Contamination Box Set [Books 0-7]

by Piperbrook, T. W.

  Of course, soon the creatures would die, too.

  Brown wasn’t sure how long the infection was supposed to last, but he had heard it would be quick. A few weeks at most. In the interim, the Agent soldiers were flushing out any survivors, making sure the streets were clear. Prepping for the new world.

  A world that Brown hadn’t signed up for—one that he wanted no part of.

  The vehicle in front of him slowed to a stop. Winters waved for Brown to pull up to the window.

  “I called in the plates on the station wagon we saw earlier. The owner lives a few minutes from here. Follow me.”

  The other SUV took off, tires screeching. Brown hit the gas and peeled out behind it. He wished he could take a sudden turn and disappear somewhere in the desert. At the same time, he knew that he was being monitored. All roads leading out of town were sealed off. His chances of escape were slim to none—even if he got away, he would only be sealing his family’s fate.

  Instead, he cruised through the residential streets, watching over neighborhoods that had once been filled with families and laughter, the streets now littered with bodies of the dead.

  He saw Winters put on his turn signal, probably out of habit, and then pull into one of the driveways. Brown pulled in after him and shut off the engine. He grabbed his rifle and reached for the door handle.

  Winters had already exited his vehicle. The home was a modest one-story, with a two-car garage built into the side. The bay doors were open.

  There were two police cars outside—one in the garage, and one on the front lawn. The cruiser on the front lawn was filled with blood and gore. Inside the car, Brown saw what looked like the bodies of a police officer and one of the creatures.

  “The front door’s open,” Winters yelled. “I doubt anyone’s home. Wait here a minute.”

  He watched the other soldier disappear through the front door. He had noticed the man’s demeanor had changed since the pharmacy—he seemed more vibrant, alive.

  Probably because he’s on the hunt again, Brown thought. What a sick fuck.

  After a few minutes, Winters appeared at the front door, holding his rifle in the air.

  “Nothin’ but bodies,” he said, crossing the yard and approaching Brown’s window.

  “Ok.”

  “Don’t sound so enthusiastic, Brown.” Winters snorted. “I have some ideas. The owner is a cop. I think I saw his wife dead in there, so he’s probably good and pissed off.”

  Brown felt his heart sink. “I would think so.”

  “We can check the police station to start. His wife worked for an accountant in town, so we can check there, too.”

  “Got it,” Brown said unenthusiastically.

  “My guess is he’s still in St. Matthews, since no one has caught him trying to leave yet.”

  Brown let out a nervous sigh and tried to keep his composure. Not only were they hunting down innocent people, but now they were going to kill a police officer?

  “If none of those places pan out, it looks like there’s a salvage yard on the outskirts of town. Maybe they’re holed up there.”

  Brown nodded his head, surveying the ruined yard. He fixed his gaze on the cruiser. Inside, the dead police officer stared back at him—a horrid reminder that in this new world, all order had been erased.

  Sam kept watch for two hours, all the while contemplating what he had heard in the storage container. By the time his shift had ended, the last rays of daylight had started to disappear over the distant hills, spawning an even greater sense of unease. In the dark, the group would be even more vulnerable to attack. It was bad enough that they had to watch for creatures coming from outside the fence; now they weren’t even safe within it.

  Ever since the discovery, Bubba had been keeping a close eye on him. For the past two hours, the salvage owner had been stepping out of the shack at regular intervals, shotgun in hand, pretending to inspect the yard. Each time, he would give Sam a long, hard glare, his eyes shooting daggers across the lot.

  Sam pretended not to notice. He did his best to stay calm and collected, even though his mind screamed otherwise. Now that his shift was officially over, he would tell Dan and the others. No matter what the cost.

  He walked across the roof of the RV, doing his best to pad his footsteps. He hadn’t seen the salvage owner in a half hour or so. If he could sneak back to Dan and the others without Bubba noticing, he might have a chance at a few minutes alone with the others.

  Once at the top of the ladder, Sam rested his pistol in front of him and placed his hands on the top metal rung. All was still quiet in the yard. He reclaimed his firearm and climbed down, placing one foot below the other and testing each rung before putting his full weight on it. The ladder was quiet, keeping his cover. He let himself down gently into the dirt and backed away from the RV.

  The sleeping quarters were about a hundred feet away.

  Despite being non-operational, the vehicles in the lot had been parked strategically. Most sat about ten feet away from the fence, leaving a buffer between the perimeter and the inside of the yard. The middle area was open. Sam could either make his way across the center, or travel behind the parked vehicles. He chose the latter path.

  He gripped his pistol and stepped softly in the gravel. He made his way from one car to the next, passing a Ford Tempo, a VW Bug, and a Toyota Forerunner. All had been totaled—back windshields shattered, mirrors removed, bumpers dented and destroyed. In a few of them, he saw what appeared to be bullet holes; Sam wondered if they were evidence of Bubba’s run-ins with the creatures. A few steps farther, he noticed piles of shotgun shells littering in the dirt.

  Perhaps the cars had been used for target practice.

