Contaminated 2: Mercy Mode Read Online Free Page B

turned into a walk-in testing clinic for Contamination. I don’t want to get anywhere close to that place; I’m afraid of it like it’s something in a fairy story, as if trees with grabbing hands will reach for me and drag me inside. Through the glass, I can see the goggle-faced people looking out at the mayhem in the parking lot, and I pick up the pace just enough to get around the corner before anyone can open the door.
    Behind me, sirens. A police car speeds past, lights flashing. I keep going. Over the field and past the Tractor Supply, the bank, beyond the half-finished and abandoned shopping complex that had once been rumored to be the future home of a megabookstore. There’s an empty cell phone store in it now, and nothing else. Then down the hill and across the gas station parking lot.
    I usually have time to repack the backpack after picking up the rations to make sure everything fits in the best way. Even the smallest edge of a box that feels like nothing can become excruciating after a mile or so. I stumble a little on the concrete before I decide I need to sit and take a break.
    I find a spot on the grass between the parking lot and the highway, and shrug out of my pack. I’d like to let myself fallonto my back and stare at the bright blue sky and the burning golden disc of the sun, but I want to get home.
    There are only a few cars in the lot, fewer people inside the gas station’s convenience store. With an eye out for anyone acting suspicious, I pull out cans and boxes, and lay them on the grass in a pile so I can rearrange. Something sticky coats my fingers—syrup. Some things have broken. I would like to break just then, thinking of the ruin inside the pack. Punctured cans, torn boxes, stuff leaking. This food has to last us until the next ration pickup in two weeks, and, when I think about what happened in the parking lot today, maybe longer than that.
    The syrup has soaked through the pack and into the front zipper pocket, inside which I find an old baseball cap. It was my dad’s. He wore it for yard work and for hikes, and I clutch it to me suddenly, without caring about the goo on it. I can wash the hat at home, and for now I set it on the edge of the curb to keep it out of the way while I refill the pack.
    When the car pulls up beside me, I turn, startled and wary. There are people who will take what I have, who won’t hesitate to snatch my pack and drive away with it. Worse, people wouldn’t hesitate for a single second before taking me, too. But the older woman in the BMW doesn’t look like she’s going to try and take my battered cans of tofu pork and beans or kidnap me.
    She smiles at me kindly and tosses a folded dollar billout the window of her car, toward my dad’s upturned hat. Without a word, she rolls up the window and drives slowly away. I look after her, confused for a moment before I realize how I must look. If I thought asking for water felt like begging before, now I really understand how it feels. Raggedy clothes, a pack full of food, a hat …
    There were homeless before the Contamination, and there are plenty of people who lost their homes in the time since, but you don’t ever see anyone living on the streets anymore. Anyone who tries is rounded up, tested for Contamination. Sent to the Sanitarium. According to the Voice, everyone tests positive, whether they are or not. Nobody’s homeless, but there are plenty of beggars. Raggedy men and women dancing or playing music for coins. Some with children in tow and signs that read PLEASE HELP. Some with nothing but the looks on their faces. I don’t know how successful they are—nobody seems to have much of anything extra anymore. What we all get from the government is supposed to be enough.
    My mom would be so ashamed if I went begging, especially with a pack full of food. There are people who have nothing, absolutely nothing, and in comparison, we are rich. So it’s in me to snatch up the dollar and run after the