8
QUINN RAN UNTIL HER CHEEKS were red, her stomach was tight, and her legs began to tire. She fought the urge to look back, fearing that someone would grab her if she did. Surely, whenever the scuffle ended, somebody would come looking for her. Maybe even to kill her. Her heart leapt against her ribcage. She needed to get help—and fast.
She hadn’t dared stop at the neighbors. The noise would have attracted immediate attention. Something told her she needed to get farther away in order to have a fighting chance.
Behind Shunpike Lane was another street—she forgot the name, but it was a nice road, and full of houses. Often, she would ride her bike there, watching the families and children. She used to dream about living there someday. The houses seemed nicer in that neighborhood. Now the houses hung in the distance: dark shapes that seemed strange and unfamiliar. She’d never been there at night.
Quinn wondered what time it was. It must be late—not a single house seemed active. The one closest to her had a small picnic table in the backyard. She could make out a dim glow from one of the back windows, probably from a nightlight. The Anderson family used to live here, but someone new had moved in last month. Her mother had been meaning to stop in to welcome them to the neighborhood. Back when things had still been normal.
There was a sliding glass door in back, but she realized knocking would make her visible to anyone behind her. Instead, she walked past the picnic table and began to cut through to the front yard. As she did so, the rear light flicked on. She stopped suddenly and turned back to face it.
A shadow stood behind the glass, surveying the lot outside. The lights inside the house were off, so Quinn could only make out a silhouette. The person remained still except for their head, which swiveled from side to side. Quinn hugged the side of the yard, hidden from the glow. She wanted to cry out, but her inner voice told her to stay still.
The shadow began to slide its hands down the glass, as if wiping at some unseen condensation. Its fingers were long and curved, and it rapped at the pane with its fingernails. She wondered if the hands’ owner was a man or a woman. The person seemed to move unnaturally—unlike anyone she had ever seen. Without realizing it, she held her breath.
Quinn looked to her left, where another house sat in silence. If anybody else had been awakened by the light, they hadn’t let on. Across the street, she made out another row of houses. They remained still. She looked back to the patio window.
The head and hands had stopped moving. She squinted, and could now make out a pair of ovals where the person’s eyes should have been, reflecting in the moonlight. They seemed to be staring in her direction.
Quinn had been spotted.
She started to run, letting out bursts of breath as her legs kicked into gear. Behind her, she heard the sound of a sliding glass door being thrust open.
She crossed the side yard and into the front, the dry grass crunching under her feet. Although she wanted to look back, she pushed on. She entered the roadway, heard another pair of feet hit the grass behind her. She pictured the long fingers swaying at the person’s side, preparing to wrap around her neck like pieces of rope.
Hurry up, Quinn, she thought. Something wet hit her cheeks, and she realized she was crying. She wished her mother and father could be here, that they could help her. But they were in on the whole thing. Whatever the thing was.
She was on her own.
Pavement gave way to grass again, and she flew up the walkway to the nearest house. She banged on the door and rang the bell at the same time.
“Help!” she tried to call out, but her words were raspy and weak.
Footsteps slapped on the pavement behind her, drawing ever closer. She didn’t have time to wait. Keep moving, she thought. Quinn stumbled through the darkness to the side of the house, heading deeper into the property. When she hit the backyard, a voice echoed from the front. She dared to glance behind her.
“Hello? Who’s out there?” the person called.
The front lights came on, and she heard the homeowner open the screen door. Her pursuer stopped in the road.
“What do you want?” the homeowner asked.
The figure hovered in the street, arms at its sides. Quinn gripped the edge of the house, wondering if the shadow could still see her. She hoped not.
“I’m going to call the police!” the homeowner threatened. It was a man’s voice, and his words rang with fear.
