Contamination Box Set [Books 0-7]

by Piperbrook, T. W.

  Dan navigated the streets with ease. It hadn’t taken him long to gain familiarity with St. Matthews. In fact, there weren’t many streets that he didn’t know. The city roads were well maintained, featuring a mixture of commercial and residential properties. In between them, small shrubs peppered the dusty landscape, constant reminders of the desert backdrop.

  The White Mountains surrounded the town on all sides. A frequent destination for Arizona tourists, they provided a makeshift border, sheltering St. Matthews from the neighboring towns and insulating them from the worries of big city life.

  Dan rounded a corner, heading away from the center of town and into one of the residential neighborhoods. Here, houses dominated the roadside, and he relaxed slightly. He was a few blocks from home when his cellphone rang.

  He glanced at the display, expecting to see his wife’s name. Instead, he saw Howard’s.

  “Hey, man. Want me to save you a plate of potatoes?” He grinned.

  “Dan?” Howard’s voice wavered.

  For a split second, it sounded like the reception had been lost. A deep breath from the other end told him that his friend was still on the line.

  “Are you still there?” Dan asked.

  “Frank’s dead.”

  The words rang in the air. Dan stared at the phone in disbelief.

  “What happened?”

  “Can you come back to the station?” Howard begged.

  In his five years on the force, it was the first time Dan had heard his friend rattled.

  “I’ll be right there,” he said, closing the phone.

  He threw on his sirens and raced back into town.

  2

  Howard met him at the station door. The front of his shirt was covered in sweat, and he looked visibly upset. His usually stocky frame seemed to be shrunken, as if he were trying to disappear into his clothes.

  “Are you ok?” Dan asked.

  “I think so,” Howard said, but his demeanor said otherwise.

  “Where is he?”

  “In the cell. I covered him with a blanket. I called the paramedics, but it sounded like they’d be a while.”

  Dan was hit by a pang of fear, but he wasn’t sure why. His friend was making him nervous. He hurried through the door and down the hall to where Frank had been kept. As he proceeded, he half-expected to hear the prisoner still cursing, spilling the contents of his stomach onto the jail floor.

  Instead, the station was eerily quiet.

  Howard hung behind him, as if afraid of what his friend might find.

  “I’ve never seen anything like this,” he said.

  Dan entered the main room, feeling his heartbeat quicken in his chest. In the center of the cell, a bulky figure was covered in a blue blanket. For a second, he imagined that Frank was hiding somewhere in the station; that the lump under the blanket was a decoy, and that the prisoner would come lunging at them from the shadows.

  Pull yourself together, he thought.

  He tugged on the cell door, but it was locked. He reached for his keys.

  He stopped when he noticed a trickle of dried blood on one of the iron bars. The fluid had made its way down the side of the cell, forming a pool at the bottom.

  “What the fuck?” He stepped back.

  “He attacked me, Dan. I was lucky to get out of the room alive.”

  Howard motioned towards his arm. The officer’s shirt was torn at the elbow, and a red stain blossomed towards his bicep. Dan was surprised he hadn’t noticed it before.

  “Howard, you’re hurt! What the hell happened?”

  “He took a chunk out of my arm, man. I thought he was going to rip it off.” Howard covered his face with his good hand.

  Dan drew his gun. He inserted the key into the lock, watching for any sign of movement through the bars, his finger on the trigger of the pistol. The blanket remained still on the floor.

  “Stay back,” he warned, stepping inside.

  Dan crossed the cell towards the body, and immediately gagged. A puddle of Frank’s vomit lay under the steel bench. If circumstances were different, he might have found it amusing.

  He nudged the blanket with his foot, expecting Frank to grab onto it in a drunken rage. The figure remained stiff. He bent down slowly, grabbing the edge of the fabric, and slid it off a few inches. It dragged slightly, caught on a piece of flesh that looked like the prisoner’s ear.

  Dan recoiled in fear. Frank’s face was demolished: his bare head was split open at the center. His shiny round head had become a red canvas, painted with a mural of blood and exposed bone. His nose was splintered into fragments, and his mouth dangled open, held together by a few pieces of teeth and loose gum. His eyes were rolled up into his head. They were pitch black.

  “He was reaching for the water cooler. It looked like he was thirsty. I went to give him a cup—you know, to be nice.” Howard eyed his friend, as if afraid he wouldn’t believe him. “And then he grabbed me, man! When I broke free, he went crazy. He kept smashing his head against the bars, over and over, trying to get to me, until his face just…oh Jesus fuck!”

  Howard shook his head from side to side, trying to keep his composure. The senior officer had been shot twice—and had survived some of the toughest neighborhoods in California—but tonight he had finally cracked.

  “Did you see his eyes?” Howard waved his good arm towards the cell. “What the fuck could have happened to him?”

