Contamination (Books 0-3)

by T. W. Piperbrook

  The yard fell silent for about a minute as the two glared at each other, each waiting for the other to make a move. The other survivors began to inch slowly away from the scene.

  Winters took a step forward.

  The fat man fired.

  A volley of bullets sprayed from inside the fence, penetrating into the SUVs. Windows shattered and debris flew, bits of metal and plastic raining onto the dirt. One of the headlights went out, obscuring Brown’s view of the lot.

  He heard the clanging of metal and the ricochet of gunfire all around him.

  After a few seconds the shooting stopped, and the yard was plunged into silence. A thin layer of smoke and dust wafted into the air in front of the remaining headlights.

  Winters started to groan.

  Brown pried his hands from the wheel, peered out into the desert night.

  Winters had fallen to his knees. He clutched his stomach, coughing up blood and spittle onto the ground below. Brown called out to him, but the man didn’t answer.

  He stared past him into the darkness and contemplated getting out of the vehicle. He looked for signs of the fat man, but could only see a few feet past the fence.

  Where were the others? Should he get out and try to assist his companion?

  Even if he could help Winters, he felt no obligation. The man had put him through hell—had destroyed his life, taken his family. He deserved this, right?

  Yet the man’s groans made Brown sick to his stomach. They pierced the night, increasing in fervor and agony as the man embraced what could only be his death throes.

  After a few seconds, Winters collapsed into the dirt, unmoving. His white coat was covered in blood, and his legs were sprawled out behind him. Brown waited for a sense of relief—a sense of closure. Instead, he felt a deep sense of fear. He was officially alone.

  An eerie silence descended over the salvage yard.

  I need to get out of here, he thought. If anyone is alive behind that fence, they’ll be gunning for me. And frankly, I don’t blame them.

  Brown moved his right hand down to the shifter. He felt for the lever, pressed it. A sharp pain suddenly washed over him and he realized that his stomach was damp.

  Had he been hit?

  He looked down, but was unable to see clearly. Before he could put the SUV in reverse, a voice called out through the fence.

  “Step out of the vehicle or I’ll shoot.”

  Sam took cover at the first sound of gunfire. He dove for the underside of the RV, ears ringing, and rolled to safety. What the hell? he thought. After years of stocking shelves and chatting up customers, his life had suddenly become a magnet for violence.

  When he regained his bearings, he peered out and noticed Dan taking cover under a nearby sedan.

  Flashes of light exploded around them. Bubba fired at their assailants, his face contorted in anger, pumping the shotgun. Sam recognized their attackers as the men in the SUVs that had chased them earlier. He watched as one of them went down in a hail of gunfire.

  Bullets pinged off the junked cars around them, and Sam started to fear for the safety of his comrades. Hopefully they were hunkered down inside the RV, far away from the attack. He feared that one might be hit by a rogue shot—or that a stray bullet might penetrate the interior.

  After several more seconds, the shooting ceased.

  The shotgun slipped out of Bubba’s fingers, and he reached for his leg, stumbling in a half-circle.

  “Motherfuckers,” he muttered.

  The headlights from the SUV still splayed across the lot, and Sam saw blood spilling from a wound in Bubba’s knee. The man grunted and shambled off toward the shack. His weapon lay in the dirt behind him.

  Sam crawled out from under the RV and made his way toward the gun. There was no movement from beyond the fence, but he didn’t want to take any chances. He slid through the dirt, trying his best to stay low to the ground.

  Dan had emerged from his hiding spot and disappeared inside the RV. Sam slithered across the lot, eyes on the shotgun. By the time he reached the weapon, the officer had already reemerged.

  “Everyone in the RV is ok,” he said. “But I think the other SUV driver is still alive. I’m going to secure the area. Can you handle Bubba?”

  Sam nodded. He got to his feet and sprinted for the shack. The desert breeze began to kick up dust around him. He braced himself for another round of gunfire, but none came.

  As he ran, the headlights from the SUVs grew dimmer and dimmer, until he was immersed in pitch black next to Bubba’s shack. He paused, listening for any indication of where the man might be hiding. After a few a seconds, he heard the ragged breathing of the fat man—it sounded like he was tinkering with something on the opposite side of the building.

  The storage container.

  Sam crept toward the sound, using his free hand to guide him along the wall of the shack. When he reached the rear, he saw a small beam of light splaying around the door of the container. Bubba was fumbling with the lock. A few seconds later, Sam heard the familiar groan of a door opening—one that was best kept shut.

  “Come on out, Ray,” the fat man wheezed, obviously in pain. “We have some intruders to deal with.”

