She rummaged in her backpack and found it. “How are you feeling now, Stephen?”
He rubbed his eyes. “Sleepy. And tired.”
She was tired, too.
She would tell him to think of his mother, waiting for him. Or would that scare him? What if he pictured his mother the way she’d been in the hotel, lying on the bed with the flies roiling around her mouth? What if that stench carried with him to the next After?
She recalled the pharmacist’s instructions. First, the antiemetic to prevent him from throwing up. And then, the Nembutal.
A glass of clean, filtered water from the creek sat on the desk beside the bed. Given his small size, three pills would probably be enough.
She bowed her head and closed her eyes. Dear Lord, is this merciful?
For the first time in her life, she felt the question was issuing forth into the deep vacuum of endless, empty space. A phone call with nothing on the other end of the line.
She had never been so frightened.
“Here, honey, I have something to make that cough go away,” she said, somehow managing to keep the tremor out of her voice, although her fingers shook as she twisted open the pill bottle.
“Where’s DeVontay?” he asked.
“He’ll be here in a minute. Take this, honey.”
She gave him the antiemetic, which he swallowed with a grimace. “Yuck. That’s gross.”
“Drink this.” She handed him the glass of water and he drank.
She was about to give him three of the pills when she looked into his face, hoping to see some sign of peace and acceptance. Instead, she saw Chelsea’s funeral face, the pale and powdered baby-doll skin with eyes forever closed.
She tightened her fist around the pills and then flung them toward the corner of the bedroom, where they rolled across the hardwood floor.
“You’re right,” she said. “Medicine’s yucky.”
Downstairs, the door slammed, and DeVontay called up the stairs.
“How long do I get to sleep in the boy’s bed?” Stephen asked, drowsy now.
“For a few days,” she said. “Then we’re heading to the mountains where it’s safe.”
“I thought we were going to Mi’sippi.”
“We’ll get there,” she said. “We’ve still got a long way to go.”
THE END
Look for the sequel,
After: The Echo
Return to Table of Contents
Be the first to learn about contests, giveaways, and new releases. Sign up for Scott’s Tao of Boo newsletter.
Afterword:
Aside from doomsday capitalists, hellfire evangelicals, and certain nihilistic madmen, most of us are not all that eager for the world to end. But the sun doesn’t care. It is a ticking time bomb that is likely to belch a fatal stream of radiation at us when we least expect it. And we never expect it, do we?
Best-case scenario, the sun lives to a cranky old age and dies out, turning into a frozen iceball before the universe collapses. Worst-case scenario is…the After series. I hope you will join me for more. Because it can get worse.
About Scott Nicholson:
I’m the international bestselling author of more than 30 books, including The Home, The Red Church, Liquid Fear, Chronic Fear, The Harvest, Speed Dating with the Dead, and many more. I collaborated with bestselling author J.R. Rain on Cursed, The Vampire Club, Bad Blood, and Ghost College. I’ve also written the children’s books If I Were Your Monster, Too Many Witches, Ida Claire, and Duncan the Punkin, and created the graphic novels Dirt and Grave Conditions. Connect with me on Facebook, Goodreads, Twitter, or my website.
I am really an organic gardener, but don’t tell anyone, because they think I am a writer and occasional survivalist nutjob.
Sign up for my newsletter for new releases, free books, and giveaways: http://eepurl.com/tOE89
VIEW OTHER KINDLE BOOKS BY SCOTT NICHOLSON:
Novels
After: First Light
After: The Shock
After: The Echo
After: Milepost 291
The Scarecrow (Solom #1)
The Narrow Gate (Solom #2)
The Home
McFall
Creative Spirit
Disintegration
The Red Church
Speed Dating with the Dead
The Skull Ring
Drummer Boy
The Harvest
Kiss Me or Die
Liquid Fear
Chronic Fear
Cursed (with J.R. Rain)
Bad Blood (with J.R. Rain & H.T. Night)
Ghost College (with J.R. Rain)
The Vampire Club (with J.R. Rain)
Spider Web (with J.R. Rain)
Meat Camp (with J.T. Warren)
October Girls
Crime Beat
The Dead Love Longer
Fangs In Vain
Burial to Follow
StoryCollections
Curtains
Flowers
Ashes
The First
Zombie Bits
Head Cases
Gateway Drug
Missing Pieces
These Things Happened
American Horror
Children’s Books
Bad Day for Balloons (with Sergio Castro)
If I Were Your Monster (with Lee Davis)
Too Many Witches (with Lee Davis)
Ida Claire (with Lee Davis)
Duncan the Punkin (with Sergio Castro)
BOX SETS
Ethereal Messenger
Mystery Dance
Horror Movies: Three Screenplays
Ghost Box: Six Supernatural Thrillers
Scott Nicholson Library, Vol. 1
Scott Nicholson Library, Vol. 2
Scott Nicholson Library, Vol. 3
Scott Nicholson Library, Vol. 4
Box of Boo (Library, Vol. V)
Mad Stacks: Short Stories Box Set
Bad Stacks: Short Stories Box Set
Odd Stacks: Short Stories Box Set
VIEW U.K. KINDLE BOOKS BY SCOTT NICHOLSON:
