“I’m not sure. Let’s go. Carefully.”
He pulled them onward. When they reached the front door, he inched it open with his forearm. The road in front of them was deserted. The station wagon was parked just as he’d left it, a blue beacon in an otherwise demolished landscape.
Dan pushed the door open the remainder of the way. The hinges squeaked, echoing into the street and the surrounding buildings. Without the hum of electricity or the din of traffic, the entire city had become a conduit for sound, and he shuddered at the disturbance.
Before they could proceed, footsteps sounded, and he pushed the girls back inside.
He pressed his back against the open door. The beat grew louder. Clutching the pistol between his palms, he snuck a glance into the street.
To his surprise, the source was immediately apparent. Rather than one of the creatures, the footsteps belonged to a man.
The man was running in a full sprint down the middle of the street. He was wearing a black jean jacket and dark jeans, sporting a thick shock of black hair and several days worth of scruff. Dan knew the man from town—he’d been arrested multiple times for theft. The man’s name was Reginald Morris. By the looks of it, the man had somehow survived the infection.
But what was he doing out in the open, and why was he running?
And more importantly, what was he running from?
Dan stuck his head back out in the open, but saw nothing in pursuit of the man. Reginald had quickly closed the gap between the bakery and the front of the bank. His feet pounded the pavement, and his breathing was loud and uneven.
The man threw a glance over his shoulder, then at the bank, locking eyes with Dan.
“Reginald!”
Dan stepped out into the open and waved his hands, but the man continued, ignoring his cry. Reginald tore up alongside the station wagon, tried the handle, and flung open the door. Then he jumped inside.
“What’re you doing?” Dan shouted.
Dan dashed into the street, frantically trying to stop the man, but it was too late. The door locks had already clicked shut and Reginald had started the engine.
Before Dan could react, the man peeled off down the street, leaving a plume of exhaust in his wake.
Quinn and Sandy ran up behind him, both of them yelling as well.
Dan wiped his hands across his face, resisting the urge to scream out in frustration. Even if he did, there’d be no one to blame but himself.
He’d left the keys in the car on purpose, to allow his daughter a means of escape should something happen to him. He’d had no idea that she would end up leaving the car, no idea that she wouldn’t think to take the keys.
More importantly, he couldn’t have predicted that another survivor would stumble across them, using the opportunity to rob them of the only thing in the world they had left.
It was a chain of events that, in retrospect, could only be credited to bad luck.
Dammit.
“What are we going to do?” Quinn whispered.
He hesitated.
“We need something else to drive.”
The task would be a lot more difficult than it sounded. By the looks of it, many of the vehicles had been damaged or crashed. Of those that were untouched, not all of them had keys. Even if they were to procure another vehicle, they’d lost their entire stock of uncontaminated food and drink.
Dan struggled to keep his composure.
“We’d better get moving,” he said.
Before he could take a step, Sandy stopped him.
“I know where he’s going.”
“Who?”
“Reginald. The man who stole your car.”
“You know him?”
“Yes. He’s one of the survivors I’ve been staying with.”
Dan eyed her with suspicion. “Why didn’t you say something earlier? Why didn’t you yell out to him?”
“I tried, but it all happened so fast. If he’d seen me, I’m sure he wouldn’t have driven off. He probably came looking for me.”
“Do you know where he went?”
“Yes. He would’ve driven back to the lumberyard.”
“Is that where you’ve been staying?”
“Yes.”
“How many of you are there?”
“Ten.”
Sandy looked at him, her eyes tearing up.
“I had no idea Reginald would do this. We all agreed that if we found more survivors, we’d do our best to help them. I can’t believe he stranded us.”
Dan sighed. “I’m not surprised. In fact, I know Reginald pretty well myself.”
He briefed the two of them on Reginald’s background, as well as the man’s run-ins with the law.
“I only met him two days ago,” Sandy said. “He seemed nice enough. This is my fault. If I hadn’t gotten stuck up there—”
“Don’t worry about it, Sandy. We’ll get the car back. The lumberyard is only a twenty-minute walk from here. We’ll just have to be careful.”
He glanced down the street, which was still devoid of movement. Even though the area appeared to be clear, he knew it was far from safe.
Given the noise they’d created—both from their encounter with the creatures and their encounter with Reginald—Dan was certain more things would be right around the corner.
As if on cue, a series of crashes erupted from the adjacent block.
He motioned the girls onward.
“Let’s go. There’s no time to waste.”
8
Meredith stared at the three bodies on the ground in front of her. After Sheila passed, she’d covered them with sheets, placing them next to each other in the barn. It seemed like the decent thing to do.
The last thing she wanted was for the animals to get at them.
In a normal situation—if a situation like this could ever be called normal—she would have left the bodies in place and waited for the police. But the circumstances were far from normal, and her instincts told her help wouldn’t be coming soon.
She wasn’t sure if it would ever come.