  Given the area’s seclusion, Sam imagined that the owners must need something to do to pass the time. The theory gave him a mental image: he pictured the obese man firing round after round into the vehicles, his mouth full of food and tobacco.

  Sam looked down at his feet, stepping around the bullet casings. He was behind a pickup truck now. He paused behind the bed to catch his breath. Sweat streamed down his face, a combination of heat and nerves. The pistol felt slippery in his hands.

  Click-click.

  “Where do you think yer going?”

  Sam spun, but it was too late. Bubba stood before him, sneering down the barrel of a raised shotgun.

  Sam froze, trying to think of an answer.

  “Back to the others. I was going to see if somebody could take over for me. I’m getting tired.”

  “Is that the best you can come up with? I see the way you’re sneaking around my vehicles. Trying to steal something, huh?”

  Bubba stuck his chin out, parted his lips, and let loose a stream of tobacco through his front teeth. The brown substance landed in the dirt a few feet away.

  “I don’t care how Dan knows you. I don’t take kindly to thieves,” he said. “Come to think of it, I think it’s time you all got moving.”

  Sam wrinkled his forehead, confused. Was the man delusional? The entire town had been wiped out, and they were being accused of robbery? Bubba grinned, revealing a row of stained teeth.

  “Let’s go tell your friends. I think you folks have overstayed your welcome.”

  When Dan sat up, Quinn was already awake and sitting on the floor beside him. She held a pile of blankets and was spinning a bottle cap she had found on the floor.

  “Are we ever going to go home, Dad?” she asked. She let the cap twirl to a stop, watching it fall on its side.

  “I’m not sure, honey. We’ll have to see.”

  “I don’t like it here. I miss Mom.”

  Quinn’s eyes welled up. Dan felt himself begin to tear up, as well. He reached out, pulled her close, and tried his best to remain strong.

  Hushed v
oices met his ears from the rear of the vehicle. When he looked back, he noticed Delta and Noah sitting on a single bench seat. They paused and met his stare, and then gave him a solemn nod.

  “Is Sam still keeping lookout?” Dan asked.

  “Yeah, he mentioned coming back in soon to rotate.” Noah looked at the floor. “When he gets back, I need to talk to you all.”

  “Is everything ok?”

  Noah didn’t answer. Delta glanced at him, and then spoke.

  “He’s leaving us to find his family. They’re in Portland.”

  Dan sat up.

  “Do you think that’s a good idea? With those men out there, those things…?”

  Noah nodded. “I need to go. Bubba is going to give me one of the pick-up trucks in the yard. He said it isn’t in great shape, but it should get me there.”

  “When were you planning on leaving?” Dan asked.

  “In the morning—early. Hopefully that will give me some cover, and I won’t have to go through town in broad daylight.”

  Dan stood, still keeping hold of his daughter.

  “I can’t stop you, Noah, but I don’t think this is a good move. It’s too risky.”

  “I’ve thought this through, Dan. I need to go. It’s something I have to do.”

  Dan shook his head.

  “I strongly advise against it. But if you insist on going, you’d better make sure you have weapons and some food that’s safe to eat. I think Quinn and I are going to tough it out here for a while. I don’t want to head out just yet—not until we can figure out a better plan.”

  “I understand.”

  Bam-bam-bam!

  A loud banging erupted from outside the RV door. Dan spun and withdrew his pistol, throwing his daughter behind him.

  “Who’s there?” he yelled.

  “It’s Bubba! I have your friend!”

  The door swung open, revealing a frightened Sam. Bubba stood behind him holding a shotgun to the back of his head.

  “What the hell are you doing, Bubba?” Dan yelled.

  He felt Quinn’s nails digging into his back. He raised his pistol and aimed it at the salvage yard owner. Bubba’s expression darkened, and his eyes filled with rage.

  “I want all of you out of here in five minutes or I’m going to start shooting!” the fat man barked.

  “Put the gun down, Bubba. Let’s talk,” Dan said, allowing his police training to take over.

  He had known the man for years—what could he be thinking? And yet, he had known Howard for just as long.

  And look how that had turned out.

  Maybe the infection had taken hold of Bubba. Perhaps he was fighting off the contaminant, losing some internal battle. Either way, the prospect of shooting the man sickened him—especially in front of his daughter.

  “If you don’t drop your weapon I’ll blow this man’s goddamn head off,” Bubba said. His hands shook.

  “Ok, I’m putting down my weapon. Just step out of the RV, away from the little girl. I’ll follow you outside, and we can talk.”

  Dan bent down, placed his pistol at his feet, and stood with his arms above his head. Bubba stared at him long and hard. Finally, he relented. He inched back out into the night, taking Sam with him.

  13

  The St. Matthews police station contained no human survivors. The lockers had been cleaned out, the weapons taken, the rooms torn apart. Brown and Winters had found a few of the creatures wandering through the building aimlessly. Winters had disposed of them with several well-placed shots to the head.

  They had also found the body of Howard Barrett, the Agent who had been stationed in St. Matthews. His body had been ripped almost in half, his insides pulled across the station floor.

