Contamination (Books 0-3)

by T. W. Piperbrook

  Sam trailed behind his companion, stopping intermittently to listen. They passed the first door on the left without incident, but when they reached the second, the banging seemed to increase in volume.

  RAT-tat-tat.

  Sam watched the kid in front of him nudged open the door with the baseball bat. It gave way without effort, casting a white glow in the dim corridor. Surprisingly, the door didn’t make a sound.

  When they entered the bathroom, Sam was immediately hit with the scent of ammonia. The room contained a row of empty urinals on the left side, and a few enclosed stalls just past them. The once-white walls had taken on a yellow tinge, probably embedded with several layers of cigarette smoke. The mirrors held a foggy hue, as if the Arizona heat had permanently corrupted the glass.

  The sound had intensified. It echoed off the walls now and amplified in his ears. He drew his attention to the last stall, and the noise’s source became apparent.

  The door was swinging open several inches at a time, and then slamming closed against the plastic frame. A man’s shoe was kicking it from the inside.

  12

  NOAH LOCKED THE DOORS AS soon as his companions exited the van. Being alone and weaponless wasn’t a great position to be in, but he was glad to have the security of the vehicle.

  He glanced around the interior, searching for another means of defense. Besides some discarded wrappers and empty water bottles, there wasn’t much to be found. The pair had traveled light.

  On the initial trip, the van and trailer had been filled with their employers’ belongings. In fact, almost every window had been obscured by a cardboard box or piece of furniture. Noah had found it difficult to navigate, oftentimes sticking his head out of the window to account for the many blind spots.

  Now, on the journey home, the van seemed uninhabited. The backseat was empty, as well as the side panels. He flipped open the glove compartment, finding nothing but the driver’s manual, registration, and paperwork for repairs.

  Underneath the first bench seat behind him were two bags. Kendall had brought only a slim red backpack, which was sparsely filled with a few items of clothing and toiletries. Noah’s was a little larger; he’d packed a camouflage duffel bag with similar contents, but also a few other odds and ends, including books and magazines.

  He looked out the window just in time to see Kendall and Sam enter the men’s room. Why had they gone in there? The idea of the pair in an enclosed room, out of view, made him a little nervous. Keeping one eye on the entrance, he leapt into the backseat and retrieved his bag. He unzipped it, pushed aside his clothing, and began to rifle through the remaining contents. He had an idea.

  Although he was currently unemployed, Noah had received a degree in psychology from Arizona State University, where he had excelled in every subject. In fact, he had graduated with a GPA of 3.9, just shy of making class valedictorian. It wasn’t until afterwards that he realized how difficult was to practice in the profession.

  In addition to excelling in his studies, Noah was also very capable with his hands. As a young man, he had received several merit badges in the local Boy Scout troop. For many young boys, those skills would soon be forgotten, taking a backseat to life’s other demands. However, he had kept the lessons etched in his memory, and was always ready to apply them when needed.

  Noah extracted his shaver from a small blue bag. He removed the blade, bending the plastic until it cracked, but made sure not to damage the metal inside.

  Next, he removed his toothbrush, which was made of hard rubber. Using the blade, he sliced at it with precision, removing its head, and then inserted the razor in the grooved slot he had carved in the top. He swung the makeshift weapon into the air. An inmate at the state prison couldn’t have done any better, he thought with a nervous smile.

  Although crude, it would have to do. He may be able to do some damage in close combat. However, using it would mean he would be in close proximity to any would-be attacker. He hoped he’d never have to test it out.

  Gripping his new weapon, Noah replaced his bag and hopped back into the front seat. As he did so, a glimmer of movement from outside drew his attention.

  He looked up. Through the opening in the brick walls, he had a full view of the main room and the hallway beyond. Kendall and Sam were nowhere in sight. He assumed they were still in the men’s room, as he hadn’t seen them exit. The corridor was littered with shadows, and he blinked through his glasses to ensure he was awake.

