Contamination (Books 0-3)

by T. W. Piperbrook

  Silence wove its way through the store once again.

  Sam opened his eyes, rose from behind the counter. The screen door was swinging back and forth, broken off of one of its hinges. It looked like the attacker had departed through it.

  Once again his assailant was a step ahead of him.

  2

  KENDALL RAWSON HAD EXACTLY THREE hundred dollars to his name. He patted his front pocket to ensure that the wad of crisp twenty-dollar bills was still there. Even though he had a wallet, he didn’t trust the money to be anywhere but the snug pockets of his jeans. If he could avoid spending it on the trip home, he’d have just enough to cover his half of the rent.

  Noah Chambers, his roommate, manned the driver’s seat next to him. Together, they’d driven over six hundred miles in one day. Noah was sitting upright in the seat, occasionally sticking his head out the window to stay alert. He’d insisted on being the designated driver. Noah had rented the vehicle in his name, and the agreement had specified that he would be the sole operator.

  Kendall would have rented it himself, but he didn’t have a credit card.

  The van swerved to avoid a pothole, and the passenger side mirror shook with it.

  Kendall caught a glimpse of himself. He needed a shave. A few days worth of stubble seemed to have sprouted overnight, as if trying to match his shaggy blond hair. His right arm was covered in tattoos from forearm to wrist. In fact, both of his arms were—he’d always had an intense appreciation for art. To him, permanent ink was one of the strongest forms of expression. He took pride in knowing he had designed all of his tattoos himself.

  He grinned at himself in the mirror, wondering what he must look like to the average passerby. A few of his teeth on the bottom were sideways, and he had a small gap between his two front incisors, giving him a permanent look of mischievousness. He’d definitely received some guarded looks while on the road.

  “I need to wake up!” he yelled out loudly. Noah laughed at him.

  In many ways, his friend was his polar opposite. Pale and wire-thin, Noah sported khaki shorts, a purple t-shirt, and straight brown hair that fell evenly down the front of his forehead. A pair of black-framed glasses offset his simple style with a hint of modernity. They hadn’t known each other before becoming roommates, but they’d become fast friends.

  The two leaned their heads out the window in tandem, taking in the subtle breeze created by the vehicle. It was six o’clock in the evening, and they were just leaving Albuquerque. The move had taken longer than expected.

  Kendall thought back to the ad he had seen online, and shook his head in disgust.

  Vegas couple seeking driver for one-way moving trip to Albuquerque NM. Box truck or trailer needed. Good pay, minimal lifting required.

  In the initial phone conversation, the couple indicated that they were leaving the bulk of their furniture behind. According to the man, they’d be bringing mostly boxes, suitcases, and a few other odds and ends. When Kendall and Noah had arrived, they’d been informed that all of the furniture would need to be packed.

  “We decided to bring it,” the woman said sheepishly. “Sorry.”

  The couple had also failed to mention that the apartment in Albuquerque had doorframes that were barely wide enough to fit people, let alone bulky objects. Through some clever maneuvering, Kendall and Noah had finally been able to empty the van and trailer.

  Except the couch. The woman had decided against keeping it at the last minute.

  “We should probably buy a new one, don’t you think honey?”

  Her husband had nodded, probably too tired to argue.

  Kendall had agreed to take it back and sell it. That would be their compensation for the added trouble. He still wasn’t convinced it had been a fair trade.

  “It’ll be good to get home, at least,” Noah sighed.

  “Yeah, that’s for sure. At least it’s a straight shot back to Vegas. Then we’ll have to unload that couch.”

  Kendall flipped on the radio and encountered a wall of static. There weren’t many stations out in the desert. He turned the dial for a few minutes; finally he found one that played classic rock.

  He put his feet on the dash and rolled his head to the side, staring out the window. They’d left the city limits and the highway was barren. Miles of desert flew by, with little sign of civilization. Eventually, a boarded-up house whizzed by on their right, sectioned off by a wire fence. A few shredded rags had been tied to the wooden posts, perhaps marking something of importance to the previous owners.