The figure crouched now, its arms hanging low to the ground. It hissed into the night, and she pictured a tongue as long as its fingers, sliding across a pair of razor-sharp teeth. She kept quiet, wondering if it could hear the sound of her heartbeat. It certainly seemed loud to her. She drew a breath and held it, wishing as hard as she could that she were invisible.
The figure began to move, arms swinging at its sides, heading for the front of the house. The homeowner continued to yell, but the figure ignored his warning.
Quinn moved along the side of the house, toward the front, until she was right at the edge. She could make out the homeowner now—it was Mr. Philips, one of her neighbors. His white hair gleamed in the porch light, and he was leaning out into the night, waving one arm at the intruder. Mr. Philips had helped her fill her bike tire once when she had gotten a flat. He didn’t seem quite as friendly now.
“What the hell?” he yelled.
Before he could react, the figure was on him, pulling him out of the house. She heard ripping sounds as it tore at his chest, and then screaming as Mr. Philips fell to the ground. His hands flew up to protect his face, but the figure cast them aside, wrapping its fingers around the man’s skull and its thumbs pushing into where his eye sockets would be.
Quinn held back a sob. She wanted to help. But what could she do? She was only ten years old. The thing was screeching now, and she saw blood splash onto the door. Quinn covered her eyes and cried—for her mother, for Mr. Philips, and for herself, knowing that she would never reach another birthday.
9
HOWARD REACHED THE HOUSE IN minutes, his boots pounding hard on the grass. A single light faced outward in the backyard, revealing a picnic table and an assortment of lawn chairs. The sliding glass door had been left open, as if someone had recently exited or entered.
He held his gun in front of him, watching for any signs of activity.
“Police!” he shouted through the opening.
He was met with silence. He advanced a few steps—and then heard a scream pierce the night air. It sounded like it was coming from past the house, across the next street. Howard swiveled and worked his way around front, toward the source of the noise.
His arm brushed his side, and he squirmed in pain. He sprinted past the house and into the road, ignoring the burning in his bicep. Directly ahead of him, illuminated by a porch light, a figure was bent over another man, unwrapping his insides and pulling them onto the walkway.
Howard aimed his gun in front of him, approaching the assailant and victim. The victim had been mutilated beyond recognition—his face condensed into a soupy puddle of blood and eyeballs. The walkway was stained with flesh and innards, and the figure sifted through the remains with delicate fingers.
The suspect looked up and raised its hands in the air, dangling pieces of detached skin. Its eyes blazed into Howard, devoid of life, eerily reminiscent of the look Julie had given him earlier.
Howard squeezed the trigger, firing a round into the figure’s head. It slammed backwards into the door, and he fired twice more into its chest. The emotion he’d felt before was fading.
He was already starting to feel the way he had felt with Frank.
Things were going exactly as planned.
Several lights appeared around him, and Howard tensed up. Heads peered through windows and doors cracked cautiously open. In the distance, behind the house, he heard the sound of a little girl screaming. The noise faded into the distance, her cries softening with each step.
In an instant, he knew it was Quinn. And he knew exactl
y where she was headed.
Quinn was on the move again. This time, she wasn’t going to stop. She had a destination in mind. She wasn’t sure why she hadn’t thought of it before, but she was sure glad she thought of it now.
She wasn’t ready to die. Not yet.
She kept running, dragging her feet like dumbbells. She screamed when gunshots rang out behind her, but continued on. A few sparse trees swayed in the wind, pointing her onwards, leading her from one street to the next. Only a few more neighborhoods to go, and she would be there.
Her throat started to burn. The doctor said she had mild asthma—not the kind that you needed to use an inhaler for, but enough that she should take it easy. In gym class, she was often excused from the more rigorous activities. She felt herself gasping for air now, but she did not slow down.
Ahead, she saw a familiar house on the horizon. She only needed to cross one more street to get there. Her feet hit pavement once again, and she prayed that she had outrun whoever might be following her.
