The two raced toward the exit, Sam taking the lead. The bathroom had filled with an awful, metallic odor, as if the businessman’s blood had seeped out of the stall and into the walls around them.
When they reached the door, Sam kicked it open with his foot, and a breeze poured in from the outside. He immediately stopped in his tracks.
Standing in front of them, body blocking the doorway, was another one of the creatures. In an instant, Sam’s worst suspicions were confirmed.
There were more of them.
The creature stood half in shadow, grinding its teeth. Several had been cracked, and pieces of white bone fragment hung on its lower lip. A few bits of hair quivered above his mouth, red bristles that had once been a moustache.
The thing surveyed the bathroom, eyes resembling two pieces of charcoal.
Kendall stepped toward it and swung the bat, but he was too late. The thing had already spotted Sam and charged.
The creature thrashed wildly at the Sam’s face, and he fell back into the bathroom on his palms, kicking to fend it off. Its breath was hot and rancid, and he turned his head to avoid the saliva that dripped from its mouth.
“Get the hell off me!” he screamed.
While he struggled for freedom, Kendall ran up behind the creature and swung the bat, connecting with the thing’s shoulder blade. Sam heard a piece of bone shatter, and the creature writhed and fell to the side.
Sam took the opportunity to get out from under it. He thrust the thing off of him, then scooted backwards across the floor toward the stalls.
“I’ve got it, Sam!”
Kendall raised the bat for another blow.
The creature swiveled to face him. Before the kid could swing again, it latched onto the bat and ripped it from the kid’s grasp. The bat fell from his hands and clattered against the urinals.
“Hang on!” Sam shouted.
Even though they were both hopelessly outmatched, he had an idea. He just hoped that Kendall could hold out for a few more seconds.
Instead of getting to his feet, Sam arched his fingers underneath the first stall, and slid his body underneath. As he did so, the creature turned and started in his direction.
Sam glanced up quickly, noticing that the plastic lock had slipped into place on the stall he was in. It must’ve accidentally been engaged as someone had slammed the door shut. Thank God.
The door rattled violently, the latch loosening as the thing tried to get inside. Sam slid farther. He curved his body around the base of the toilet and into the next stall. The floor reeked of cleaning products. He held his breath and continued on.
He was just about to slide underneath the last stall when the door to the middle stall flew open and the thing appeared above him, snarling with anger. He gave the creature a swift kick, knocking it back a few steps, and then pulled himself into the last stall. The back of his shirt bunched up with the wet blood that streaked the floor.
The stench from the dead body had gotten worse. Sam balled himself into the small space beside the toilet, doing his best to ignore the dead man. Instead, he reached for the pistol.
The gun was slippery in his hands, and he clung onto it, aiming it for the stall door in front of him. A second later the door opened, and Sam grit his teeth and squeezed the trigger.
The resultant blast was deafening. The shot connected with the thing’s head, and he watched it tumble to the floor, limbs flailing, and give one last kick.
After that, the creature was still.
14
Delta waved her cellphone in the air as she drove, searching for a single bar of service. There was none to be had. The highway rolled out before her like a stiff piece of parchment paper, dry and devoid of life. Unfortunately, she wasn’t familiar with the roads. In fact, she’d printed directions and placed them on the seat next to her, anticipating that she might lose her phone’s navigation.
With no service, her only option was to drive for help.
Images of the dead body flashed in her mind, deepening the fear that she’d felt at White Mist. Over the past few years, she’d realized that reflecting on things could be worse than actually experiencing them. In life, time was forced to obey scientific laws, to contain a decisive beginning and an end. In one’s mind, a thought could repeat itself indefinitely.
She’d never seen a dead person. The figure had seemed surreal, as if the man were going to wake up, wipe the crusted blood from his mouth, and explain what had happened. It was hard to grasp that the man would never speak again.
The rifle sat on the seat next to her. She wondered again if it was loaded, but she wasn’t even sure how to check. When she stopped next, she’d search for the tire iron, just in case. Of course, she didn’t plan on stopping until she had reached a police station, or spotted someone she was sure could help.
Delta surveyed the side of the highway, half-expecting to see Sam Cook crawling away on all fours, wounded and in need of help. Where had he gone? Even though they’d never met, she felt a sense of kinship to the man. She prayed that he had made it out of the town unharmed.
Up ahead a sign appeared, indicating that she was coming up on the Arizona Visitor’s Center. She sighed with relief.
Something hurtled to the side in the trunk, and Delta instinctively looked in the rearview mirror. The trunk was closed. No other cars were behind her. She refocused on the road, watching the streetlights flashing by in monotonous rhythm.
Her eyes closed slightly, and she fought to stay awake. She’d stopped only three times in ten hours, and she was utterly exhausted. Even after what she’d seen her body still clamored for sleep. She pinched herself on the arm, snapping herself to attention.
A pair of dots appeared in her peripheral vision. She looked back at the mirror, expecting to see a car behind her. But it wasn’t a car. Delta jolted upright, a cold chill washing over her.