  Dan replaced the blanket, feeling his stomach tighten. He stepped back, bumping into an object on the floor. A plastic cup rolled away from him and came to rest underneath the bench.

  In his five years on the force, this was one of the most violent deaths he had ever seen. Dan was worried.

  Mickey Sonstrom arrived on the scene first, even before the ambulance. He was fair-skinned and freckled, sporting a tuft of red hair that crept out from underneath his police hat. His chin pointed outwards, as if to constantly reaffirm his position of authority. At twenty-two, he was the youngest officer on the force.

  “Howard, what’d you do, man?” he kidded, punching the stocky officer on the arm. “Oh shit, man, I didn’t know you were hurt. Are you all right?”

  “It’s not funny, Mickey,” Dan scolded him. “Howard is lucky to be alive.”

  “Is Frank really dead?”

  “Yes, he is. We should wait for Sheriff Turner before we do anything.”

  The red-haired officer peered over their shoulders into the cell, catching a glimpse of the blue blanket. Dan had placed it back over the body, both to preserve the evidence and to avoid looking at it again. Over the past few years, there had been a few gruesome deaths in St. Matthews, but nothing to this extent.

  Mickey headed off into the locker room.

  “I’ll get the camera,” he said.

  Howard sat behind the wooden desk in the room, applying pressure to his wound. They had raided the emergency kit in the station and wrapped his arm with gauze and a bandage while waiting for the paramedics. Dan was sure the man would need stitches.

  Frank had sliced into a piece of the man’s upper bicep, presumably with his nails. Dan struggled to figure out how the prisoner had done so much damage—especially without a weapon.

  “I should call my wife,” Dan said. “She’s probably worried.”

  “Why don’t you go home, man? Have dinner with the family,” Howard offered.

  “Absolutely not. I’ll tell her not to wait up.”

  Dan retrieved his phone and walked into the corridor. The sound of his footsteps bounced off the station walls as he dialed the number. His wife picked up on the first ring.

  “Dan, where are you?” Julie said. “I thought you’d be home already.”

  “We had an accident at the station, honey. Howard’s been hurt
. He’ll be ok—but there is an incident that I need to deal with.”

  “Oh my God. I knew it. Will you be home soon?”

  “I don’t think so,” he said. “In fact, I’m pretty sure it will be a while.”

  “I’ll wait up for you. I can heat up dinner when you get back.”

  Dan smiled, feeling a sense of relief at the sound of her voice. Howard was still alive. Julie and Quinn were safe at home, miles away from the carnage he had just witnessed. Things could be much worse.

  “That sounds great. If you guys get hungry, feel free to start without me,” he said. Dan doubted he would have much of an appetite.

  He hung up the cellphone and stared at his reflection in the glass. His adrenaline was still flowing, and he tried to steady his hands. The ambulance would be here soon, and they would need to assess the crime scene. He tried to regain his composure. From somewhere outside, a car door slammed shut. He slipped the phone back into his pocket and adjusted his hat.

  Even before he had a visual, Dan heard his boss breathing from the parking lot outside. A few seconds later, the door swung open with a crash, and Sheriff Turner’s massive figure filled the entrance. He lumbered down the hall towards Dan, his legs shaking the ground beneath him.

  “Is Howard ok?” he asked.

  “I think he’ll be fine,” Dan assured him. “But he’ll need stitches.”

  The Sheriff muttered something and wiped away a stream of sweat from beneath his cap. His short white hair was matted into clumps, and his thick black eyebrows quivered with worry. Labored breaths wracked his body. Dan figured it had probably been a while since the man had moved so fast. By all accounts, his boss was sorely out of shape; however, his intentions were some of the purest that Dan had ever known.

  Sheriff Turner had taken over the position from Bill Turner, his father, who had retired after forty years on the force. The family had occupied St. Matthews for generations, each member holding a career in public service. Almost anywhere the sheriff went he was greeted by warmth and respect. He once joked that his body belonged to the townsfolk. Dan thought he should have been a politician in another life.

  The sheriff’s red cheeks puffed in front of him, and he resumed walking.

  “Thank God he’s all right,” he said. “Where the hell are the medics?”

  It was after 9 o’clock when Dan finally left the police station. At that point, there wasn’t much more he could do. Howard had been taken to the hospital to be stitched up, insisting that his co-workers stay behind. Dan had completed the necessary paperwork; the three remaining officers had documented the scene.

  Frank’s mangled body had been taken to the morgue shortly after. The coroner, Jonas Cutler, hadn’t offered much of an explanation. Even with an autopsy, he explained, it would be impossible to gauge the man’s motives. For now, he was chalking it up to a stomach full of alcohol and a bad temper.