After: First Light
After: The Shock
After: The Echo
The Scarecrow (Solom #1)
The Narrow Gate (Solom #2)
McFall
Liquid Fear
Chronic Fear
Creative Spirit
The Home
The Gorge
Disintegration
The Red Church
Speed Dating with the Dead
The Skull Ring
Drummer Boy
The Harvest
Kiss Me or Die
Cursed (with J.R. Rain)
Ghost College (with J.R. Rain)
The Vampire Club (with J.R. Rain)
Bad Blood (with J.R. Rain & H.T. Night)
Spider Web (with J.R. Rain)
Meat Camp (with J.T. Warren)
October Girls
Crime Beat
The Dead Love Longer
Burial to Follow
Fangs In Vain
Collections
Curtains
Flowers
Ashes
The First
Zombie Bits
Head Cases
Gateway Drug
Missing Pieces
These Things Happened
Children’s Books
Bad Day for Balloons (with Sergio Castro)
If I Were Your Monster (with Lee Davis)
Duncan the Punkin (with Sergio Castro)
Too Many Witches (with Lee Davis)
Ida Claire (with Lee Davis)
Writing
Write Good or Die
The Indie Journey: Secrets to Writing Success
Omnibus editions
Ethereal Messenger
Mystery Dance
Horror Movies: Three Screenplays
Three Ghost Stories (with J.R. Rain and Aiden James)
Ghost Box: S
ix Supernatural Thrillers
Scott Nicholson Library, Vol. 1
Scott Nicholson Library, Vol. 2
Scott Nicholson Library, Vol. 3
Scott Nicholson Library, Vol. 4
Box of Boo: Library, Vol. 5
Mad Stacks: Short Stories Box Set
Bad Stacks: Short Stories Box Set
Odd Stacks: Short Stories Box Set
Return to Table of Contents
CONTAMINATION
Book One: The Onset
by T. W. Piperbrook
Get Contamination: Zero free at Amazon US or Amazon UK
Copyright © 2012 by T.W. Piperbrook All rights reserved.
Second Edition: November 2013
For more information on the author’s work, visit: http://twpiperbrook.blogspot.com/
Thanks to my friends and family, who have supported and inspired me. Special thanks to Jeff and Jennifer.
Dedicated to CED, for your never-ending support, and to CBA for setting this thing into motion.
Part One—Exodus
Chapter 1
White Mist, New Mexico
Population: 1
SURROUNDED BY WHIPPING SAND AND dust, the brown sign stood resilient at the town’s perimeter. Sam Cook could still make out the faded sticker that had been placed over the single numeric digit on its face, even though it had been a few years. That was how the DOT amended things these days. If a change were small enough, a patch would suffice to update the information.
He could’ve requested a new sign—hell, he was now the only resident of the town. But the thin border around the number reminded him of the sign’s previous digit. It was one he did not want to forget.
He imagined a byline that should have been placed underneath:
White Mist, New Mexico
Former Population: 3.
Sam had only lived in town with his wife and daughter for two years before the tragedy had occurred. Together, they’d rebuilt the historic log cabin store, turning it into a small-scale tourist attraction. Purchasing the town had been a lifelong dream, and they’d poured all their efforts into it.
Because the White Mist store contained a post office, it qualified for its own zip code. Several families had once resided there, but they’d long since relocated. The previous owners were an elderly couple from Iowa. They’d decided to sell the property when the upkeep became too much to handle.
Sam’s family had spent long hours renovating the property, and he was proud of what they had accomplished. He liked to think that after a few short years, the White Mist Trading Post had become not only a pit stop for gas and beverages, but a piece of history and a symbol of the American West.
A bit of a stretch, perhaps. But now the store was all he had.
The shelves were adorned with a variety of commemorative merchandise: White Mist shirts, mugs, key chains, and hats. It didn’t cost much to produce them, and they helped tremendously in keeping the place afloat, and in keeping his family clothed and fed.
Of course, now there was only one mouth to feed.
At the moment, the store was empty. Sam wiped a trickle of sweat from his brow and paused. In front of him was a half-empty shelf of dried noodles. On the floor was the box of replenishments. He needed a break.
He moved towards the screen door at the entrance, listening to the floor squeak underneath him. The door seemed ready to expire; it creaked on its hinges, begging for relief. The place needed work. He tried his best to keep it up, but there was only so much he could do alone.
He surveyed the empty parking lot in front of him. Beyond it was an equally deserted portion of I-40. The southwestern desert stretched endlessly for miles, composed of scorching, earthy landscape, with occasional patches of green that helped offset the brown scenery. In the distance, a few mountains rose skyward.
On the horizon, he saw what looked like a tractor-trailer barreling down the interstate. The setting sun glinted off its hood, capturing the last glimmers of daylight in its grill. Overhead, a lone hawk circled, probably already watching its unsuspecting prey.
