Contamination Prequel (Post-Apocalyptic Zombie Series) (3 page)

Above them, a dingy sign garnished one of the doorways, adding a faint orange glow to the alley. Howard looked up at it.
The Down Under
.

Normally, a trip to the bar would have been under the pretext of violence—an alcohol-fueled fight, a gun scare, or perhaps a drug overdose. Tonight, he had been drawn to the place for another reason.

On any given night, Frank would have still been here, raising his glass to anything that struck his fancy, and raising his fists at everything else. Howard closed his eyes, breathing in the smell of warm beer and stale urine. If he listened intently enough, he was almost certain he could hear the dead man’s voice, yelling from inside.

After a few minutes, he opened his eyes and stared out the window. A few of the locals had gathered in front of the bar and were pointing and whispering at him. He sat upright, instinctively feeling for his pistol.

One of them held a bottle in his hand and staggered a few steps toward the vehicle. Howard recognized him as one of the locals—Nathan Heid. “What’s the matter, you pigs come to arrest another one of us? One man isn’t enough for the night? You fucking assholes.”

Howard winced at the insult. He could easily arrest the man on several charges, but tonight he wasn’t in the mood. Nathan leered at him, preening a scruffy white beard. “Yeah, that’s right. You got nothin’ to say now, huh?”

The others cheered, laughing and holding up their bottles.

Howard started the engine and put the car into drive, trying his best to appear unfazed. He sped off down the alley, feeling utterly alone.

4

D
an started up the walkway,
and then stopped. He glanced back at the police cruiser, which was immersed in shadow at the foot of the driveway. The motion light over his garage must have gone out. He cursed silently and walked back towards the vehicle, intending to pull it into the garage. From the looks of it, Julie and Quinn were both still up, so he wouldn’t be disturbing them.

He hopped back in the car and tapped the overhead garage remote. The door ascended, and he flicked on his headlights. Inside, a neat array of garden tools hung on the walls—shovels, rakes, pitchforks—along with neatly stacked bags of potting soil and plant fertilizer on the floor. His wife had always had a green thumb. If Dan so much as looked at a plant, it would disintegrate.

He pulled the cruiser into the garage, next to his wife’s Subaru Outback. It appeared she hadn’t been out today. Normally he could tell by the position of the vehicle. From his job on the force, Dan had inherited an eye for detail. He was often expected to recall facts and conversations in his reports, and he prided himself on his accuracy.

Dan turned off the headlights and tapped the garage remote. He heard the door descend behind him, and checked quickly in his rearview to make sure no one had slipped inside. You could never be too careful. Especially after the night he had just had.

A few months back, he had responded to a burglary call just outside the city center. Apparently, the suspect had waited outside an elderly woman’s home, and then followed her inside through the garage. The perpetrator had then bound and gagged her, before making off with all her valuables. The poor woman had been so shaken up that she had moved into a group home shortly afterwards. Dan couldn’t blame her. It was a shame what the world had come to.

He exited the vehicle and made his way to the door. He could hear the television from inside. He turned the handle and stepped into the kitchen, expecting Julie to be there, waiting for him. Instead, he was met with silence. He placed his keys on the countertop.

“Julie, I’m home!” he called out.

The kitchen was in disarray. Pots and pans were strewn across the countertop. A cutting board spilled over with potato skins, and wet towels were draped over the edge of the sink. Julie was normally a neat freak, cleaning her dishes almost immediately after she used them. This wasn’t like her. His gaze continued down the counter.

The microwave door had been left open, revealing a splattering of food on the inside. A display of knives was turned sideways next to it. One of them—the largest—was missing. Dan started forward and felt his foot hit a roll of paper towels that had unraveled on the floor.

“Julie?”

Through the kitchen, past an arched doorway, he had a partial view of the dining room. Although the chandelier was lit, it cast only a dull aura over the table, as if the dimmer had been placed on the lowest setting. His wife sat at the head of the table at the end closest to him, her back turned.

“You ok? I’m sorry I’m late.”

She didn’t answer. Dan felt his heart start to hammer behind his ribcage, and his police instincts kicked into gear. He imagined the worst—that someone was waiting for him on the other side of the dining room, forcing his wife to remain silent. From his position, he could only see half of the table. Quinn was nowhere in sight.

His fingertips grazed the gun, but he didn’t remove it. Not yet.

He crept past the refrigerator, hugging the side of the room. Slowly, the dining room revealed itself to him. The other chairs were empty, but the table was set for three. A whiff of steam rose from the plate in front of Julie, indicating that she had recently heated the food. She was alone.

“Honey, did Quinn go to bed already?” he whispered.

Her neck twitched slightly at the words, and he could see her chest rise and fall. Whatever had happened—
was
happening—she was alive.

He weaved around her chair until her face came into view, still fingering his holster. Her long brown hair was tied in a ponytail, but several strands had made their way out of the elastic and across her face. Her round lips were pursed, and her high cheeks held a faint red glow. Her eyes were closed, and her hands were folded in her lap.

“Are you asleep?”

The TV blared from the other room, but his wife did not make a sound. A few bites were missing from the plate in front of her. The fork was on the floor by her feet.

“Honey…” he tried again, softly.

A
bang
erupted from down the hall. Dan jumped and withdrew his gun. There were two doors beyond the dining room, one on either side. The one on the left was open, and he could see their queen-size bed through the crack. Across the hall, Quinn’s door was shut.

Dan edged sideways down the hallway, keeping one eye on his wife. From the other room, the TV went to commercial, increasing in volume. An announcer spoke of the revolutionary power of a new toilet spray. The rest of the house maintained its silence.