  One of the shadows seemed to flicker.

  He leaned forward in the seat, his pulse racing, hoping to catch another glimpse.

  Whatever it was seemed to have disappeared.

  I must be imagining things, he thought.

  He tilted his head back with a sigh and waited for his companions to return.

  13

  AT THE SIGHT OF MOVEMENT in the last stall, Sam jumped backward, colliding with the bathroom entrance behind him. The shoe gave one final push on the door and the stall closed. The lock rattled against the frame, and then went silent.

  Kendall raised the bat in a swinging position, eyes wide. He put a finger to his lips, signaling for Sam to be quiet, and continued forward.

  Not a good idea, kid, Sam thought to himself. They had no idea what they may be up against. The violent attack in White Mist had proved that much.

  Whoever was in the bathroom stall could be toying with them—luring them into a situation they could not escape. He pictured the scarred man at the gas station, remembered him sliding his fingers across the pumps with calculation. Perhaps it was the same attacker, intending to finish the job he had started.

  But how would he have gotten here? Only one car had passed them on the highway from White Mist to the Arizona Visitor’s Center. And whoever it was had sped past them. It seemed as if they, too, were running from an unseen danger. Perhaps they’d even stopped at his store and seen what had happened there.

  Sam scanned the bathroom. Towards the end, a small stained glass window sat about eight feet from the ground. Other than that, the only way out was through the door behind them.

  They passed the urinals, reaching the occupied stall. Sam could make out a figure through the cracks. It moved slightly, sensing their presence. Kendall raised the bat above his head and reached for the handle.

  Before he could react, the door swung open.

  A man stared at them from the toilet seat, his eyes filled with fear. Blood covered his abdomen and face, and his stomach was flayed open. Pieces of intestine coiled over his suit pants, spilling onto the floor below. The man gripped a pistol in his hand, his body shaking as he tried to lift it.

  When he saw them, he dropped the weapon and the gun clattered to the floor.

  “Oh my God—what happened?” Kendall whispered.

  The man’s lips moved, but his mouth produced no sound—only red spittle. Then, before they could speak with him, his body went limp and his eyes rolled back into his head. Kendall released the stall door and retched onto the floor in front of him.

  “Let’s get the fuck out of here—now!” Sam shouted.

  What kind of sick person would do this?

  He thought back to the assailant with the scar. If that thing had gotten ahold of them, Sam was certain they would’ve faced a similar fate.

  The two raced toward the exit, Sam taking the lead. The bathroom had filled with an awful, metallic odor, as if the businessman’s blood had seeped out of the stall and into the walls around them.

  When they reached the door, Sam kicked it open with his foot, and a breeze poured in from the outside. He immediately stopped in his tracks.

  Standing in front of them, body blocking the doorway, was another one of the creatures. In an instant, Sam’s worst suspicions were confirmed.

  There were more of them.

  The creature stood half in shadow, grinding its teeth. Several had been cracked, and pieces of white bone fragment hung on its lower lip. A few bits of hair quivered above his mouth, red bristle
s that had once been a moustache.

  The thing surveyed the bathroom, eyes resembling two pieces of charcoal.

  Kendall stepped toward it and swung the bat, but he was too late. The thing had already spotted Sam and started to charge.

  The creature thrashed wildly at the storeowner’s face, and he fell back into the bathroom on his palms, kicking to fend it off. Its breath was hot and rancid, and he turned his head to avoid the saliva that dripped from its mouth.

  “Get the hell off me!” he screamed.

  While he struggled for freedom, Kendall ran up behind the creature and swung the bat, connecting with the thing’s shoulder blade. Sam heard a piece of bone shatter, and the creature writhed and fell to the side.

  Sam took the opportunity to get out from under it. He thrust the thing off of him, then scooted backwards across the floor toward the stalls.

  “I’ve got it, Sam!”

  Kendall raised the bat for another blow.