Somebody was looking at her from the backseat.
Delta’s heart stammered, skipping beats in her chest. Her knuckles turned white on the steering wheel. The eyes persisted, looking right at her. Waiting. She curled her nails into her palms, sure that the pain would awaken her.
But Delta was hopelessly awake.
“Who’s there?” she whispered, tears starting to flow down her face.
She loosened her grip on the steering wheel, and let her right arm slowly drift toward the rifle. The car veered off the road, but she kept her foot on the gas. Even though she was virtually defenseless, she sensed that stopping the car would result in immediate attack.
Her fingers grazed the gun barrel, and she felt for the other end. She was inches away from it. The figure continued to stare, unmoving. She grabbed hold of the gun. She started to lift it, angling it towards the backseat.
A cold pair of hands grabbed her neck, and she screamed. She thrust the rifle backwards, felt it connect with something soft behind her. She kicked for the brake pedal, but in her panic, she was unable to find it. The hands persisted, pushing into her jugular and forcing the breath out of her lungs.
Without thinking, she released her other hand from the steering wheel, prying at the fingers on her neck.
The Chevy went into a spin in the middle of I-40.
Delta tried to cry out, but no sound escaped her lips. The hands tightened around her neck, and her windpipe closed. The steering wheel spun wildly from left to right.
She jabbed the rifle into the backseat, making contact with something. An eye? A nose? She couldn’t tell. The attacker hissed with each blow, but refused to let go.
The Chevy spun in circles, and she felt the contents of her stomach rushing upward into her esophagus. She needed to stop the car. She needed to find the brake. Her right foot found the pedal, and she stomped it hard. Then she whipped the rifle backwards one last time, as hard as she could. The
butt-end of the gun connected with her attacker’s face, and she heard a sickening crunch.
One of the hands slipped off her neck, and she gasped for air. The blood rushed to her head in waves, and she fought the overwhelming urge to pass out.
The vehicle ground to a halt.
The figure in the backseat flew sideways, colliding with the passenger rear door. Delta sucked in short bursts of air, her neck aching. She threw the car into park, opened the door, and fell out of the car and onto the highway.
She aimed the rifle at the backdoor. The attacker thrashed against the interior, trying to get to her. One of its limbs smashed the dome light, and it tore at the seats. Finally it leapt into the front. When it located the open door, it stopped and stared out at Delta. Its red eyes blazed, and its mouth hung agape. She squeezed the trigger on the rifle.
Nothing.
“Fuck,” she whispered.
She swiveled the gun around, blocking her body with the butt end. The thing sprang at her, and suddenly its hot breath was against her face, its knees pinning her to the road. In the dim lighting, the thing was just a silhouette, but she saw a thick scar gleaming from its neck.
The thing clawed at her arm, breaking the skin. She pushed it back with the rifle, and when she’d gained clearance, she swung at its face. The first blow stunned it, and it fell backward. She sprang to her feet and pummeled it with the rifle.
Before she knew it, she was screaming, bashing the weapon against its face.
She felt its face cave in, saw the eyes collapse into its sockets and the cheekbones shatter. She continued to beat into it until her arms were sore and the thing had lost any discernible features.
When she finally stopped, Delta was sobbing. The rifle clattered onto the highway, and she held her hands over her face.
15
When Noah heard the gunshot from inside the Visitor’s Center, he bolted upright. He stared past the main room, down the corridor, but Sam and Kendall were nowhere in sight.
What the hell was going on?
Heart galloping, he felt for the driver’s side door handle and threw open the door. The last thing he wanted to do was leave the safety of the van, but his companions were in trouble.
He needed to help them.
He jumped out of the vehicle, his feet clapping the cement, and slammed the door shut behind him. He scanned the parking lot, but there was no sign of activity. The SUV was silent and still, holding vigil for an owner who might never return.
Noah raced across the walkway, the homemade shiv clenched in his hand. Despite being armed, he knew his weapon would be no match for a gun. He just hoped his companions were all right, and that he wouldn’t have to use it.
From what he could tell, the gunshot had originated from the men’s room. He sprinted as fast as his legs could carry him, keeping an eye on his surroundings.
The pavement felt foreign beneath his feet. It’d been several hours—maybe more—since he’d gotten out of the van. His legs were stiff from lack of use, and his arms felt spongy from his post at the steering wheel.
As he stepped into the Visitor’s Center, he noticed some of the plastic trays—the ones containing tourist information—had been shattered, spilling into the corridor beyond. Dozens of colored pamphlets were scattered across the ground.
He stepped around the debris and made his way into the corridor.
He’d only gotten several steps when the men’s room door swung outward and crashed into the wall. Startled, he stopped short, raising his weapon in the air.
Sam and Kendall emerged in front of him, yelling and shouting.
“Noah! Back in the van!”
The two raced by him, tugging the sleeves of his shirt. Noah spun and followed them, his breathing ragged. He glanced behind him, but saw nothing but shadows.
Even so, he was sure they were running for a reason.
