A familiar sound stopped him in his tracks.
Click-click.
“Stay where you are. Drop your weapon and put your hands on your head.”
Dan felt icicles chill his veins, wondering how he had been taken by surprise. There had been no indication of forced entry into the salvage yard, and certainly no sign that anyone had been inside—at least not recently. He bent down slowly and placed his pistol on the floor.
“Wait a minute,” the person said.
After the second set of instructions, Dan realized he recognized the voice.
Before he could respond, the man spoke again.
“Holy shit—Dan Lowery? Is that you?”
After losing the station wagon in the streets of St. Matthews, Brown tried his best to remain quiet. He knew his partner was fuming mad, and the last thing he wanted to do was to piss him off further.
The SUVs navigated the streets for close to an hour with no sign of their quarry. Winters alternated between hitting his palms on the steering wheel, cursing, and fiddling with the windows. Brown began to think the man was bi-polar, perhaps even certifiably insane.
Brown’s right calf started to ache. He realized he had shifted to the edge of his seat, providing the most distance between him and the enraged man. He rested his elbow on the window, watching a string of houses pass by, and tried to forget where he was and what he was doing.
Jameson had fallen behind them. Brown could see him in the passenger’s side mirror, scouring the streets with his gaze.
He thought back to his time in Salt Lake City.
Brown had been transported there in a twelve-passenger van along with several other agent recruits. Jameson had been one of them.
The van—a well-worn Ford with a faded decal on the side—had been parked out in front of the dorms. Brown remembered trying to make out the letters on the side, concluding that the van had once been used for a church. The name of the congregation was unreadable. The van had most likely been repurposed by its owners, the sticker left on the side to make the vehicle appear less suspicious.
Brown had taken an open seat in the back. A few of the men had glanced at him when he’d entered, but only for a second. During the twenty-hour ride, the van had stopped several times, but none of the men uttered a word. Brown wondered if their families had been kidnapped or killed, as well.
The training had lasted several months. Brown’s living area was the size of a small closet; it contained only a small cot to sleep on, a nightstand, and a lamp. The walls were bone white, the floors spotless.
During the day, he had engaged in intense physical training with the other recruits, each grueling day worse than the last. Brown had developed sores on his feet, his body had ached, and he had longed for a good night’s sleep. His nights consisted of lying awake on his cot, staring at the ceiling and thinking of his sister and his parents until his mind finally shut itself off from the day’s physical exertion.
After a few weeks, the other recruits had loosened up. Though talking was forbidden during physical training, conversation was allowed during meals. The men were informed that they should speak only of their training; that no personal information should be revealed. As routine began to set in, the men began to joke about the food, or brag about workouts they had done prior to the training.
Brown began to realize that the others were excited to be in Salt Lake. They seemed honored to be included, rather than coerced, as he had been.
Around that time, he had begun to notice Jameson. Unlike the others, Jameson always ate his meals in silence. He rarely spoke unless a question was directed at him, and even then his response was limited. He seemed to excel in his training, often completing the timed exercises more quickly than the others. Brown had ended up next to him a few times in the mess hall, and he’d felt a silent kinship to the man. He had begun to wonder if Jameson were in a situation similar to his own.
Brown had tried to engage the man in conversation a few times, but had gotten nowhere. Jameson always seemed quiet and disinterested, his head bowed over his plate, focused on his food. It wasn’t until weeks later that Brown was given any insight into the man.
Jameson had been eating quietly, eyes averted as normal. He had taken a pause to stretch, leaving a few bites of pork chop on his plate.
One of the other recruits had made a comment about the uneaten food—about how it would be a shame to let it go to waste. Jameson had given him a sideways glance, dabbing at his lips with his napkin. The other soldier had then leaned in with his fork to retrieve the last few bites.
Jameson had responded by sticking a butter knife into his neck.
The soldier had fallen back in his chair, blood spurting from a hole under his chin. The other recruits had sprung to his aid, frantically trying to stop the bleeding, their eyes wide with fear.
Unfazed, Jameson had finished his meal and excused himself from the table.
8
DAN TURNED AROUND SLOWLY IN the RV. Bubba lowered the shotgun in disbelief, and then scratched his head with his free hand.
“Man, is it good to see you. I was sure everybody was dead.”
For a second, it felt like the salvage yard owner was about to embrace him, but the man hung back when he saw Dan glancing back at the pile of bodies in the RV.
“You wouldn’t believe what I’ve been through,” Bubba said, as if trying to explain the grisly scene.
“I can only imagine.”
“Come with me, man. I’ll get you some food, a beer—whatever you need.”
Bubba hoisted the shotgun over his shoulder and began to whistle as he lumbered toward the shack at the other end of the yard. Dan retrieved his pistol and moved toward the stairs, then glanced back at the carnage in the RV. There were at least a half-dozen bodies, if he had to guess. Most had been hacked to pieces. Loose pieces of flesh were strewn about the floor and over the seats. Dan could understand survival, but it looked like these creatures had been killed with excessive force. He shuddered and descended the steps.
By the time Dan reached the outside, the salvage owner had crossed half the distance to the shack.