  The creature swiveled to face him. Before the kid could swing again, it latched onto the bat and ripped it from the kid’s grasp. The bat fell from his hands and clattered against the urinals.

  “Hang on!” Sam shouted.

  Even though they were both hopelessly outmatched, he had an idea. He just hoped that Kendall could hold out for a few more seconds.

  Instead of getting to his feet, Sam arched his fingers underneath the first stall, and slid his body underneath. As he did so, he saw the creature turn and start in his direction.

  Sam glanced up quickly, noticing that the plastic lock had slipped into place on the stall he was in. It must’ve accidentally been engaged as someone had slammed the door shut. Thank God.

  The door rattled violently, the latch loosening as the thing tried to get inside. Sam continued to slide farther. He curved his body around the base of the toilet and into the next stall. The floor reeked of cleaning products. He held his breath and continued on.

  He was just about to slide underneath the last stall when the door to the middle stall flew open and the thing appeared above him, snarling with anger. He gave the creature a swift kick, knocking it back a few steps, and then pulled himself into the last stall. The back of his shirt bunched up with the wet blood that streaked the floor.

  The stench from the dead body had gotten worse. Sam balled himself into the small space beside the toilet, doing his best to ignore the dead man. Instead he reached for the pistol.

  The gun was slippery in his hands, and he clung onto it, aiming it for the stall door in front of him. A second later the door opened, and Sam grit his teeth and squeezed the trigger.

  The resultant blast was deafening. The shot connected with the thing’s head, and he watched as it tumbled to the floor, limbs flailing, and then give one last kick.

  After that, the room was still.

  14

  DELTA WAVED HER CELLPHONE IN the air as she drove, searching for a single bar of service. There were none to be had. The highway rolled out before her like a stiff piece of parchment paper, dry and devoid of life. Unfortunately, she wasn’t familiar with the roads. In fact, she’d printed directions and placed them on the seat next to her, anticipating that she might lose her phone’s navigation.

  With no service, her only option was to drive for help.

  Images of the dead body flashed in her mind, deepening the fear that she’d felt at White Mist. Over the past few years, she’d realized that reflecting on things could be worse than actually experiencing them. In life, time was forced to obey scientific laws, to contain a decisive beginning and an end. In one’s mind, a thought could repeat itself indefinitely.

  She’d never seen a dead person. The figure had seemed surreal, as if the man were going to wake up, wipe the crusted blood from his mouth, and explain what had happened. It was hard to grasp that the man would never speak again.

  The rifle sat on the seat next to her. She wondered again if it was loaded, but she wasn’t even sure how to check. When she stopped next, she would search for the tire iron, just in case. Of course, she didn’t plan on stopping until she had reached a police station, or spotted someone she was sure could help.

  Delta surveyed the side of the highway, half expecting to see Sam Cook crawling away on all fours, wounded and in need of help. Where had he gone? Even though they’d never met, she felt a sense of kinship to the man. She found herself praying that he had made it out of the town unharmed.

  Up ahead a sign appeared, indicating that she was coming up on the Arizona Visitor’s Center. She sighed with relief.

  Something hurtled to the side in the trunk, and Delta instinctively looked in the rearview mirror. The trunk was closed. No other cars were behind her. She refocused on the road, watching the streetlights flashing by in monotonous rhythm.

  Her eyes closed slightly, and she fought to stay awake. She’d stopped only three times in ten hours, and she was utterly exhausted. Even after what she’d seen her body still clamored for sleep. She pinched herself on the arm, snapping herself to attention.

  A pair of dots appeared in her peripheral vision. She looked back at the mirror, expecting to see a car behind her. But it wasn’t a car. Delta jolted upright, a cold chill washing over her.

  Somebody was looking at her from the backseat.

  Delta’s heart stammered, skipping beats in her chest. Her knuckles turned white on the steering wheel. The eyes persisted, looking right at her. Waiting. She curled her nails into her palms, sure that the pain would awaken her.

  But Delta was hopelessly awake.