On the way back to the van, Noah noticed a jagged piece of plastic jutting out from beneath one of the flyers—a potential weapon. They could use all the help they could get. He bent down to pick it up, stepping on an opened newspaper.
The headline seemed to jump off the page.
Urgent Recall On Ground Beef Products Per FDA
Contaminated Food Not Safe For Consumption
Noah snapped up the paper, still running, and scanned the text underneath the caption. The tainted product had been discovered in several southwestern states, including New Mexico and Arizona. Beneath the feature article was another, smaller headline.
Santa Fe Couple Murdered Along I-40
He thought of the single tractor-trailer they had seen in White Mist. ‘All-American Beef’. His head started to spin, but he couldn’t figure out how it was all connected. He fumbled with the newspaper, attempting to stuff it into his pocket, but it fell to the ground. He had no time to retrieve it. He needed to press onward. His friends were already several steps ahead of him.
“Come on, Noah!” Kendall shouted.
Noah picked up speed toward the parking lot, stopping only when he’d reached the van.
16
Sam felt the road whizz beneath them as the van careened out of the Visitor’s Center parking lot. His nose was still clogged with the scent of ammonia from the men’s room. It clung to his nostrils and burned the inside of his throat, and he struggled to breathe. He’d since replaced his t-shirt with one of Kendall’s and discarded the previous garment that had been drenched in the businessman’s blood. Now he was trying to forget what had just transpired.
He was still in shock that he’d shot the creature in the men’s room—a living being, as real as the passengers in the seats around him.
Sam counted the miles they had driven since leaving his home. He calculated it to be about twenty or so. Though it had been only a couple hours, he felt White Mist becoming a memory, fading in and out with the passing lights over the highway.
Since he left the gas station, he’d been running on pure adrenaline, which had kept him alert and aware—albeit confused. He felt like his body had reached a breaking point, and was demanding a reprieve from the intense mental and physical exertion.
Sam closed his eyes. The streetlights pierced his eyelids, flashing images like Rorschach cards into his subconscious.
Once again, he was in White Mist, watching the man with the scar cling onto the gas pumps with dagger-like fingernails. Then he was back in the Visitor’s Center, watching the thing loom over him in the bathroom stall, its face rabid.
He shook his head, trying to clear the visions that resided there. He needed to preserve his strength for when they found help. Explaining the past few hours would be difficult. Who would believe what they’d witnessed, or what they’d been through?
He turned his mind instead to his wife and daughter. Karen and Chloe. He envisioned the last picture he had taken of them just hours before the fire. It was the one he had chosen to give to the New Mexico Herald. The reporter had asked for a picture of the victims. The request came only a few minutes after they were pronounced dead.
Sam remembered his anger towards the reporter. Sending over a photograph seemed like an acknowledgement of what had happened. He hadn’t been ready. It had been too soon.
Although he fought the urge to relive that day, the memories came flooding back.
“Karen, are you almost ready? This boat is going to leave without you!” Sam called through the front door. They weren’t really driving a boat, or even towing one, but he liked to joke that their minivan was better equipped for water than the road.
“Coming, dear!” his wife called from somewhere inside—probably the bathroom.
“No problem—just lock up behind you!!” he called back.
Sam went around to the back of the vehicle, inspecting their luggage. He’d packed it neatly, with bags and b
oxes carefully lined up like a jigsaw puzzle. Satisfied, he slammed the door shut and headed for the front.
Chloe smiled at him from the passenger seat.
“You going to make Mom ride in the back?” He laughed. He was flattered that she wanted to ride up front with him. Although she was twenty-four, in his head she was still his little girl.
“She’ll get over it.” Chloe shrugged.
Sam was sure his wife wouldn’t mind. She was one of the most easy-going people he had ever met. In fact, it surprised him how little they had argued over the years. Sometimes he wondered whether she was keeping a list of everything he had done wrong, waiting to pull it out when she had finally had enough.
Sam surveyed White Mist, trying to suppress his anxieties about leaving it behind for a week. It would be the first time his family had travelled as a unit since purchasing the property. His cousin, Joe—one of the few people he fully trusted— had agreed to look after the store while they were gone. Still, he was uneasy.
Karen finally emerged from the trailer home, carrying a small handbag. Her long dark hair fell to shoulder-length across her back, and her tan arms flexed as she locked the door behind her. At forty-six, she was four years his junior, but she appeared even younger. Her body was in great shape. She sported some of the best legs he had ever seen: long and brown, a product of both consistent exercise and her Native American ancestry. He was surprised when she had agreed to marry him.
“The backseat, huh? I’ve been demoted!” She wrinkled her nose.
Sam pulled out of the parking lot. Although he didn’t know it at the time, it would be their last family trip.
After driving for half a day, Sam, Karen, and Chloe had been exhausted. They’d decided to spend the night in a motel in Oklahoma City. They’d already driven halfway to their destination, and the place seemed as good a place as any to find cheap residence for the night.
Contamination Box Set [Books 0-7] Page 13