Contamination (Books 0-3)

by T. W. Piperbrook

  “Dad, I’m scared!”

  “We’re going to get out of here, and we’re going to get help,” he assured her.

  She clung on to his shirt, crying now. His heart felt like a stone in his chest. She looked into his eyes and nodded. Dan moved towards the front door, carrying the tote bag. He lifted the metal rod from the holders and unlocked it. Through the screen, he could see the swarm of creatures getting closer.

  “Oh my God…” Quinn whispered.

  “Don’t look. When I open the door, run straight to the car.”

  He handed her the key, and gave her one last look before pushing open the screen door. His daughter took off in front of him, and he prayed that he had made the right decision in leaving. He threw the tote bag into the front yard, and retrieved the pistol from the floor. He then slammed the door shut behind him and stepped outside.

  Quinn was almost at the car already, her legs pumping against the walkway. She carried the cooler in front of her. She was at the passenger’s side door now, unlocking the vehicle. The creatures broke into a run, fanning out across the street. Dan grabbed the weapons bag and began to sprint. Adrenaline coursed through his arms, and he held the pistol sideways at the approaching mob.

  The tote bag tangled in something, and he stopped short, losing his grip on it. He glanced behind him. The creature from the backyard had snagged it, and the thing dove into him, clawing at his leg and pulling him onto the grass. Dan yelled in surprise, and the gun flew from his hands.

  “Daddy!”

  Quinn had opened the car door, but instead of getting inside, she stood next to it and yelled his name.

  “Get in and lock the doors!” he cried out.

  The creature locked its grip on his pants, and he felt nails dig into his skin. He kicked backwards at it. He was pinned. Quinn got back in the car and shut the door behind her.

  Footsteps hit the grass around him. The others had entered the property, and he heard them groaning in unison. He pushed up from the ground, trying to shake the thing loose. The creature clung on to his back, unrelenting.

  The car horn sounded.

  Dan looked to his left. A few of the creatures started to move towards the cruiser.

  “Quinn—no! Don’t draw their attention!”

  He wrenched his back to the side, and the creature began to loosen its grasp. He swung an elbow backwards, felt the crunch of bone behind him as it connected with the thing’s face. Suddenly he was free.

  Dan regained his footing and stumbled toward the car. Several other creatures lunged in his direction, but he weaved from side to side, dodging them.

  Finally he reached the driver’s side door. Quinn had stopped hitting the horn, and she threw open the door to allow him access. He jumped inside.

  Quinn had already started the engine. Dan threw the vehicle into reverse and careened out of the driveway, the car door still swinging open behind him.

  19

  DAN MANEUVERED THE CRUISER THROUGH St. Matthews, the streets lifeless and empty. Even in the daylight, porch lights still burned in front of some of the houses. Doors were left open; windows were smashed. Quinn sat upright in the passenger seat next to him biting her nails.

  They passed by a carcass on the side of the road. A few birds picked at the remains, and then scattered at the sight of the approaching car. Farther ahead, a creature emerged from a driveway, holding a fistful of hair. Quinn stared, unable to look away.

  “Close your eyes,” he said, knowing she wouldn’t.

  Dan continued driving toward the outskirts of town. The houses grew more infrequent. He looked down at the gas gauge, which showed that the tank was half empty. They would need more than that to have a fighting chance. There was a gas station about a mile up the road—the last one in town before heading into the White Mountains.

  He saw it now, up ahead, and he pulled into the parking lot next to the pumps, hoping they were still operational. He grabbed a pistol from between his legs and left the car running. Although he had lost the tote bag at the house, he had hidden one gun in the car. Thank God, he thought.

  The gas station was deserted. The front windows had been smashed, and items of food and clothing were strewn across the front entrance. Dan scanned in all directions, finding nothing. He opened the car door, gripping the weapon, and popped the gas tank.

  The pumps appeared functional—their lights indicated the price of gas, and options for payment. Dan pulled his wallet out and removed his debit card. He chuckled slightly. Even at the end of existence, the oil companies were still making out like bandits. He contemplated going inside to search for supplies, but decided against it. He had risked enough. They needed to get as far away from St. Matthews as possible.

  Dan topped off the tank, and then opened the trunk, where he kept a gas can. He filled it to the top, replaced the spout cap and put it back in the vehicle. He got back into the cruiser and locked the door.

  “Dad?”

  “Yes, honey?”

  “Where are we going to go?”

  “Away from here. Things will be better once we get out of town,” he said.

  “Do you promise?” Quinn looked at him, her eyes wide.

  “I promise.”

  Dan pulled out from the gas station and into the road. Up ahead, Route 191 wound up into the mountains, providing a bridge to the outside world. He hit the gas and felt the car accelerate, and then rolled his window down, letting in the fresh morning air.

  They have to get better, he told himself. They sure as hell couldn’t get any worse.

  TO BE CONTINUED...

  Contamination 1: The Onset follows another group of survivors as they struggle to escape the chaos...and to discover the truth about what is happening.

  Dan and Quinn return in Contamination 2: Crossroads!

  BOOK ONE: THE ONSET

  DEDICATION

  Dedicated to CED, for your never-ending support, and to CBA for setting this thing into motion.