The truck looked like it was slowing down. Sam used the top of his sleeve to wipe another bead of perspiration from his forehead, unknowingly smearing a line of dirt in a half-circle. He went inside.
He heard the driver pumping the brakes, then the truck tires crunching to a halt. Through the screen windows of the store, he saw the words ‘All-American Beef’ emblazoned on the side. The driver’s window was rolled all the way up, and Sam was unable to see through the tinted glass.
A sudden fear coursed through his body, making him shiver slightly.
“What the hell?” he muttered to himself. “It’s gotta be like ninety-eight degrees out.”
Sam had grown accustomed to talking to himself. It felt good to keep a monologue going, especially when no one else was there to judge or listen. In this case, however, the one-sided conversation was an attempt to calm his nerves.
What was he afraid of? Trucks came through White Mist all day long, filling up on diesel gasoline, taking a break from the open road.
But this one seemed different.
Outside, the hawk swooped lazily. It had either lost sight of its target, or it was still toying with it. The truck sat in silence. There was no sign of movement from the driver.
Sam glanced over at the floor, to the box of noodles. For some reason, he felt like he should continue to unpack it—to act as natural as possible. But that would leave him unprepared. For what, he wasn’t sure.
Beneath the cash register, strapped underneath the shelf, he kept a loaded rifle. It had been there so long, he imagined it was covered with a layer of dust—hell, he wasn’t even sure it worked anymore. He mentally traced the steps from where he stood to the cash register.
Six or seven steps. That’s what he’d need to reach the counter. Sam stood at six foot one inches and weighed 180 lbs. He had long strides.
“This is ridiculous.” He forced a smile. “I’m being ridiculous.”
As if in response, the truck door swung open with a groan, and a short man with a baseball cap hopped out into the parking lot. Sam jumped slightly.
“Whew!” the trucker yelled to no one in particular. “It’s damn hot out today!”
Sam breathed a sigh of relief. He considered going out to greet the customer. Instead, he stuck to the noodles.
The trucker bounded through the door with a flurry of conversation. Sam imagined the man had been talking the entire trip, with or without an audience.
“Howdy, sir! I need me a drink. It’s hot as blazes out there!”
“Welcome to White Mist!” Sam welcomed him. “The cooler is to the left. Before you ask, yes—I am the population of one.”
“I kinda figured that!” the guy chuckled. “But I’m sure you get that question all the time.”
“You wouldn’t believe it!” Sam groaned. In truth, he liked the casual banter, the harmless jokes. It helped him take his mind off other, more serious things.
The trucker brought his purchase to the register and paid in cash. Sam counted back the change and shut the drawer, watching him leave the store.
He returned to stocking the shelf, lining up the noodles next to each other.
I must be getting jittery in my old age.
Either that, or maybe the isolation was starting to manifest itself as anxiety. In any case, Sam was looking forward to closing up shop in just a few hours and heading to his trailer home next door. It had been a long day, and he could use the rest.
He didn’t hear his next customer come through the door until the screen creaked on its hinges and slammed shut.
“Welcome to White Mist,” Sam called out. He smiled, and then decided to add: “The best thing west of Roswell!”
He was greeted by silence. A dark figure had emerged from behind the shelf. The visitor seemed to have floated across the room.
The man had a pale, lifeless expression. His mouth was clamped shut, and his face looked as if it had
aged unnaturally, sucking his dark facial hair into the folds of his cheeks. A scar ran sideways across his throat. The skin around it appeared jagged and flaky, as if it had been picked at during the healing process.
His black eyes seemed to pierce through the storeowner.
The figure was not amused.
Sam attempted to stand, tripping over the now-empty box of noodles beside him.
The man with the scar didn’t move. His eyes flitted wildly around the store, as if someone had scooped them out of his head and had replaced them with two black marbles.
“Can I help you?” Sam attempted. His own voice sounded foreign, as if someone else had spoken the words.
The man’s eyes stopped roaming. Instead of answering, he moved towards Sam, his hands raised in what appeared to be attack mode.
Sam wasn’t sure of what the man’s intentions were, but he wasn’t going to wait around to find out.
Six or seven steps. That’s what I need to reach the rifle.
Sam ran. Before he knew it, he’d travelled half the distance to the counter, and he dove to the floor and tore at the underside of the shelf, removing the rifle from its perch. He could feel his pulse thudding in his ears, his heart pounding in his chest.
A loud crash rang out from behind him, but Sam stayed low, remaining on the ground until the noise had subsided.
When it was quiet, Sam rose to his haunches and leveled the rifle over the counter, aiming at where his attacker had been.
Only the man was gone.
Two of the store’s shelves had toppled completely over, spilling their contents onto the floor, and several cans and containers spun where they had landed.
The man with the scar was not among the debris.
“Jesus.” Sam felt the air escape his lungs.
Was he imagining things? Losing his mind?
The Last Days: Six Post-Apocalyptic Thrillers Page 96