A few shadows moved inside—probably someone trying to get a better view of him. He clutched the rifle. There was more than one of them.
Fending off his sole attacker had proved to be a difficult task, but the prospect of fighting several more seemed daunting at best. Especially with a single-shot rifle. Regardless, he had been spotted. He needed to act.
Sam tugged at his sleeve and closed his eyes. He pictured his wife and daughter struggling to survive in their last moments. A part of him felt like giving up; felt like running out and meeting his fate so that he could join them.
But then his thoughts turned to the wild-eyed man in the photo next to them—the arsonist who had killed them. He felt his fear harden into anger. There was nothing he could have done to prevent the fire, but there was something he could do now. He would not let these people win. Whether it was six foes or one.
He had just started to let go of the blinds when the passenger door of the van swung open. A kid carrying a bat leapt out, surveying the area. He scanned back and forth from the trailer home to the dead trucker.
He looked afraid.
The kid appeared to be in his mid-twenties. He was dressed in black jeans and sneakers and a black and white t-shirt, and had scruffy blond hair. His arms were covered in tattoos, which gave him a subtle layer of fierceness.
However, the look in his eyes reminded Sam of the look he had given himself in the mirror just a few minutes earlier.
Were these just customers who had happened to stop for gas?
If so, they had some of the worst luck imaginable. Sam watched the kid inch along the pumps and toward the dead man in the dirt. If they were innocent bystanders, he needed to warn them.
Sam dropped the blinds and opened the trailer door into the parking lot. As he did so, another more sinister figure revealed itself.
6
“HEY KID! GET BACK IN the van!” a voice cried out from Kendall’s right.
Kendall turned in time to see a man with a rifle coming in his direction. Behind him, the trailer door stood open.
The man from behind the blinds.
Kendall didn’t hesitate. He leapt backwards, keeping the bat in front of him to fend off his attackers. The door behind him swung open, and he fell backwards into the vehicle. His cell phone bounced off of the running board and shattered in the dirt.
The man with the rifle had stopped to aim.
“Oh my God,” Noah whispered from behind him.
Kendall felt his jaw drop involuntarily. He followed the path of the gun to its target, and blinked twice to ensure that his vision was not distorted.
A figure in a dark t-shirt hovered by the gas pumps—only about fifteen feet away. Dusk had set in, and the bright lights had kicked in underneath the canopy. Even still, the figure seemed to blend into the darkness. The full nature of his presence was obscured.
Kendall strained to get a better view, his heart pounding in his chest. The man’s eyes were glazed over with a black film. Although probably only in his mid-thirties, his face was creased with wrinkles, as if someone had squeezed the flesh together and marred his countenance permanently. His teeth were clenched together with such force that Kendall was surprised they could withstand the pressure. A scar across his throat seemed to gleam underneath the lights. Apparently the man had faced death before. And somehow survived.
The man with the rifle held his position.
“Stay back!” he yelled to the figure.
The scarred man clung to the pump. He slid his fingernails along the edge, as if to taunt them. At any moment, Kendall expected him to puncture a hole in the metal and tear it open.
“Get out of here, already!” the man with the rifle cried out.
Noah turned the key in the ignition, and the radio sprang to life. A 70s rock song began to play from the speakers.
The scarred man cocked his head toward the van, fingers straying from the gas pump. His eye sockets seemed to have turned gray, but he appeared to have no trouble seeing with them. Instead, it appeared that his senses were heightened. Kendall watched the attacker turn his nose in the air, appearing to suck in the fear that permeated the station.
The van roared to life. Kendall smelled a plume of exhaust as his companion pumped the gas pedal to the floor. They needed to leave—now. But what about the man with the rifle?
Before Kendall could react, his roommate swung the van into drive and began to pull out from the pumps. The scarred man—creature, had begun to move. It careened towards them, crashing sideways into the rear passenger door side of the van.
Kendall watched the door cave inward under the pressure.
What the fuck was this thing?
The man with the rifle was on the move, as well. In just seconds, he closed the gap between the trailer home and the attacker. He swung the butt-end of his rifle at the thing’s head. The gun connected, sending the thing reeling onto the pavement.
Kendall reached out to let their rescuer inside, but the back door would not budge. The dent in the side had rendered it inoperable—at least for now. He watched the man jump onto the running board and cling to the lip of the van’s roof.
“Noah, keep going!”
The thing rolled several times on the ground, and then disappeared from view as the van drove away.
Kendall looked through the window. The man had a trickle of blood running down his chin. It appeared he had lost his gun.
7
SAM CLUNG ON TO THE van, feeling it accelerate. His fingers were getting stiff. The lip at the top of the van provided no more than a few centimeters for him to hold, and the running board provided little support underneath him.
He hoped he didn’t fall.
He watched his store and trailer home start to disappear behind him. The lights from the gas station became specks in the distance, eventually narrowing into nothing. He found himself wondering if he would ever return.
Would it matter?
Sam had already started fresh once. Maybe it was time to do it again.