“I’m not alone, Bubba,” Dan yelled. “I have others with me.”
“I know,” the fat man called behind him. “Tell them to get inside. And make sure you lock the gate behind you.”
Bubba entered the shack. The metal door slammed shut behind him.
Dan began to jog toward the Outback, gun in hand. He saw his companions leaning forward in their seats to get a better look, and he gave them a quick wave to signal that everything was ok. Even so, he felt uneasy. As he reached the vehicle, he had the sudden urge to jump in and peel out of the salvage yard.
Something felt off about Bubba—about the bodies in the RV. The man had seemed eerily calm about the whole situation. In fact, if Dan hadn’t known better, it almost seemed like the salvage owner was ready to carry on about the latest town gossip, or recount the latest accident on I-191.
Stop being paranoid, Dan, he told himself. People dealt with horrific situations in different ways—he knew that from his days on the force.
Yet he couldn’t shake his police instincts that something else was going on in the salvage yard. Something more than Bubba was letting on.
Ray.
The man’s name hit him in a flash. Bubba hadn’t mentioned his friend, the co-owner of the facility. Had he survived the infection? Perhaps Bubba had been put into a situation where he’d had to defend himself against his best friend.
Perhaps Ray’s body was one of those stashed in the RV.
If that was the case, it was no wonder that Bubba was acting strange. Hell, it was a wonder any of them had a shred of sanity left.
Dan leaned into the car and addressed his companions.
“The owner is still inside. He told us to head in and lock the gates behind us.”
“We saw him. I was afraid he was going to shoot you, Daddy,” Quinn said.
“Should we pull the car in?” Sam asked.
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Dan looked behind him. The door to the shack was still closed and Bubba was nowhere in sight.
“Yes. I’ll back it in, though, in case we have to leave in a hurry.”
Bubba’s shack was smaller than Dan remembered. The walls were plastered with posters and sticky-notes, the desk covered in loose paperwork. Two flat-screen monitors were mounted on the wall. Normally, they would display images of the salvage yard, but today they cast only a dull gray reflection. The fat man sat at his post in the middle of the room. As the group entered, he slid his chair underneath the desk to give them more room.
“Sorry it’s so tight in here,” he said.
When the last person had entered, Dan shut the door behind them. Bubba surveyed his guests and then offered his hand to each of them in turn.
“I’m Bill,” he said. “But everyone calls me Bubba.”
The salvage owner pointed to a cooler in the corner of the room.
“I have drinks in there, if anyone is thirsty,” he said. “It ain’t much, but I didn’t have time to go shopping.”
The group exchanged worried looks. Dan began to explain their theory to Bubba: that the food and water had been contaminated—that it may have caused whatever had happened to the townsfolk. Bubba listened intently, and then waved his hand.
“Well—shit! I haven’t missed a meal, and I’m just fine!”
The salvage owner let out a hearty laugh, patting his stomach, and then seemed to reconsider.
“Of course, something must be causing all this craziness, I suppose.”
Dan elaborated further, sharing the group’s experiences in both St. Matthews and New Mexico. He told Bubba of the men in white who had been chasing them. Bubba tensed up as he listened, and his face began to perspire. His eyes fell to the floor.
“Well, I knew it was bad, but I didn’t want to believe it,” he said. “Those things started climbing over the fence last night. Ray and I used up most of our ammo fighting them off. I hoped we had seen the last of them, but Ray didn’t seem to think so.”
The fat man averted his eyes and wiped his nose. He looked visibly upset.
“Is Ray—?”
The salvage owner nodded.
“I’m sorry, Bubba,” Dan said.
“When this first started happening, I tried to call everyone I knew, but couldn’t get ahold of anyone. And then the power went out. The last person I spoke to was Bernie, and even he had his hands full, last I knew.”
“Who’s Bernie?” Dan asked.
“He owns the salvage yard down in Tucson. We talk pretty regularly. I had called him to say hello yesterday afternoon. He said there were a few suspicious people around his lot. Said he was going to threaten them if they didn’t leave. I realized later that they were probably the same…things. By that time, all the phones had stopped working. I haven’t talked to him since.”
Dan and Sam exchanged looks.
“So that means that it’s not much better to the south, either,” Dan said.
Bubba looked at him quizzically.
“We were originally planning to head to Tucson, hoping things might be normal there. It sounds like that’s out of the question.”
“You’re welcome to stay here as long as you’d like. From the sound of it, I don’t think any of us have much choice.” Bubba shrugged.
“When’s the last time you saw one of the creatures?” Dan asked.
“A few hours ago. The fucker was climbing right over the fence and got stuck on the goddamn barbs. Made it a hell of a lot easier to get rid of him since he wasn’t able to move. Those things are quick.”
Bubba reached down and traced his finger over the barrel of the shotgun.
“Not many people come out this way—hell, I’ve seen more of these things on the property in the last twenty-four hours than I’ve seen people in weeks. It’s like they’re headed somewhere. Like they’re looking for something.”
Dan looked over at his companions, who were staring out the window across the yard. They all looked exhausted, as if they hadn’t slept in days.