  “This is what happens when you get careless, Brown,” Winters had said.

  After leaving the police station, they had checked the accounting firm. There they had found another body and evidence of a struggle. The carcass of one of the creatures had been stuffed behind a desk. Using his flashlight, Brown noticed trails of blood on the floor where the body had been dragged.

  “It was them,” Winters had said, convinced. He had then punched the wall, making a hole in the plaster.

  Brown had remained silent, trying his best to blend into the scenery. On one hand, he had felt relieved that they had come up empty-handed; on the other, he was becoming more and more frightened for the survivors.

  Winters’s rage seemed to grow with each passing minute.

  Now, as the two SUVs drove into the desert, fast approaching the city limits, Brown found himself praying that the survivors had somehow slipped out of St. Matthews.

  One of them is a cop, he reasoned. The man must know the town inside and out. Surely they’re long gone by now.

  He focused on the road ahead. The streetlights had become sparse; the darkness had deepened since they had left the city. He flicked on his high beams, lighting up a sign on the side of the road.

  “Salvage Yard — 2 Miles.”

  Brown felt a knot building in the center of his chest. Beneath the sign, he saw a lump of clothes that resembled a body. In front of him, Winters accelerated—as if sensing they were on the right track.

  Please God, let this place be empty, Brown thought.

  The road narrowed, giving way to a portion that was unpaved. The sound of gravel crunching under the tires was unnerving, and Brown fought to suppress his anxiety. He could just make out a fenced-in structure in the distance, but he didn’t see any lights.

  That doesn’t mean there aren’t any occupants inside.

  It was possible the survivors had seen them coming—had fled into the desert and were already in hiding. That would be the best-case scenario, he thought.

  He let his foot off the gas and coasted to a stop. Winters was a lot less reserved. He squealed up to the entrance of the salvage yard, kicking up a cloud of dust. Brown watched him jump out of the car and point his rifle.

  “Don’t fucking move!” he screamed.

  The headlights of the first SUV illuminated a ten-foot-tall chain-link fence, beyond which was a dirt lot filled with junked vehicles. The top was covered in barbed wire; the gate closed and presumably locked.

  Behind it, a fat man pointed a shotgun at Winters.

  “Stay back!” the man hollered.

  Two other men stood next to him. Brown recognized them as some of the survivors from the station wagon. To his surprise, they held their hands in the air, as if the fat man had been in the midst of threatening them.

  Brown sat in the vehicle, frozen.

  “I said drop your damn weapon!” Winters yelled again at the fat man. “Brown, get the fuck out here!”

  But Brown was unable to move. His hands gripped the steering wheel and his right foot clung to the brake pedal. His heart thrummed like a jackhammer. He moved his lips to speak, but no words came out. This wasn’t good.

  He watched the standoff in a state of panic, as if he were merely a spectator waiting for the scene to unfold. Winters held his ground. The fat man’s forehead dripped beads of sweat, but he kept his aim.

  The yard fell silent for about a minute as the two glared at each other, each waiting for the other to make a move. The other survivors inched slowly away from the scene.

  Winters took a step forward.

  The fat man fired.

  The gun blast sprayed through the fence, penetrating the SUVs. Windows shattered and debris flew, bits of metal and plastic raining onto the dirt. One of the headlights went out, obscuring Brown’s view of the lot.

  He heard the clanging of metal and the ricochet of gunfire all around him. Both Winters and the fat man were shooting.

  After a few seconds the shooting stopped, and the yard was plunged into silence.
A thin layer of smoke and dust wafted into the air in front of the remaining headlights.

  Winters groaned.

  Brown pried his hands from the wheel, peering out into the desert night.

  Winters had fallen to his knees. He clutched his stomach, coughing up blood and spittle onto the ground below. Brown called out to him, but the man didn’t answer.

  He stared past him into the darkness and contemplated getting out of the vehicle. He looked for signs of the fat man, but could only see a few feet past the fence.

  Where were the others? Should he get out and try to assist his companion?

  Even if he could help Winters, he felt no obligation. The man had put him through hell—had destroyed his life, taken his family. He deserved this, right?

  Yet the man’s groans made Brown sick to his stomach. They pierced the night, increasing in fervor and agony as the man embraced what could only be his death throes.

  After a few seconds, Winters collapsed into the dirt, unmoving. His white coat was covered in blood, and his legs were sprawled out behind him. Brown waited for a sense of relief—a sense of closure. Instead, he felt a deep sense of fear. He was officially alone.

  An eerie silence descended over the salvage yard.

  I need to get out of here, he thought. If anyone is alive behind that fence, they’ll be gunning for me. And frankly, I don’t blame them.

  Brown moved his right hand down to the shifter. He felt for the lever, pressed it. A sharp pain suddenly washed over him and he realized that his stomach was damp.

  Had he been hit?

  He looked down, but was unable to see clearly. Before he could put the SUV in reverse, a voice called out through the fence.

  “Step out of the vehicle or I’ll shoot.”