He reached the door and pressed his ear against it. A thin scratching sound emanated from the other side, a few feet below his head. It was about where his daughter’s shoulders would be.

He cupped one hand to the door. “Quinn…are you in there?”

Boom!
The door wobbled as something crashed against it, knocking his hand from the frame. Someone began to pound on the other side, and he heard the person whimpering. It sounded like his daughter, but he couldn’t be sure. Dan held the doorknob, turning it slightly to test it. The door was locked. He looked down at the keyhole, but no key was present. It had been locked from the hallway.

His eyes darted back to the dining room table. His wife had not moved, but her eyes were now open. She stared at him vacantly, her lips still pursed together. Her pupils had turned black.

Something glimmered from the table, next to her plate. It was the key to his daughter’s room.

Dan made a lunge for the key, and then stopped short. His wife sat motionless, piercing him with hollow eyes. He wondered if she was able to see him—to recognize the man standing before her. Everything about her was horribly wrong.

“Julie, our daughter is locked in her room. We need to get her out,” he said. “Do you hear me?”

His hand was next to her plate now, and he now had a view of her lap. Even in the dim lighting, he could make out the shiny blade of the kitchen knife. He gripped the gun in his right hand, knowing full well that he would not be able to use it on her.

Dan reached for the key. It was almost in his grasp. Still she did not move. He closed his hand around it. In the background, the banging had increased in volume, echoing through the hallway and drowning out the TV.

“Quinn, honey, I’m coming!” he shouted behind him.

Julie’s hand flew up suddenly, clutching the knife, and she rammed it down, lodging the blade deep in the tabletop. Dan withdrew his hand, but the tip of the blade caught on one of his knuckles, tearing it open. The key clattered to the floor.

“Julie—it’s me!” he screamed in pain, watching a crease open in his skin. Blood began to ooze from his finger.

He jumped back, aiming his pistol at her. Julie had risen to her feet. She wore a mid-length white sundress, and she held the blade to her chest against it. Dan watched a splotch of blood—
his blood
—expand and stain the fabric.

She walked toward him, her chest butting up against the pistol, and raised the knife in the air for another blow. He batted at it with the gun, connecting with the steel, but she kept her grip. Julie leapt forward, slicing with the blade, and Dan fell backwards, his wife on top of him.

He grabbed hold of her wrist, holding knife and arm at bay, and looked into her face, hoping she would recognize him. Her cheeks were red with blush, the color evenly applied on both sides. Whatever had happened to her, it must have been recent.
I just talked to her a few hours earlier, for God’s sake,
he thought. Her eyes were black ovals, penetrating past Dan and etching invisible holes into the floor.

In the background, the banging had lessened. He wondered if Julie had locked their daughter in her own room for her own protection, before the violent urges had taken her over—to stop from killing her own daughter.

“Julie, please stop this,” he pleaded.

Her mouth opened, and he noticed bits of food were stuck in her teeth, as if she had forgotten how to chew. She pushed harder, grunting as she leaned into the knife. It was the first sound she had made since his arrival.

Somewhere in his pocket, Dan’s cellphone began to ring. He blinked away his tears and tried to stop his wife from stabbing him.

5

H
oward drove aimlessly, trying to
lose himself in the streets of St. Matthews. He rolled down the window, letting the cool mountain breeze seep into the vehicle, and contemplated having a cigarette.

He hadn’t smoked in almost ten years. In his twenties, he had maintained a solid pack-a-day habit, lighting up whenever the desire struck him. At the time, he had little concern for the future. He had been in college then, and life was as simple as passing a few courses at Sacramento State University—just enough to keep him enrolled. At night his real life began: hitting the bars with his friends, playing pool, and chasing the young women that matriculated at the local college. Things had changed rapidly when his mother had fallen ill.

Howard had been home for a visit when she had told him. The doctors had diagnosed her with lung cancer. According to the test results, the disease was already in the advanced stages. She had been coughing up blood for several weeks before going to the doctor, and a CAT scan had revealed the news. She hadn’t even been a smoker. Howard was devastated.

For the next two years, he watched her deteriorate rapidly, losing the strength to walk and eventually becoming bed-ridden. Howard had dropped out of school to take care of her, working nightshifts to assist her during the day. His days were spent at chemotherapy and doctor visits, and he struggled to pay the mortgage and other bills that kept them in the house.

As quickly as the disease had descended upon her, it was gone. His mother passed away in her sleep, only two years after being diagnosed. She was forty-six. Her passing had left him feeling angry and alone.

After her death, Howard joined the police force, throwing his aggression into intense physical training. He shunned his previous lifestyle of drinking and smoking and aimed for a life of clarity and focus. He pushed his body to its limits, fearing that if he let up, he would be overtaken by sickness.

Now, in the wake of the evening’s events, he found himself clamoring for a taste of his past.
A cigarette would taste damn good right about now
, he thought.

In the distance, he could make out the White Mountains spiraling upwards into the heavens, oblivious to the concerns of the townspeople below. He sighed and placed his police hat on the seat next to him. He should probably be getting home.

Howard’s pocket vibrated, and he jumped to attention. He reached for his cellphone, expecting to see the number of the sheriff, who would be calling to check up on him. His boss had instructed him to take a few weeks off—to heal and unwind from the trauma of the evening. Maybe the man missed him already.

It wasn’t Sheriff Turner. It was Dan.

“Hello?”

The cellphone hissed and crackled in response. Howard smiled, assuming his friend must have placed the call by accident. He listened for a few seconds, just in case.