  “Who’s there?” she whispered, tears starting to flow down her face.

  She loosened her grip on the steering wheel, and let her right arm slowly drift toward the rifle. The car began to veer off the road, but she kept her foot on the gas. Even though she was virtually defenseless, she sensed that stopping the car would result in immediate attack.

  Her fingers grazed the gun barrel, and she felt for the other end. She was just inches away. The figure continued to stare, unmoving. The gun was in her hand now. She started to lift it, angling it towards the backseat.

  A cold pair of hands grabbed her neck, and she screamed. She thrust the rifle backwards, felt it connect with something soft behind her. She kicked for the brake pedal, but in her panic, she was unable to find it. The hands persisted, pushing into her jugular and forcing the breath out of her lungs.

  Without thinking, she released her other hand from the steering wheel, prying at the fingers on her neck.

  The Chevy went into a spin in the middle of I-40.

  Delta tried to cry out, but no sound escaped her lips. The hands tightened around her neck, and she felt her windpipe begin to close. The steering wheel spun wildly from left to right.

  She jabbed the rifle into the backseat, making contact with something. An eye? A nose? She couldn’t tell. The attacker hissed with each blow, but refused to let go.

  The Chevy spun in circles, and she felt the contents of her stomach rushing upward into her esophagus. She needed to stop the car. She needed to find the brake. Her right foot found the pedal, and she stomped it hard. Then she whipped the rifle backwards one last time, as hard as she could. The butt-end of the gun connected with her attacker’s face, and she heard a sickening crunch.

  One of the hands slipped off her neck, and she gasped for air. The blood rushed to her head in waves, and she fought the overwhelming urge to pass out.

  The vehicle careened to a halt.

  The figure in the backseat flew sideways, colliding with the passenger rear door. Delta sucked in short bursts of air, her neck aching. She threw the car into park, opened the door, and fell out of the car and onto the highway.

  She aimed the rifle at the backdoor. The attacker thrashed against the interior, trying to get to her. One of its limbs smashed the dome light, and it tore at the seats. Finally it leapt into the front. When it located the open door, it stopped and stared out at Delta. Its red eyes blazed, and its mouth hung agape. She squeezed the trigger
on the rifle.

  Nothing.

  “Fuck,” she whispered.

  She swiveled the gun around, blocking her body with the butt end. The thing sprang at her, and suddenly its hot breath was against her face, its knees pinning her to the road. In the dim lighting, the thing was just a silhouette, but she saw a thick scar gleaming from its neck.

  The thing clawed at her arm, breaking the skin. She pushed it back with the rifle, and when she’d gained clearance, she swung at its face. The first blow stunned it, and it fell backward. She sprang to her feet and began to pummel it with the rifle.

  Before she knew it, she was screaming, bashing the weapon against its face.

  She felt its face cave in, saw the eyes collapse into its sockets and the cheekbones shatter. She continued to beat into it until her arms were sore and the thing had lost any discernible features.

  When she finally stopped, Delta was sobbing. The rifle clattered onto the highway, and she held her hands over her face.

  15

  WHEN NOAH HEARD THE GUNSHOT from inside the Visitor’s Center, he bolted upright. He stared past the main room, down the corridor, but Sam and Kendall were nowhere in sight.

  What the hell was going on?

  Heart galloping, he felt for the driver’s side door handle and threw open the door. The last thing he wanted to do was leave the safety of the van, but his companions were in trouble.

  He needed to help them.

  He jumped out of the vehicle, his feet clapping the cement, and slammed the door shut behind him. He scanned the parking lot, but there was no sign of activity. The SUV was silent and still, holding vigil for an owner who might never return.

  Noah raced across the walkway, the homemade shiv clenched in his hand. Despite being armed, he knew his weapon would be no match for a gun. He just hoped his companions were all right, and that he wouldn’t have to use it.

  From what he could tell, the gunshot had originated from the men’s room. He sprinted as fast as his legs could carry him, keeping an eye on his surroundings.