaned over the ledge and realized it was a huge opening in the wall. He marvelled at the three feet of concrete that the explosion ripped through like it was drywall. No vents were visible, nor ruptured pipes. Whatever, or more accurately, whoever did this, wanted to gain entry on this level for a reason.

Only one reason, and of course, it was bad. This would be the ideal floor to set explosives on if you wanted to take out the major systems and cripple the facility. Frank tilted his flashlight down and two hands reached up, grabbing his shoulders. His chest was pulled against some jagged pieces of rebar and he felt the breath knocked out of him. He struggled to reach for his FNP as a black tongue licked its lips in anticipation. Frank brought the gun around and blasted the thing in the face.

He felt the coolness of whatever was inside these things hit his hands and shivered. If he had any doubts about them being dead, they evaporated.

“Everything okay, Frank?” Lightfoot called out.

“I’m fine, one of those things was in here, caught me by surprise. I’ll be right back.”

“See, I told you there was another one on the loose,” Carson said, the smugness in his voice made Frank clench his teeth.

Instead, he kept his mouth shut and enjoyed the wide-open space in front of him. He glanced around at the damage of what used to be one of the launch tubes for the missile, but was now an empty spot they used to run wires and cables from the lower levels to the top. They designed it this way so that in case of an emergency, all systems would be backed up for a time.

From the looks of it, whoever did this was aware of the extra cables purpose and destroyed them. Someone who was not a member of the silo community. Someone who didn’t want the data to survive. Three repelling ropes dangled in the air. He checked the other two – empty.