The events of the evening began to replay in his mind. He pictured the man with the baseball cap covered in blood, imagined pieces of bone fragment from the man’s nose stuck between the mesh of the screen door. He shuddered thinking of the poor man’s final moments, which were probably filled with terror and confusion.
And what of the attacker? The man with the scar had seemed inhuman. It would be almost impossible to explain the situation to the police. He would try, sure. But no description seemed like it would suffice for what they were up against.
Through the window, one of his new companions motioned for him to hold on. The driver applied the brakes, and the van began to pull off of the highway. Sam’s knuckles were white with strain as he struggled to maintain his grip.
Finally, the vehicle came to a halt. He let go and opened the front passenger side door. The tattooed kid had jumped into the backseat.
“Get in, mister!” The driver was shaking.
Sam slammed the door shut and locked it. He snapped his seatbelt into place and felt the van kick into gear.
The tattooed kid in the back leaned between the seats, surveying his new passenger. The look in his eyes suggested he did not quite trust their new guest. After what they had just seen, it was a wonder they’d let him in the van.
“I’m Kendall, and this is Noah,” the kid finally confided.
“I’m Sam,” he returned, trying his best to sound sincere. “What a heck of a way to meet each other.”
The three smiled nervously in unison. Ahead of them, the pavement seemed to unfold with each passing mile, creating a path for them to follow.
“Was that your store back there?” Kendall inquired.
“Yep—that was my place,” he said, glancing behind them. “I’ve owned it for three years. The town’s always been pretty quiet. At least until now.”
The two nodded.
“Do either of you have a phone?” he asked.
“We had one, but it was sma
shed back at the store,” Kendall said.
Sam cupped his hands together. His gun had slipped when he climbed aboard the van. Although the rifle had only provided minor comfort, he felt defenseless without it.
“Are there any weapons in here—anything we could use in case that thing comes back?” he asked them.
Kendall held up the baseball bat in response. Noah was silent.
“That’s all we got. How far is the next town, sir?”
“Well, there’s a rest area a few miles up ahead. I’m sure there will be people there with cell phones—or at the very least, a payphone we could use.”
Kendall nodded in agreement, letting his gaze drift out the window. He clenched the bat with both hands. Sam returned his eyes to the road ahead, checking the passenger side mirror for any signs that they were being pursued. A few times he saw lights behind them, but they had quickly faded. It was as if any fellow travelers were already aware of the danger, and had stayed off the road.
“What the heck was wrong with that guy?” Noah broke the silence.
“Damned if I know,” Sam shook his head. “I’ve never seen anyone like him, and I’ve seen a lot of strange people pass through my little town.”
“Did he k-kill that guy?”
Sam swallowed. “Yes, he did. At first I thought he was trying to rob the place…but now, I’m not sure he cared about the money at all.”
Noah blinked hard. “What did he want, then?”
Kendall and Sam looked at each other. Neither had an answer.
PART TWO—THE WAYFARER
8
DELTA MONROE HIT THE CRUISE control button and let her foot off the accelerator. This would free up her right leg, which had started to ache. She’d been driving for several hours, passing one desert town after the next, and she needed to clear her head.
She rolled down the window. The New Mexico air drifted into the car, giving her a much-needed breath of fresh air. She brushed a lock of brown hair from her face. She tried to think of what she would say to him when she got there.
She pulled a worn photograph from her pocket, tracing her thumb over the smooth surface. Delta had seen him once, from across a courtroom. She hadn’t met his gaze—partly out of shame, partly out of guilt. Nothing she could have said would’ve provided comfort to the broken man.
She’d discovered the picture underneath her father’s mattress, wedged between a sock and a crushed homemade cigarette. The rest of the cell had been spotless. Aside from a few personal effects, there hadn’t been much to sort through after his death.
Delta rolled the picture in her hand, keeping one eye on the highway as she examined the back.
Sam Cook, White Mist, NM.
The words were inscribed in a neat, deliberate cursive, as if someone had taken great care in writing them. She felt a lump form in her throat, and fought back a wave of nausea. She tried to convince herself that the words were written by a monster, not her father.
For two years she’d tried to reconcile the fact that David Monroe, the loving man who had raised her since birth, had become a convicted murderer and arsonist locked in the Oklahoma State Penitentiary. A few months ago, she’d received word that he was terminally ill. Although she’d called to check on him, she only spoke with the prison staff, never requesting to speak with him directly.
What would she have said?
The evidence for his crime had been damning. The prosecution had provided security tapes, receipts, and eyewitness testimony, creating a sickening picture of what had happened that night. Her father’s defense team had rested quickly, unable to dispute the facts of the crime. Instead, they’d simply appealed to the jury’s sympathy, asking that their client be spared the ultimate punishment.
Delta was convinced that he had received worse. A year into his prison sentence, he had been diagnosed with stomach cancer. Within a few months, after several excruciating bouts of radiation and chemotherapy, he had succumbed to the disease. His passing did little to relieve her guilt. Even now, she felt the burden of his actions weighing on her conscience like hardened cement.
Which was why she needed to talk to Sam Cook. He deserved to know that her father was dead.