Meredith staggered outside into the field, letting the warm sun glance off her face. For a moment, she convinced herself that all of this was imagined, that she was lying in bed, about to awaken.
But each time she glanced back into the barn, the sheets were still there, and so were the people underneath.
Her closest neighbors—Ben, Marcy, and Sheila—were all dead, and Meredith was alone.
She wandered back into Sheila’s house in a daze, her mind still reeling, and stepped through the kitchen and into the living room. On top of an antique looking table was an equally old-looking television, and she hit the power button and turned it on.
Static.
She hit the channel buttons, flipping from station to station, but came across nothing but black and white fuzz. Gone were the newscasters with their warnings and speculations, gone were the televangelists with their prophecies of doom.
It was as if Meredith was the last person on earth.
She turned off the set and walked back to the phone, once again dialing every number she could think of. The phone rang and rang.
She hung up the receiver, hands trembling. After a few seconds, she wandered over to the window.
Meredith could see the road from here. The asphalt was long, flat, and empty. Not a car going in either direction. If something widespread were happening, wouldn’t she see someone trying to escape? Wouldn’t someone eventually drive by?
The only thing she could think of was that they were all stuck in a situation like her. Either they were infected, or they were being attacked by someone who was.
The thought made her shudder.
Regardless of where everyone was, there must be police somewhere. And even if they were preoccupied, she needed to let them know what had happened.
She glanced over at the front door, which still hanging open from where Ben had crashed into it. A breeze had begun to blow over the fields, and the door
creaked on its broken hinge, swaying back and forth in the gentle air.
She dug out her car key and walked toward it.
The center of town was a few miles away.
Her best option—her only option—was to head to Settler’s Creek and look for help. There were bound to be people there. There had to be. She’d find whomever she could, then locate the police and tell them what happened.
She’d made it halfway across the living room when she paused. If she were going into town, she’d need a weapon.
“The rifle,” she said aloud.
She doubled back outside and to the barn.
The rifle lay right where she had left it, and she picked it up, carried it with her. She’d only gotten as far as the door when she thought of something. In the time she’d collected the rifle and headed for the door, a name had crossed her mind.
John Parish.
Of all the phone numbers she’d dialed, his hadn’t been among them.
It’d been six months since they two had seen each other, and even longer since they’d spoken. Their breakup hadn’t exactly been on the best of terms.
Still, regardless of what had transpired between them, shouldn’t she at least try to call him?
What if John was there? What if he needed help?
She gripped the rifle in her hands, still wrestling with the idea, and strode toward the pickup. Even under these circumstances, the thought of phoning him had her stomach twisted in knots.
She pictured his chiseled face, his dark hair, the hint of stubble that seemed to be permanently affixed to his cheeks. She’d fallen for him. Hard.
And he’d done nothing but betray her.
She thrust the image of his face from her mind, continuing toward the vehicle. His store was located right on the edge of town, about fifteen minutes away. She’d have to pass by it on the way in. If he were there, she’d stop and make sure he was ok.
But what if he was in trouble now?
Meredith’s stopped mid-stride. Before she knew it, she’d detoured past the truck and ran the front door.
She would dial his number once. Make sure he was all right. He probably wouldn’t answer anyway. Nobody else had.
She snagged the receiver from the wall and punched the numbers by heart; surprised she still remembered them.
How could I forget?
The phone was silent for a minute as it connected.
The dead air felt like an eternity.
Finally, the other line rang, and she could feel her fingers shaking on the hard plastic, her heart thudding in her chest.
Would it be worse if John answered, or worse if he didn’t? What would she say to him?
She pressed the phone to her ear, afraid that she might miss his greeting. The phone rang and rang.
On the sixth ring—just as she was about to hang up—someone answered.
“Hello?”
The voice on the other end was hoarse, barely audible.
“John?”
“Meredith? Is that you?”
His voice wavered as he spoke, and she could hear banging and clattering in the background.
“Are you all right? What’s all that noise?”
“I tried calling you…” His voice trailed off.
“I’m not at home. I’m at Sheila Guthright’s house. Something happened to her, John. She’s been—“
A crash sounded from the other end of the phone, and Meredith jumped in surprise, almost dropping the receiver.
“John, what’s going on over there?”
“Meredith…there’s something I need to tell you…”
The noise had risen to a crescendo; John’s voice was barely audible. Meredith clutched the phone tight, suddenly terrified that she’d lose contact with him.
“John? What is it? Can you hear me? I need you to stay on the phone.”
A hiss washed over the other end, drowning out the man’s response. Meredith’s heart hammered, and she screamed his name into the mouthpiece.
“John! Don’t hang up!”
All at once the noise subsided. She strained her ears, waiting for the man to speak again, but all she could hear was the sound of him breathing on the other end. Finally he spoke.
“I’ve always loved you, Meredith,” he said.
There was a gunshot, and then the phone disconnected.