  “Look at this place.” Kendall beckoned out the window. “Who the hell would want to live out here?”

  Noah laughed, shaking his head.

  Kendall held his cell phone out the window, staring at the faceplate. He raised it into the air, and then lowered it. Nothing. Apparently the cell tower service was as good as the radio reception. For a second, he considered dropping the phone onto the highway and watching it splinter into pieces on the road behind them. Piece of shit.

  It’d be good to be back in Vegas, indeed.

  “I should call my dad at some point and let him know we’re headed back,” Noah suggested. “You know, whenever you get service again.”

  “Yeah, no problem,” Kendall said, placing the device in his pocket. His was the only cell phone between the two of them.

  His roommate took a hand off the steering wheel and flexed it in the air.

  “You want to take a break soon?” Kendall asked him.

  “We’ll stop in a little while. We’ve got a half tank, but I’d like to keep it topped off to save wear and tear on the engine,” his friend explained.

  “I’d take over if you’d let me,” Kendall said. He chuckled when Noah pretended not to hear him, and then gave his friend a soft punch on the arm.

  The radio turned to static again. Kendall flipped the dial left and right, but found nothing. He cursed under his breath.

  “I’m starving,” Noah groaned, rubbing his stomach.

  His roommate pulled out a granola bar from a compartment in the dash and opened the wrapper. As he did so, a piece fell from his grasp and onto the floor. He tried to reach it on the way down. The van swerved slightly.

  Kendall felt something hit his feet with a thud. A baseball bat had rolled out from underneath the seat.

  “What’s this for?” he asked.

  “I figured we could play a little ball if we had some downtime,” Noah shrugged.

  “Do you even have a ball?”

  “Nah, I forgot it at the apartment.”

  Kendall laughed and tucked the bat back under the seat. When he sat up, he saw a sign whizz by for the next exit. He hadn’t caught the name of the town, but it looked like there was a gas station there.

  “Why don’t we stop?” he suggested.

  Noah put on his turn signal, and the van began to coast toward the ramp. The radio came back on, blaring a tune he didn’t recognize.

  3

  SAM REACHED UP TOWARDS THE counter, keeping one eye on the entrance. He kept a store phone on a shelf just above the rifle. He felt for the base with his hands and worked his way up to the handset.

  The phone was a rotary—an old school model that he had owned for about 30 years. These days, he didn’t need to make too many calls. In fact, it was the only phone he had on the property.

  The only phone in all of White Mist, he thought ironically. If the situation had been different, he may have chuckled at the realization.

  He placed the phone in his lap and picked up the receiver, balancing the rifle in between his legs.

  The line was dead.

  He clicked the receiver several times, but encountered the same result. He checked the plug. Everything appeared in order. Either something had come loose during the scuffle, or somewhere the wires had been cut.

  He felt the pit in his stomach swell. If the wires had indeed been cut, his situation was far worse than he had initially thought. It meant that the attacker’s motives were comp
letely premeditated, carefully planned. He had probably already surveyed the landscape before making a move, was aware of all avenues of escape.

  But why Sam? The storeowner had barely any savings. As far as he knew, he had no enemies to speak of. He barely even had acquaintances. In fact, the gas station and trailer home were the only property he owned, other than his truck.

  Sam replaced the phone quickly. His truck.

  He pictured the green Ford Ranger behind the trailer home, sitting in its homemade parking spot in the dirt.

  He was wasting time. He needed to get out of here and get help.

  Sam scrambled to his feet, making a sweep of the store with the rifle. He carefully stepped over the debris around him, intending to make as little noise as possible. The screen door creaked back and forth at the entrance, hanging sideways on one hinge. He hugged the wall next to it, looking for any signs of activity outside.