  PART ONE—EXODUS

  1

  White Mist, New Mexico

  Population: 1

  SURROUNDED BY WHIPPING SAND AND dust, the brown sign stood resilient at the town’s perimeter. Sam Cook could still make out the faded sticker that had been placed over the single numeric digit on its face, even though it had been a few years. That was how the DOT amended things these days. If a change were small enough, a patch would suffice to update the information.

  He could’ve requested a new sign—hell, he was now the only resident of the town. But the thin border around the number reminded him of the sign’s previous digit. It was one he did not want to forget.

  He imagined a byline that should have been placed underneath:

  White Mist, New Mexico

  Former Population: 3.

  Sam had only lived in town with his wife and daughter for two years before the tragedy had occurred. Together, they’d rebuilt the historic log cabin store, turning it into a small-scale tourist attraction. Purchasing the town had been a lifelong dream, and they’d poured all their efforts into it.

  Because the White Mist store contained a post office, it qualified for its own zip code. Several families had once resided there, but they’d long since relocated. The previous owners were an elderly couple from Iowa. They’d decided to sell the property when the upkeep became too much to handle.

  Sam’s family had spent long hours renovating the property, and he was proud of what they had accomplished. He liked to think that after a few short years, the White Mist Trading Post had become not only a pit stop for gas and beverages, but a piece of history and a symbol of the American West.

  A bit of a stretch, perhaps. But now the store was all he had.

  The shelves were adorned with a variety of commemorative merchandise: White Mist shirts, mugs, key chains, and hats. It didn’t cost much to produce them, and they helped tremendously in keeping the place afloat, and in keeping his family clothed and fed.

  Of course, now there was only one mouth
to feed.

  At the moment, the store was empty. Sam wiped a trickle of sweat from his brow and paused. In front of him was a half-empty shelf of dried noodles. On the floor was the box of replenishments. He needed a break.

  He moved towards the screen door at the entrance, listening to the floor squeak underneath him. The door seemed ready to expire; it creaked on its hinges, begging for relief. The place needed work. He tried his best to keep it up, but there was only so much he could do alone.

  He surveyed the empty parking lot in front of him. Beyond it was an equally deserted portion of I-40. The southwestern desert stretched endlessly for miles, composed of scorching, earthy landscape, with occasional patches of green that helped offset the brown scenery. In the distance, a few mountains rose skyward.

  On the horizon, he saw what looked like a tractor-trailer barreling down the interstate. The setting sun glinted off its hood, capturing the last glimmers of daylight in its grill. Overhead, a lone hawk circled, probably already watching its unsuspecting prey.

  The truck looked like it was slowing down. Sam used the top of his sleeve to wipe another bead of perspiration from his forehead, unknowingly smearing a line of dirt in a half-circle. He went inside.

  He heard the driver pumping the brakes, then the truck tires crunching to a halt. Through the screen windows of the store, he saw the words ‘All-American Beef’ emblazoned on the side. The driver’s window was rolled all the way up, and Sam was unable to see through the tinted glass.

  A sudden fear coursed through his body, making him shiver slightly.

  “What the hell?” he muttered to himself. “It’s gotta be like ninety-eight degrees out.”

  Sam had grown accustomed to talking to himself. It felt good to keep a monologue going, especially when no one else was there to judge or listen. In this case, however, the one-sided conversation was an attempt to calm his nerves.

  What was he afraid of? Trucks came through White Mist all day long, filling up on diesel gasoline, taking a break from the open road.

  But this one seemed different.

  Outside, the hawk swooped lazily. It had either lost sight of its target, or it was still toying with it. The truck sat in silence. There was no sign of movement from the driver.

  Sam glanced over at the floor, to the box of noodles. For some reason, he felt like he should continue to unpack it—to act as natural as possible. But that would leave him unprepared. For what, he wasn’t sure.

  Beneath the cash register, strapped underneath the shelf, he kept a loaded rifle. It had been there so long, he imagined it was covered with a layer of dust—hell, he wasn’t even sure it worked anymore. He mentally traced the steps from where he stood to the cash register.

  Six or seven steps. That’s what he’d need to reach the counter. Sam stood at six foot one inches and weighed 180 lbs. He had long strides.

  “This is ridiculous.” He forced a smile. “I’m being ridiculous.”

  As if in response, the truck door swung open with a groan, and a short man with a baseball cap hopped out into the parking lot. Sam jumped slightly.

  “Whew!” the trucker yelled to no one in particular. “It’s damn hot out today!”

  Sam breathed a sigh of relief. He considered going out to greet the customer. Instead, he stuck to the noodles.

  The trucker bounded through the door with a flurry of conversation. Sam imagined the man had been talking the entire trip, with or without an audience.

  “Howdy, sir! I need me a drink. It’s hot as blazes out there!”

  “Welcome to White Mist!” Sam welcomed him. “The cooler is to the left. Before you ask, yes—I am the population of one.”

  “I kinda figured that!” the guy chuckled. “But I’m sure you get that question all the time.”

