Contaminated: A Zombie Survival Novel

and peered inside. The lights were lit and he made out several bedframes lined against the right wall. A large red cross painted was on one side and a small room in the back with a glass window with Dispensary, etched on it.

With shaking shoulders in the center of the room, Smith held a tablet. Arthur approached her with caution. The floor lacked the smell he’d come to associate with the contaminated. His eyes scanned the area, but found nothing dangerous.

“What is it?” he asked.

She held out the tablet for him in silence. He accepted it with raised eyebrows. Flipping it around, he scrolled through the open document. Names along with ID numbers were in the first two columns. The third column was left empty except for the header, Illness introduced on. Then his breath caught, because at the bottom of the list he noticed his name, Dr. Arthur Covington. In fact, all the names were doctors.

They’d planned to use the people who worked in the silo as test subjects when they ran out? That didn’t make sense. The only logical conclusion was they expected something to happen and prepared this floor as a precaution, or they intended to make something happen. The beds weren’t made up, the floor wasn’t marked as anything on the map, and clear plastic sheeting covered the chairs and medicine shelves in the dispensary.

Arthur moved around and examined the corner where dozens of portable IVs stood collecting dust. Sheets wrapped in plastic filled a cabinet, as did cloth masks and boxes of rubber gloves. The lights flickered just once and somehow he knew he was being told to move on, time was getting short.

“Smith, we need to beat it. I don’t care if you hate me. I did what I thought was right when I took that patch. I just wanted to make sure you got out of here with me.”

She didn’t say anything, but followed him to the exit. As they left, he swore he sensed someone watching him. He didn’t dare look back, in case he was right and came face to face with something.

“According to the map, the next floor is where they keep the water heaters, generators, back-up machinery, and everything else we don’t care about. Not likely to be a lot of contaminated people up there.”  He glanced at Smith, but she refused to make eye contact. At least, she wasn’t running from him, he thought, as he raced up the steps to the next level.

“Not to put a damper on this, but I think we lucked out by not having to deal with whatever the security measures were on the last floor. Level 8 is likely going to have a doozy of one since it is the major hub of power for the silo.”

Arthur didn’t mention he felt as if someone was using them as pawns in the world’s most screwed up game ever. They triggered none of the so-called badass security protocols. He suspected there was a reason for it.

“Just shut up, I can’t stand the sound of your voice. Whatever it is, we’ll deal with it and get the hell out of this place. Then I’m going to go find the people at Sunset Inc. and kill them all.”

Arthur kept his mouth closed. The smartest decision he made all day.

* * *

Frank rounded the stairs and came face to face with one of the nasties. Instinct caused him to raise his weapon, but Lightfoot’s words about low ammunition echoed in his head. Frank pulled the knife from the sheath strapped to his leg and ran toward the nasty. When he had it pinned between him and the wall, he stuck the blade up to the hilt into one of the eyes.

He twisted it and the thing moved no more. He let it slide to the ground and then he wiped the weapon on the body before he stuck it back in its sheath. “Okay, from now on, if you find yourself able to take one out without using a gun, do it.” Frank continued down the stairs.

Level 7 beckoned them with an open door and a few stragglers who perked up as Frank and his group neared. They moved in unison and moaned; a noise Frank was growing to detest. Arms held high as if to hug their victims, the nasties came at them, a giant wall of death.

Frank counted them, five in total. They were rail thin as if the fat inside of them was leaking out, which would explain the ooze covering the floor. Frank kicked at the first one, hitting it in the head. It rocked back and took down three of the others. The one left standing didn’t seem fazed and continued forward with its rigid movements.

Lightfoot hopped over the rail, used his knife, and jammed it into the ears of two of the ones on the floor in quick precise movements. Frank leapt down the remaining few steps and used his blade on the one still standing. Something moved on the floor and Lightfoot was there a second later putting the fourth one out of its misery before it tried to take a chunk out of Frank’s boot.

“Let’s see what the inside looks like. Carson, Selena, you stay back.” Frank peered around the door, scared of what he would find, if they’d made it into the stairwell something was forcing them out, or there were a ton of them.

“Why do I have to babysit the chick?” Carson whined.

Frank turned with a glare.

Lightfoot joined him at the door. “There’s too many in there for us to take out. No corridor for them to bottleneck, a completely open space for them to wander and surround us.” Lightfoot wiped his knife on one of the nasties next to them.

“I know. The floor was designed that way. We knew a silo would feel confining so we created this place to offer some semblance of space,” Frank said.

He closed the door a bit, as one of them got too close for comfort. They needed to cross the floor. There was no maybe, no alternative; they had to do it. Problem was the things inside seemed unharmed for the most part, which made Frank wonder if the deterrent had been activated. Hell, his mind was so fried, he couldn’t even remember what it was.

Pounding his head against the wall reminded him that he wore a mask, and now he had a headache and was worried he’d put a microscopic crack in the face plate and was going to turn into one of those dead things.

He needed to think about something else. What the hell did he recommend for this level? Frank searched his mental collection of traps and thought about what would be idea for this floor. Then it hit him, flooding. They were right below all the plumbing for the showers and bathrooms. He figured it would be perfect now, so why not two years ago.

As he peered in, he knew they needed to find a way to keep the door propped open here, and the one on the other side. The stairwell they needed to use would fill eventually. He also needed to figure out a way to avoid being bitten by these things as they floated near them. Of course, this was all speculation. He might be wrong about the water, or unable to set it off, and worst-case scenario was he didn’t get to the other door before it locked and they all drowned. He wondered if they died would they come back as the nasties and spend the rest of their lives dying over and over again in a deep murky, watery grave. The thought sent his claustrophobia on high alert, so he forced himself to derail the panicked images in his head.

Frank explained their situation to the others and waited. It didn’t take long for Carson to speak out.

“First, why hasn’t the mechanism been triggered? Those things have been walking around since the alarm went off. Second, are you insane? You want us to flood out the lower area where we’re heading? You’ve--”

Frank ignored the rest of what Carson said. He was right about one thing. Why hadn’t the mechanism gone off yet? The damn floor hadn’t flooded for the same reasons the doors to the stairwell weren’t locked, and repelling cables were in one of the exterior missile bays. Whoever orchestrated this didn’t want to put their team in danger and flooding all the lower floors would be a disaster.

Confident he didn’t have to worry about drowning, Frank tackled the next problem. A room full of dead things. He glanced inside and decided they would need to create a barricade of sorts. A Ping-Pong table could be upended, and if they maneuvered it into the corner while someone provided cover fire, they might be able to stack something on the sides to keep them at bay.

Not the cleverest plan, and he foresaw many problems with it, but it was the best he could come up with in a limited amount of time. He explained to the others what he needed them to do and Lightfoot volunteered to provide cover fire. Selena offered to pull smaller pieces of furniture to flank the table.

Frank went in first, taking out five targets with precise shots to the head, and grabbed the table. It scraped like nails on a chalkboard as he dragged it to a cornered off section of the room. Lightfoot took out half a dozen of the nasties, and then helped Frank flip the table. Selena and Carson grabbed some stackable chairs and a cheap coffee table painted with wild flowers.

“Alright, Selena, you get behind us. Anything starts to go bad, you get in that staircase, got me?” He waited