“Do you have a place we can rest, Bubba? We can help keep watch,” he said. “I’ll volunteer to take the first shift.”
“A few of these RVs aren’t in bad shape. I can set you guys up in one of ‘em.”
Dan thanked him, and then remembered the grisly scene he had witnessed earlier. He tried to suppress the image of the brown RV—of the bodies scattered across the floor inside. Even now, he could still smell the stench of rotting flesh in his nostrils.
“I have a nice white 35-footer in the far corner of the lot,” Bubba said. “C’mon, I’ll take you folks over there.”
9
BROWN’S HEAD FLEW FORWARD AND hit the dash as the vehicle came to a stop. Jameson had pulled the other SUV up next to them and was yelling out the window.
“Over there! I saw something!” he shouted, pointing to a brick building.
It looked like a pharmacy. Winters threw the vehicle into park and grabbed his rifle.
“Look alive, Brown.” He smirked.
The two left the SUV. Jameson was already heading toward the front of the pharmacy. His rifle was on his shoulder, and he was taking aim at something through the glass storefront.
“Spread out,” he said.
Brown moved forward until could read the sign on the door, confirming his initial guess at the building’s identity.
“Ryan’s Pharmacy.”
Unlike most of the stores in town, the glass window was intact. However, the entrance door had been left ajar; it appeared to have been propped open by something. Brown looked to the ground and noticed a bottle of soda wedged in the doorframe.
Jameson opened the door and stepped past the object, revealing more of the pharmacy’s interior. The inside was dark, but Brown could make out a few shelves full of products. He gripped his gun and fell in line behind the other soldier.
Movement out of the corner of his eye drew his attention. He looked to his left, at the building next door. Something flashed by a broken window.
“I’ll check the other building,” Winters said from behind him.
Brown watched his companion break their formation and head next door. For the first time in two days, he felt a small sense of relief wash over him, grateful to have a moment’s freedom from the man.
“Hurry the fuck up, Brown,” Jameson chided, cutting the moment short.
Brown stepped sideways through the entrance and glanced down at the bottle of soda. It wasn’t likely that one of the creatures would have placed it there. The gesture seemed too calculated—too human. He surmised that someone had propped the door open in order to make a quick exit.
A survivor. Someone they would need to kill.
He felt the acidic taste of adrenaline pool in his mouth, and he swallowed several times. He hoped he was wrong. If someone were inside—someone who hadn’t been infected—it was his job to exterminate the person. Those were his orders. As sick as it made him, he knew he had to comply. His life depended on it.
His family’s lives depended on it.
The only other option was to let Jameson do the shooting, but even still, Brown would be an accomplice to murder. Any way you sliced it, he was fucked.
Brown stepped through the doorway and into the darkness of the pharmacy. Even though it was light outside, only a faint light filtered in through the front window. Brown realized he couldn’t see past the first few rows of shelves. Jameson had disappeared in front of him. He paused for a second, listening, but all he could hear was the sound of his own ragged breathing.
Footsteps. Something falling off a shelf in the back of the store.
Brown’s heart skipped a beat. Was it Jameson? Or was someone else in the pharmacy with them?
“Psst,” Jameson hissed from up ahead. “There’s someone behind the counter.”
Brown crept forward past a string of shelves. The back of the store was empty and open; he saw a metal sign, a rope, and a counter—presumably
where customers could wait in line with their purchases. An array of prescription bottles and goods were arranged on a long shelf in front. Jameson aimed his rifle over the top.
“Don’t fucking move!” he screamed.
Brown tensed. Another voice broke the silence: this one was from behind the counter.
“Don’t shoot! I’m not one of them—I’m still alive!”
It sounded like a man’s voice.
“You think I give a shit? Get out from behind there!” Jameson barked.
Brown watched a figure rise into view, hands in the air. From the shape and demeanor, the person appeared to be an older gentleman. He could see the man’s arms shaking, even in the dark, and the figure bumped into a bottle on the floor, sending it skittering off into some unseen corner. Jameson shook his rifle impatiently and waved the man out.
Then Brown heard something else: a thin scrape from behind him.
He turned toward the entrance of the pharmacy. A shape darted through the front entrance. The door swung closed without a sound.
Someone—or something—had moved the soda bottle.
Brown looked back to the counter: Jameson hadn’t noticed. The nervous old man still trudged toward his captor, arms held high.
Brown stepped backwards and ducked into one of the aisles. He contemplated running, but decided against it. His visibility was limited, and the last thing he needed was to bump into one of those things. Besides, if he left Jameson in the pharmacy, he was sure Winters would seek retribution. His only hope was to stay silent and wait.
Footsteps echoed through the pharmacy. From his position in the aisle, Brown had lost sight of Jameson and the old man, but he could tell there were others in the store.
Brown could hear breathing now. Jagged, short gasps. He saw something at the end of the aisle, and held his breath. A foul stench permeated the store—the smell of flesh rotting from the inside. The smell of the creatures.
The shadow advanced, shoulders heaving. Its head swiveled around the store, as if looking for a basket of lost goods. Brown crouched on the floor and lined up his rifle in case he had to take a shot.
Contamination (Books 0-3) Page 22