Up ahead, Sheriff Turner’s patrol car sat in the driveway. She wiped the tears from her eyes and felt a sense of relief wash over her. The house was dark, but he must be home. He had to be. She ran up the front steps and mashed her hands against the doorbell, hearing it ring inside the house. After a few seconds, she heard footsteps plodding through the house.
Thank God, she thought.
Quinn doubled over, her pulse beating through the side of her neck, and tried to breathe deeply. She needed to calm down so she could explain what had happened. She looked back, but saw no signs of her pursuer. The door creaked open behind her, and the familiar figure of Sheriff Turner filled the doorway.
“Sheriff,” she tried to speak, but no sound came out.
She ran inside the house, under his outstretched arm, and motioned for him to shut the door. The lights were off, and she edged towards the couch, looking over her shoulder to make sure no one was following her inside. Though it was dark, rays of moonlight filtered through the windows and into the living room. Her foot struck something on the floor, and she paused suddenly and looked down.
Mrs. Turner’s body lay in the center of the rug, curled up in a ball. An awful odor rose from the body. She looked dead.
“W-What happened?” she whispered, turning.
Sheriff Turner stood in the doorway like a statue, his arm still propped against the frame. It appeared he hadn’t moved since letting her inside. At the sound of her voice, his body came to life, and he let the screen door slam shut. He lifted an enormous leg and began to move towards her.
“Sheriff—it’s me, Quinn Lowery,” she said, backing up against the couch.
The man started to wheeze, placing one calf in front of the other, shaking the living room with each footstep. Beads of sweat glistened from his forehead and rolled down his face. She backed up farther, hitting the couch and falling to a sitting position.
She began to cry.
The sheriff made a grab for her leg, and she swung it upwards and out of reach, letting out a stifled scream. She threw her arms over the couch and began to pull herself to the other side. Something sharp on the fabric ripped at her leg, and she cried out. She slid over the couch and onto the floor, just as Sheriff Turner landed on the cushions in front. His weight slid the couch backwards and into her shins, and she screamed in pain.
She limped towards the kitchen. A large lamp hugged the wall at the entrance, and she threw it down behind her to create a barricade. The Sheriff grunted as he regained his footing. Quinn forged ahead, avoiding the kitchen table and heading for the back door. She reached it and fumbled for the handle.
The doorknob turned, and then stopped. The door was locked. Her hands slid wildly around the knob, and she finally found the button on the center, twisting it sideways and releasing the catch.
The door wouldn’t budge. It must be dead-bolted.
Sheriff Turner was in the kitchen now, making his way toward her, and she began to panic. Her eyes were starting to adjust, and she searched for anything she could use as a weapon. The counters contained a mess of appliances—a toaster, a blender, and some dirty dishes—but nothing of use. It was too late. He was upon her now, and he flung his arm forward, reaching for her head.
Quinn tried to duck, but not in time. She felt a piece of hair rip from her scalp, and her eyes stung with pain. She scooted on the floor, the vinyl cold on her fingertips and knees, and slid her way across the kitchen and back into the living room.
There was a door on her right, and she yanked it open and slammed it shut behind her, wedging herself between a mop and bucket. She held the inside handle, waiting for it to turn in her fingers, and choked back a sob.
On the other side of the door, she could hear the Sheriff knocking over the kitchen table and chairs, destroying his own belongings to get to her. She imagined what would happen when he found her hiding in the closet, weaponless and alone. Her eyes welled up, and she began to shake.
10
HOWARD RACED TOWARD SULLIVAN AVENUE. If he’d calculated correctly, the road was about four blocks away—cutting through backyards, of course. He could have returned to his cruiser, but he would have lost precious time.
I should probably return home, he thought.
But something pressed him onward. Whether it was the adrenaline or the taste of the night air, Howard felt more alive than he had in years.
And that feeling was keeping him going.
He perked up his ears, listening for signs of the girl. He hadn’t heard any screaming now for a few minutes. Either the girl had wised up, or she had already reached her destination. The thought struck him that she may have fallen prey to another attacker.
