Contaminated 2: Mercy Mode Read Online Free Page A

the tiny jar of peanut butter and jerks her chin at me like she’s daring me to protest.
    “You can’t do that!” cries the lady who was helping her.
    Tony’s mom stands up. “Put that back.”
    I don’t say anything as I sweep the rest of my rations into the pack and zip it closed, then sling it over my shoulders. The weight is enough to make me feel as though I might tumble over backward until I snap the waist strap around my stomach to help distribute the load. The heat in my throat and cheeks is back, the sweat in my armpits, my shaking-ice hands. Something in my face must scare the thief, because she pulls the jar close to her chest as she backs up. She bumps into the couple who was in front of her. They didn’t get any peanut butter, either.
    “No,” the woman says. “I was told I’d get peanut butter this week, and I want it.”
    “Me, too!” shouts someone from the back of the line. “I want peanut butter!”
    Other shouts rise. People are really mad about the peanut butter. I’d let her have the stupid jar, except that sometimes peanut butter is all we can get my mom to eat. Opal, too, though that’s just because she’s a brat now and then.
    Besides, it’s ours.
    I grab it from her hands so fast, all she can do is let out a surprised cry. With my other hand, I shove her hard enough to knock her backward. She stumbles and goes down on her butt. She’s lost a shoe.
    All at once, the crowd is moving. Someone jostles me from behind, and the little girl’s doll hits the pavement at my feet. Staggering with the weight of my pack, I bend to pick it up and press it into her hands, her tears and open mouth reminding me so much of Opal when she was little that I want to grab and squeeze her, tight. Instead, I find myself pulling her against me, out of the way of a couple of big guys in trucker caps and dirty jeans, who’ve begun shoving their way toward the table.
    One knee pressed into the pavement, the pack like a turtle’s shell on my back, I try to shield her from the wave of angry people who’d been waiting so patiently in line just minutes ago. They shove and push and kick. Her doll goes flying. A big boot crushes my fingers. Someone tries torip the pack from my shoulders, but it’s secured too tightly around my waist, and he lets go when another person punches him in the face to get to the table.
    I can’t see the old man she was with, but I scoop up the little girl as best I can and try to get out of the mob surging toward the table. Tony’s mom is shouting, waving her hands. Her coworker has disappeared. Someone shoves the table over, and that’s when the first soldier steps forward.
    He’s a young kid, not much older than Dillon, and though he carries a gun, he doesn’t seem ready to use it. “Hey! Settle down!”
    Only minutes ago, I was thinking about how the crowd could easily overpower these few soldiers, and now it’s happening. The scary thing is, so far as I can tell, none of these people are Contaminated.
    They’re just pissed off.
    Shouting, shoving, grabbing. Some push past the soldiers to get at the food stacked behind the table. Others head for the truck. The well-dressed couple who were ahead of me have moved out of the way, but the woman sidles around the side of the knocked-over table and starts shoving packets of instant soup and stuff into her bag.
    Everything’s out of control. People are screaming about peanut butter and freedom. I hear the far-off wail of sirens getting closer. The old man grabs the little girl away from me, his face twisted and angry. She doesn’t have her doll.
    “I gave you water!” he spits.
    It’s an accusation, and I can’t do anything about it but back away. I don’t run. That would make it look as though I’m fleeing. It would attract attention. Instead, I walk slowly toward the sidewalk in front of the strip mall, toward the office-supply store that has been closed for months and then the outpatient surgical center that’s been