  As far as he could tell, the parking lot was empty, except for the lone tractor-trailer and the body of the trucker. In fact, the area seemed surprisingly undisturbed. To his left, he could see his trailer home. The windows were intact, and the door appeared to be closed.

  His truck should have been parked behind the building, out of view. He held out the hope that it, too, was untouched.

  The screen door swung inwards at him, blowing with the wind. He gagged at a trickle of blood that ran down the meshing. In just a few minutes, it had created a small puddle in the dirt below.

  The trucker with the baseball hat lay just beyond it. He wasn’t moving. His face was obscured with blood, almost unrecognizable from even a few feet away.

  Sam drew a breath and stepped sideways through the doorway. The gravel crunched softly underneath his boots. As he approached the fallen man, he resisted the urge to vomit.

  The trucker’s throat had been sliced open.

  Sam held his hand over his mouth and sprinted toward the trailer, swallowing back the acidic taste in his throat. He tried to focus on moving forward. He didn’t dare glance behind him.

  There was another issue at hand. The rifle he held was a single shot. Having expended the round in the store, he was nearly defenseless.

  He had a box of shells inside his bedroom closet, but in order to use them, he’d have to get to them. Sam cursed himself for not keeping them with the gun. In his three years of store ownership, he’d never felt unsafe in White Mist. In fact, a few times he’d contemplated moving the rifle itself into storage.

  He’d read a statistic somewhere about homeowners who had guns in the house. Although he couldn’t recall the figures, the result was that in most cases, the weapons ended up being used on the very people they were supposed to protect.

  Now, he swore at himself. Trust had always been his downfall. He’d always trusted that humanity held certain goodness, certain decency; that by treating others fairly, the same fairness would be bestowed upon him. Over the past few years, this notion had done nothing but betray him.

  He felt his right pocket. The familiar lump of his keys gave him a quick dose of relief. If he could make it to the truck, he might have a chance at escaping. But he still needed protection.

  He needed those shells.

  He leapt onto the single step that led into his trailer and tried the door. It was locked. He dug for his keys.

  Before opening it, he did a quick survey of the area. The lot was empty.

  He unlocked the door and swung it shut behind him, sliding the deadbolt into place. He moved his hand to the light, but quickly retracted it. If he hadn’t been seen, he didn’t want to announce his whereabouts.

  He tripped over a box in the entrance—a package he’d received earlier in the day. The brief thought occurred to him that he might never get to open it. He swallowed hard and continued inside.

  Sam had transformed the trailer home into a comfortable abode. Clever partitioning allowed for two separate bedrooms, along with a large living area and kitchen space. His furnishings were simple but adequate: a brown fabric sofa and television stand in the middle of the main room, and a few carefully placed pictures of the New Mexico desert on the wall.

  The window blinds were closed. This was normally the best way to keep the heat out. He had an old air conditioner that he used while he slept, but he kept it off during the day to keep down the expense. Both would help him keep his cover.

  He made his way to the main bedroom, where an open closet contained the shells he was looking for. He quickly loaded one into the rifle, and stuffed as many as he could carry in his left pocket.

  Something wet slid down from his nose. He wiped his sleeve across his face and looked down at it. A splotch of red now stained the arm of his white t-shirt. He must have been injured in the attack. He moved towards the bathroom.

  With the adrenaline pumping, he hadn’t felt any pain or indication that he might have been hurt. He needed to be sure that he hadn’t broken his nose or sustained other serious injuries. Luckily, the bathroom contained no windows. He shut the door and flipped on the light.

  Sam almost didn’t recognize his reflection. The man looking back at him had a smear of blood beneath his nose. Streaks of dirt lined his forehead, deepening his tan complexion. His light brown hair was matted down with sweat, and his normally soft brown eyes looked frantic. The few wrinkles he had seemed deeper than he remembered, betraying his age. Although only fifty-two, he felt much older at that moment.

  Thankfully, he didn’t appear to be seriously hurt. Not yet, at least.