PART TWO – THE NORTH STAR
9
Dan, Quinn, and Sandy navigated the streets soundlessly, deadening their footsteps as they walked. The town contained an eerie calm, as if the three of them were on stage, an invisible audience watching from the shadows.
Aside from the pack of creatures they’d seen inside the bank, they’d yet to see any others, and the quietude was making Dan nervous. Every now and again he’d hear a distant crash or a footfall, but each time nothing appeared.
It was as if the creatures were biding their time, waiting for the right moment to strike.
The three of them were currently on Vanderbilt Street, an offshoot of the main road that ran through St. Matthews. All around them were brick commercial buildings and small service shops. Despite his ten years in the community, Dan realized he’d never paid much attention to them. Now it seemed like they were impossible to ignore.
To his right were a vacuum cleaner store, a woodworking company, and a jewelry maker. To his left a salon, an art gallery, and a historical museum.
It was as if these places hadn’t even existed before today, and had sprung to life only to complete the picture of the perfect town.
And St. Matthews had been the perfect town. Or pretty damn close to it.
Sure, the town had had its problems. But the good had usually outweighed the bad. Dan had never regretted his decision to move to St. Matthews, and he was sure Julie hadn’t, either.
Together they’d built a life here, providing a stable home for Quinn and working in professions that were satisfying and rewarding.
Now, the town was a grim reminder of a life torn apart. Not just for him, but for the several thousand other residents who once lived here.
It was time to get out. There was nothing left for them here.
Dan crept through the broken street, keeping a cautious eye on his surroundings. Each new block presented a host of dark hiding places, and he did his best to scrutinize every one. Behind him, Quinn and Sandy had linked hands, and he could hear their bated breath as they walked the pavement.
Ahead of him were cars spun sideways, signs bent and hanging over, and a slew of paperwork and discarded clothing. There were also bodies—some sitting upright in vehicles, as if they might fire the engines and drive away—others lying in the middle of the street. Unlike a few days prior, the bodies had started to decompose, their limbs picked at by the birds.
So far, the cars they’d seen had been crashed, but Dan kept his eyes peeled for a vehicle they could use. Being on foot made him feel open and exposed, and the feeling was unsettling.
They’d already travelled several blocks from the bank; the lumberyard was a few miles away. If they could reach it without incident, he’d persuade Reginald to return their car, either by conversation or by force.
Whatever it took.
Dan peered into a pickup truck on the side of the road. The windows were smashed and the airbag deflated. By the looks of it, the truck had crashed into an older-model Buick, and the Buick sat empty at the side of the road. Unlike the pickup, the Buick appeared intact, sporting only a dent in the rear bumper.
Dan crept to the driver’s side window and peered in. A set of keys dangled from the ignition. The only passenger was a body in the passenger’s seat.
The girls had stopped behind him, and they stared, awaiting direction.
He held up his pointer finger.
“Hold on,” he mouthed.
The window of the vehicle was rolled up. The driver’s door was locked, but he could see an open window on the other side. He made his way over.
Once on the other side, he reached over th
e sill into the passenger’s seat, avoiding the lifeless body that resided there. The corpse was a woman’s, and her bloodied, matted hair reminded him of the bristles of a broom. Her face was sunken in and gray, her features obscured by the onset of decay.
Dan hit a button and unlocked the doors.
The click made him jump, and he stared over his shoulder at the street, certain he’d have awoken something nearby. The coast was clear.
The girls stood at the trunk of the car, doe-eyed and nervous, and he gave them a nod for reassurance. Then he reached across the lap of the dead woman and turned the key.
The engine rumbled and fired.
“Let’s go, girls,” he said. “In the backseat.”
Given the noise of the vehicle, they had to leave. At the same time, he didn’t want to ride with a dead body. He ripped open the passenger’s side door and grabbed hold of the dead woman, intending to place her in the street.
To his dismay, the woman’s clothing snagged; despite his efforts, he was unable to move her. It took him a minute to realize she had her seatbelt on.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered.
The girls had already scooted into the rear of the vehicle and were watching him, hands clutching the seats. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Quinn glancing out the back window. He continued to tug at the body.
“Dad!” she yelled suddenly.
His fingers froze on the seatbelt latch, and he followed her gaze. It didn’t take him long to notice what she’d seen.
The street behind them had filled with creatures.
Moans and footfalls filled the air, a cavalcade of the things tumbling forward over cars and debris to get to them. There was no time to delay.
Dan clambered over the woman’s body and pulled the door shut behind him. When he reached the driver’s seat, he kicked away a pile of papers and trash underfoot and found the gas pedal.
Then he put the vehicle into drive.
The Buick hesitated, and for a split second, Dan feared that it was more damaged than he thought. Come on, dammit. He pushed the pedal to the floor. A second later the car lurched forward and out into the road, and he wrenched the steering wheel away from the curb.
Contamination (Book 4): Escape Page 5