  “You wouldn’t believe it!” Sam groaned. In truth, he liked the casual banter, the harmless jokes. It helped him take his mind off other, more serious things.

  The trucker brought his purchase to the register and paid in cash. Sam counted back the change and shut the drawer, watching him leave the store.

  He returned to stocking the shelf, lining up the noodles next to each other.

  I must be getting jittery in my old age.

  Either that, or maybe the isolation was starting to manifest itself as anxiety. In any case, Sam was looking forward to closing up shop in just a few hours and heading to his trailer home next door. It had been a long day, and he could use the rest.

  He didn’t hear his next customer come through the door until the screen creaked on its hinges and slammed shut.

  “Welcome to White Mist,” Sam called out. He smiled, and then decided to add: “The best thing west of Roswell!”

  He was greeted by silence. A dark figure had emerged from behind the shelf. The visitor seemed to have floated across the room.

  The man had a pale, lifeless expression. His mouth was clamped shut, and his face looked as if it had aged unnaturally, sucking his dark facial hair into the folds of his cheeks. A scar ran sideways across his throat. The skin around it appeared jagged and flaky, as if it had been picked at during the healing process.

  His black eyes seemed to pierce through the storeowner.

  The figure was not amused.

  Sam attempted to stand, tripping over the now-empty box of noodles beside him.

  The man with the scar didn’t move. His eyes flitted wildly around the store, as if someone had scooped them out of his head and had replaced them with two black marbles.

  “Can I help you?” Sam attempted. His own voice sounded foreign, as if someone else had spoken the words.

  The man’s eyes stopped roaming. Instead of answering, he moved towards Sam, his hands raised in what appeared to be attack mode.

  Sam wasn’t sure of what the man’s intentions were, but he wasn’t going to wait around to find out.

  Six or seven steps. That’s what I need to reach the rifle.

  Sam ran. Before he knew it, he’d travelled half the distance to the counter, and he dove to the floor and tore at the underside of the shelf, removing the rifle from its perch. He could feel his pulse thudding in his ears, his heart pounding in his chest.

  A loud crash rang out from behind him, but Sam stayed low, remaining on the ground until the noise had subsided.

  When it was quiet, Sam rose to his haunches and leveled the rifle over the counter, aiming at where his attacker had been.

  Only the man was gone.

  Two of the store’s shelves had toppled completely over, spilling their contents onto the floor, and several cans and containers spun where they had landed.

  The man with the scar was not among the debris.

  “Jesus.” Sam felt the air escape his lungs.

  Was he imagining things? Losing his mind?

  Either Sam was going insane—dreaming up the horrific figure and the ensuing chase—or somewhere his unknown assailant was plotting his next move.

  Although a part of him preferred insanity, he was cautious enough to believe what his eyes had told him. There had definitely been another customer in the store—there had to have been. Sam pictured the man now lurking in one of the store’s corners, black eyes darting wildly around the store, and shuddered. The rifle shook in his hands.

  “Hey mister!” A somewhat familiar voice rang from outside. “You all right?”

  Sam jumped at the sound. It took him a second to recognize the jovial tone of the previous customer. The trucker with the baseball hat, he thought. Through the screen of the front door, he could still make out the ‘All-American Beef’ logo in the parking lot. Had the trucker seen the assailant enter the store?

  Sam held his breath, resisting the urge to cry out. Although his attacker must surely know where he was, he didn’t want to betray his position. Just in case.

  The trucker pressed his nose up to the screen and peered inside. Sam saw a look of concern cross his face as he surveyed the scene.

  “You still in there, mister?”

/>   Get out of here! Sam wanted to scream.

  The man continued to peer inside. He raised his hand above his eyes to get a better look, tilting his baseball cap upward. Sam watched in slow motion, praying he would leave.

  Regardless of what was happening, one thing was clear: they were both in danger.

  Before Sam could warn the man, a shadow rose up from the interior of the store, and a fist swung up and shattered the trucker’s nose through the screen. Blood spurted through the meshing, spraying a red mist into the store. The customer flew backwards and landed in the dirt outside, shrieking in pain.

  “Holy Jesus!” Sam cried out. His palms were soaking wet now, and his hands slipped across the rifle. He aimed towards the entrance, his hands wobbly, but the shadow moved out of view.

  Sam ducked down, scanning the store for signs of activity.

  The attacker was here somewhere. He must be. He could feel the man’s presence, could sense him watching. Sam’s eyes roved the store, flitting from wall to wall. Eventually he focused on a nearby shelf unit. He heard a scraping noise from behind it, and he stared intently, waiting for a figure to pop into view.

  Without warning, the shelf unit began to slide across the floor toward the counter. It was filled with products, and must have weighed at least a hundred pounds. From behind it, Sam could hear the jagged breathing of the assailant.

  The shelf was being pushed right at him.

  Sam pulled the trigger on the rifle, firing off a round.

  A can of vegetables exploded from the shelf’s middle, sending pieces of wood throughout the store, but the shelf kept moving and collided with the counter.

  Sam ducked, shielding his face from the debris. Merchandise toppled to the floor, rattling and spinning. The shrieking outside had stopped. He imagined the man with the baseball cap must have passed out from the pain—or worse.