Aside from the roar of the open window, Delta’s car was silent. She had turned off the radio a while ago, though she couldn’t remember when. Perhaps back in Oklahoma? Music had no appeal right now, anyways.
She glanced in the rearview mirror, watching for activity on the barren highway, but saw only the open road and her own blue eyes staring back at her.
There were few cars sharing the road. In fact, it’d been about a half hour since she’d seen anyone on I-40. It was just as well. Her only concern was that her 1988 Chevy Impala would survive the ten-hour journey.
In the distance, a green and white sign loomed ever closer.
White Mist, New Mexico—2 Miles.
She was almost there. Delta tensed up. Her chest was sore from the seatbelt. In fact, her whole body seemed achy. She unlatched the belt, watching it retract across her gray tank top and back into the car. She also wore a pair of tight blue jeans and black flats, but carried little else with her. In fact, she didn’t own much else.
Several weeks prior, Delta had let the rental agreement to her apartment lapse. In the trunk, she had a few bags and suitcases, which contained almost all of her personal belongings. Although she wasn’t certain what the future held, she knew there was nothing more for her in Oklahoma City. And there probably hadn’t been for the past two years.
For most of the drive, she had been trying to formulate the right words. Now, with only a mile left to go, her stomach tightened with anxiety. She still wasn’t sure how to approach him. And she only had a few minutes to figure it all out.
9
SINCE LEAVING WHITE MIST, Sam hadn’t seen a single car on the highway, which seemed odd. Although traffic tended to thin out at night, he normally saw a steady stream of truckers rolling through town. Usually they had a deadline to meet.
The laws prohibited driving above a certain number of hours per day, but many truckers took advantage of the night hours to make progress without the interference of daily traffic. Apparently none had decided to do so tonight.
Sam looked at the clock on the van’s dashboard. 9:48 PM.
He felt a touch of hunger. He remembered reading that stressful situations affected people in different ways. Some would be stripped of their natural bodily urges. For others, the opposite effect could occur.
Normally he ate a late dinner, usually timing his break when there were fewer customers in the store. Tonight’s meal would have been a salad. He had prepared it earlier in the day and placed it in the refrigerator. He wondered briefly if it was still there.
Sam looked around the van floor, where he noticed a few granola-bar wrappers and coffee cups. Kendall noticed his gaze.
“We’re pretty broke, as you can tell,” Kendall said. “We just helped move a couple from Vegas to Albuquerque to earn some extra cash. We borrowed the trailer from Noah’s uncle. The van is a rental.”
“Don’t remind me,” Noah chimed in, glancing at the dent in the back door.
“This gig is going to pay our rent, if we don’t spend it all on the way back,” Kendall smiled.
Noah gave a nervous chuckle from the driver’s seat.
“I’m sorry for all this. I bet you guys wished you had stopped at another exit. I’m sure glad you showed up, though—for my sake.”
Kendall patted the back of his seat. “Don’t worry about it, man.”
Sam wondered how long it had been since he had shared a vehicle with others. Despite the circumstances, it felt good to have some company.
He stared out the window, taking note of an upcoming sign.
“Arizona Visitor’s Center—3 Miles”
Sam let out an apprehensive sigh. This was it. Help at last.
Though the Arizona state line was just a few miles from White Mist, Sam rarely travelled across the border. It wa
s hard to take a vacation or road trip when you were the sole employee of a business. Besides, he preferred the comfort and security of his trailer home and store. He’d grown into quite the homebody over the past few years.
Tonight, the little town had lost some of its appeal.
He noticed that Kendall was still holding the baseball bat tightly in his grip. He doubted the kid would let it go anytime soon. Noah shook his head, clutching the steering wheel with unnecessary force.
“We need a plan,” Kendall said. “We need to pull up as close as possible and get right to the payphone—wherever it is. And we should stick within sight of the van no matter what.”
“I’ll get out. You guys stay here,” Sam insisted. “You’ve done enough.”
The van plodded along the highway, the trailer bouncing behind it. The rearview mirrors revealed nothing was behind them. Another sign approached, marking the upcoming exit.
2 Miles.
Sam tensed up, but he wasn’t sure why. He doubted the scarred man had been able to follow them. It didn’t seem plausible that the thing would know how to operate the abandoned tractor-trailer that his victim had left behind. But that raised another burning question: how had he gotten to the store in the first place? There hadn’t been any other vehicles in the parking lot—at least none that Sam had seen. Had the attacker been on foot? Or had he somehow hitched a ride with the unsuspecting trucker?
Nothing about the night made sense. For some reason, Sam pictured the twisted grin of the arsonist in the newspaper clipping on his bathroom wall, smiling through his gums. Sometimes, there was no sense to be had.
Another sign flashed by. Only a mile to go, he thought. Something flicked against his eyes, and Sam sat upright in the seat. A pair of lights had appeared from behind them, illuminating the van’s mirrors. Something was coming up on them—and fast. The passenger side mirror shook uncontrollably, blurring the image of the car behind them.
He felt his pulse speed up.
Contamination (Books 0-3) Page 10