  Two women smiled at him from a yellowed newspaper clipping that he had taped to the mirror. The older one had long, dark hair, and green eyes. The younger looked upwards, her face creased in laughter.

  Beneath them, a second picture showed an older man with crooked teeth, rabid eyes, and disheveled hair. The man seemed to leer at the camera. He, too, was smiling.

  New Mexico Mother & Daughter Killed In Motel Fire; Arsonist Arrested.

  The date at the top was one that Sam would never forget.

  June 22, 2008. The day his whole life had changed.

  It sickened Sam that the three people shared the same spot on the page. He often resisted the urge to tear the man’s face from the clipping, to burn the picture or rip it into tiny fragments and scatter it in the desert. But he would not give the killer that satisfaction. And he never wanted to forget.

  Sam flicked off the light and closed the door. Back in the living area, he moved toward one of the back windows and peered through the blinds. His green Ford Ranger was parked in its usual spot. There was no sign that it had been tampered with.

  He exhaled and moved towards the front door, stopping at the first set of windows. He would do one last check out front, and then he’d make his exit.

  He parted the blinds and jumped slightly at what he saw. The assailant was nowhere in sight. However, a van and trailer now sat quietly at one of the pumps.

  4

  “DO YOU THINK ANYONE’S HERE? This place looks deserted.” Noah’s brow creased.

  “It doesn’t matter to me,” Kendall shrugged. “As long as the pumps are turned on, we’re good to go.”

  Kendall surveyed the parking lot. A lone tractor-trailer was parked off to the side, on their left. The faded decal on the side read ‘All-American Beef’. The side of the truck bore a thin layer of New Mexico dirt, providing a nice canvas for a would-be artist. He envisioned a few slogans he could add to its exterior, and smiled slightly at the notion.

  “I’ll pump,” he offered, gripping the door handle to open it. He paused suddenly and sucked in a breath.

  A figure lay in the dust, just feet away from the store’s entrance. Next to it was a red baseball cap.

  “Holy shit!”

  “What is it?” Noah peered over his shoulder.

  “I’m not sure yet,” he said. “Stay still.”

  A slight wind arose from somewhere behind the van, kicking up a cloud of dirt from the parking lot. The brim of the hat lifted slightly, and then collapse
d back onto the dirt. Its owner made no attempt to claim it.

  Past the body, the screen door to the store hung off one of its hinges, creaking with the breeze. The place was too quiet. Whatever had happened—was happening—had just begun recently.

  And now they were in the midst of it.

  A flash of movement drew Kendall’s attention. He hadn’t noticed it before, but a small trailer home sat to the right of the store. There were three windows along the front, all of them covered with white blinds.

  One of the blinds had just moved.

  Noah jumped up from the seat.

  “Stop!” he urged, slowly pointing to the blinds. “Someone’s watching us.”

  Noah’s eyes grew wide, and he reached over to lock the door. Kendall let him. A feeling of dread crept over him as he watched his companion scramble around to each of the doors, frantically securing them. The van was a base model, and didn’t have the convenience of automated locks.

  Even with the doors secured, he didn’t feel safe.

  He kept his eyes glued on the blinds, but no further movement occurred. His instincts told him they should leave right away. Hit the gas, peel out, and keep driving until they reached the most densely populated area they could find.

  But the figure on the ground needed their help.

  “Hand me the baseball bat, Noah.”

  His companion shook his head in disbelief. “Are you crazy, man? You’re gonna go out there?”

  Kendall reached past him and slid the bat out from beneath the seat. Then he unlocked the door beside him and got out.

  5

  SAM QUICKLY DROPPED THE BLINDS, realizing someone in the van had sensed his presence. Using his index finger, he lifted the bottom corner of the blinds slightly and bent down to avoid being seen.

  The van appeared to be an older model Ford, towing what looked like an 8x12 trailer behind it. A few stickers adorned the back window. Although he couldn’t make out the license plate, he guessed by the colors that its occupants weren’t New Mexico natives.