As he ran, Howard wondered if he had guessed correctly as to her whereabouts. If she had taken another turn somewhere in the dark, it would be almost impossible to find her. He would need to use the spotlights on his cruiser.
As he passed through the next street, he saw lights flicking on from the houses around him. Presumably the homeowners had heard the commotion. In several doorways, he noticed shadows staring at him, and he began to feel an even deeper sense of unease.
The grass crunched underfoot, fried from the desert heat and lack of water. He imagined that if he stopped to inspect it, he would see Quinn’s footprints leading the way. The radio crackled in his ear, breaking his concentration.
“Howard, you there?” Mickey said.
Howard reached up to his shoulder and silenced the radio.
As he finally reached the fourth street, he noticed all the lights were off. There was no sign of activity among the residents. Perhaps Quinn had veered off in another direction, or she had stopped screaming just shy of Sullivan Avenue, leaving its residents blissfully asleep. He glanced farther up the road, and squinted into the night. His initial observation had been incorrect. One set of porch lights was on, near the end of the road. Now that he had noticed them, they seemed to illuminate the house in the night like a beacon.
Sheriff Turner’s patrol car sat in the driveway.
Either his boss was getting ready to leave the house—already made aware of the night’s events—or else a little girl had knocked on his door just short of midnight. Howard crossed the road, running now.
He drew close to the car, holding his gun in front of him. The screen was shut, but the storm door had been left open. As he started up the walkway, he heard a tremendous crash from inside.
“Sheriff?” he called in.
The banging continued. A girl’s shriek rang out from within. Howard threw open the door, leading with his pistol, and entered the living room. A massive shadow hugged the back of the room. It was ramming against a door on the other side.
“Police! Hold it right there!” Howard yelled.
He reached to his left, feeling for the light switch. Thankfully, his memory served him well, and the room lit up. He had been to the Sheriff’s house plenty of times, but never on police business. His jaw dropped as he surveyed the scene
.
The first thing he saw was the body of Mrs. Laney Turner. The woman was facedown in the middle of the room, her head caved in. The busted frames of her glasses lay beside her, stuck to the wood floor in a collage of blood. Clumps of her hair covered the carpet.
Sheriff Turner stood behind the couch, his hands raised above his head. Black streaks covered his eyes, as if they had been injected with vials of India ink. He had ripped open the hall closet, tearing the frail wooden door from its hinges, and it now lay sideways by his feet. His massive figure concealed the majority of the doorframe, but Howard could see through his legs.
Quinn Lowery sat amongst the cleaning products, arms tucked over her head. She whimpered as she saw him, as if he, too, had come to attack her.
The sheriff grunted, turning his attention to the new visitor. He began to move towards the front door.
Howard gritted his teeth and fired the pistol. He continued to squeeze the trigger, firing one round after the next, until he had emptied the entire clip into his boss. The bullets riddled the fat man’s body, pulling corks of flesh from his stomach and spilling red fluid beneath. The sheriff’s eyes rolled in his head, and he collapsed with a thud onto the floor.
The girl began to bawl. She put her head between her legs, hair billowing over her knees. Howard looked at her and then at the body on the floor. The sheriff lay in a pool of blood, his dead wife just ten feet away. Howard felt nothing.
Nothing at all.
He lowered his gun. For the first time that night, a sense of calm swept over him.
“Come with me,” he said to the girl. Although he didn’t realize it, his lips had curved upwards into a smile.
Howard and Quinn walked in silence. The girl trailed behind, sniffling quietly to herself, but didn’t utter a word.
After taking care of the sheriff, Howard had warned Quinn to keep her composure and remain quiet. He instructed her to stick to his side as they made their way back to the Lowery residence. He’d been harsh, but it was what she needed to hear. The gunshots had attracted enough attention.
Contamination (Books 0-3) Page 4