  Dan pulled out of the parking lot. He contemplated calling his wife, but given the late hour, he decided against it. In the event his family had gone to sleep, he didn’t want to wake them—though he was certain Julie would be up, waiting for him.

  As he sped home, he tried to picture the plate of re-heated potatoes and ham that awaited him, but only succeeded in conjuring up images of Frank’s missing face. He blinked hard a few times, trying to get a grip on his stomach. Work was work, and home was home. He kept reminding himself of that fact. A few minutes later, he pulled into the driveway.

  The Lowery residence was a quaint, single-story home situated on a slightly wooded lot. The front lower half was comprised of red brick, the upper made of white wood panels. Two elm trees sat in the front yard, providing a nice contrast to the desert backdrop. On the right side of the house was a two-car garage.

  Dan felt above the visor for the garage remote, and then reconsidered, parking the cruiser where he had pulled in.

  He’d leave the garage doors closed, just in case they were asleep.

  He exited the vehicle, locked the car door, and started up the walkway. A dim light was on in the dining room. He felt a sense of relief wash over him. It was good to be home.

  3

  Howard winced as the nurse threaded the first stitch. The pain was actually quite bearable, but he wasn’t a fan of needles. He looked away and concentrated on a diagram on the wall. A row of letters and numbers lined the poster, each varying in size and shape.

  “Can you read all of them?” The nurse smiled at him. She was a cute blonde, probably no more than twenty-eight, if he had to guess.

  “Let’s see, A, F, G. Yep—got ‘em all.” He grinned, flexing his bicep.

  “You’ll have to stay still, sir.”

  “No problem, ma’am,” he said.

  Howard thought back to the last time he had been in the hospital, back in Sacramento. That was when he had received the gunshot wound to his calf. Now, that was some scary shit. This is nothing, he reminded himself. Nothing at all.

  He should’ve known better than to go near Frank’s cell. He’d known something was going to happen tonight.

  He closed his left eye and tried reading the letters on the chart backwards. He realized that the patients who took the test were probably farther away, but it felt good to practice nonetheless. Howard was on a constant quest for perfection, always striving to keep his mind and body active.

  He closed both eyes as the needle wove in and out of his arm. He could feel a steady pinching even though he had been given an anesthetic. He pictured his arm slowly coming back together, and tried to dispel the image of Frank’s face coming apart.

  “All set!” the nurse said, standing up proudly.

  Howard wondered how many times she had given stitches before. From the look in her eyes, she was quite impressed with the work she had done.

  “Looks good!” he confirmed, but figured he wouldn’t have known the difference either way.

  The nurse beamed and put away her supplies.

  “Hey, if you ever get bored, I work at the precinct downtown,” he said. “You should stop by. Ask for Howard.”

  “Definitely!” She smiled, but her blue eyes remained on the equipment. A few seconds later, she handed him a sheet of paper. “All of your post-care instructions are listed here on the bottom. We’ll see you in two weeks to remove the stitches.”

  Howard thanked her and slid off the chair. He retrieved his cap from the table, and exited into the hallway.

  The emergency room waiting area was surprisingly quiet. Two rows of red plastic chairs lined the walls, all of them empty but for a few magazines that had been left on the seats. Behind the front desk, an older woman sat with her back to the room, scribbling away on some paperwork.

  A television hung from the ceiling, displaying the local newscast. The sound was barely audible, but Howard could make out the story from the tagline below. The reporter was covering the town’s yearly festival. Several residents had planted a variety of trees on the center green. The caption switched a few seconds later to an alert on a recall of ground beef.

  “I could go for a burger,” he mumbled to himself, wishing he were hungry.

  He exited through the automatic doors and back into the night.

  Howard drove aimlessly for a few hours, rounding the streets of St. Matthews in the police cruiser. He should probably go home, but home felt like the wrong place to be. For a second, he considered calling Dan, perhaps stopping in for some ham and potatoes, but thought better of it.

  There was no time for that now.

  A glimmer of pain rippled up his arm, and he loosened his grip on the steering wheel.

  For a Friday night, the streets were unusually empty. Normally, he would find himself stuck behind some drunk who was driving far less than the speed limit, painfully aware of the cruiser behind him. Tonight, he was greeted by no
thing more than the traffic lights and an occasional foot traveler.

  Howard circled the town several times before he realized where he was headed. He pulled into a small side street tucked in the commercial center of town and turned off his headlights. A row of brick buildings loomed overhead, the adobe cracked and worn from both time and lack of concern. A few patrons were standing in the alleyway, but quickly dispersed when they saw the patrol car. Howard noticed that one of them pointed in his direction. It looked like the man had mouthed the officer’s name.

  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 had much more important things to do. Nathan leered at him, preening a scruffy white beard. “Yeah, that’s right. You got nothin’ to say now, huh?”