  Sam strained his eyes in the dark and saw a shadow emerging from the deep end of the container. Bubba’s flashlight swayed back and forth, obscuring a full view of the person inside. However, the figure’s movements were unmistakable. It weaved left, then right, dodging the beams of light.

  As it approached Bubba, it began to hiss.

  The salvage owner backed up, crying out in surprise.

  “Over there, Ray! Look! They’re that way!” He pointed.

  Bubba turned the light on Sam.

  The storeowner tried to crouch, but he was too late.

  “I see you over there, you piece of shit!” Bubba screamed.

  Ray staggered out of the container and started to head in Sam’s direction.

  “That’s it, Ray! You got it! He’s one of ‘em!”

  Bubba began to laugh triumphantly as he watched the creature advance.

  Sam held out the shotgun, finger on the trigger. He had no idea if it was loaded. What if all the ammunition had been spent?

  There’s only one way to find out.

  The storeowner squeezed the trigger and waited for the blast.

  But there was no explosion of light, no kickback. Nothing. Instead, Sam heard the sound of Bubba’s laughter echoing through the salvage yard.

  And then the flashlight went out.

  Sam felt the blood rush to his ears and his heartbeat reverberate in his neck. He ducked down, feeling his way back around to the front of the shack.

  He could still hear the creature breathing. Bubba panted from somewhere behind it, chuckling. Waiting for it to dig in.

  Sam still gripped the shotgun. He considered discarding it, but decided that the gun was better than nothing. What other choice did he have? The creature could easily overpower him, if it were anything like the others they had encountered. His only hope was to gain some ground: he started to run.

  His footsteps pounded against the dirt, and he saw the beams of the SUV’s headlights in front of him now. The RV that housed his companions was directly ahead. He veered left.

  I can’t put them in danger. I need to lead this thing somewhere else.

  He heard it right on his tail, could sense its presence. Could feel it closing in.

  The salvage yard was dim again, but by the moonlight, Sam could make out the outline of a few cars up ahead. If he was lucky, maybe he could reach one in time and jump inside. It wasn’t the greatest plan, but it was a start.

  The creature let out a guttural cry, and Sam felt hot breath on his neck.

  The storeowner tripped.

  His shotgun skittered off into the dirt. His face hit the gravel, his cheeks burning from the impact.

  This is it, he said to himself.

  The thing pounced on his back and began to shred his shirt. Sam threw hi
s arms backward and connected with the creature, but his blows were weak—the equivalent of a child fighting a full-grown man.

  “We got more after this one, Ray!” Bubba’s voice boomed out of nowhere.

  The fat man must have followed them to the edge of the yard, presumably to watch Sam’s final moments.

  Sam clutched the dirt, pulling his body forward in a last attempt to free himself. His back felt hot and wet—he must have been sliced open at some point.

  He thought of his wife and daughter waiting for him.

  “Karen...Chloe...I’m coming…” he sputtered.

  He pictured the White Mist store and his little white trailer beside it and felt his eyes start to close.

  Without warning, the creature relented. The storeowner felt the weight on his back subside, and he exhaled into the ground.

  What the hell? he thought. Why am I still alive? He continued to crawl, not daring not to glance behind him, fearing that the creature would be on him if he did.

  Bubba began to shriek from somewhere behind him.

  “What the fuck? Ray—it’s me!”

  Sam saw a dark object in front of him. He realized it was the shotgun, and he reached for it. He grabbed the handle and whipped around in the dirt.

  The creature that had once been Ray hovered over Bubba, tearing into him. The salvage yard owner screamed in pain, coughing and gurgling. Although Sam couldn’t tell for sure, it sounded like the man’s neck had been sliced open.

  Bubba let out one last wet gurgle, and then fell silent. The creature rose and began to advance in Sam’s direction. The storeowner scooted backwards on the ground. There was no time to regain his footing.

  He cocked the shotgun and pulled the trigger, hoping for the best.

  Ka-boom!

  The weapon let out a deafening blast, and Sam reeled backwards. His shoulders collided with one of the junked vehicles and pain shot up his arms. He watched the creature stagger—halted by the impact—and then collapse into a pile of blood and gray flesh.

  He lost his grip on the shotgun and it clattered to the ground.

  Thank God.

  Without realizing it, Sam looked up into the sky and made the sign of the cross.

  If this were Hell on Earth, what he had experienced was nothing short of a miracle.

  Dan crept toward the front gate of the salvage yard and aimed his pistol at the second SUV.

  “Get out of the vehicle!” he yelled to the driver.

  Behind the glare of the headlights, the driver was little more than a shadow. Dan squinted and saw the man raise his hands in surrender. He reached into his pocket, took out the key to the chain-link fence, and inserted it into the lock.

  He tugged the gate open and proceeded through.

  The first SUV driver lay facedown on the ground. His body was riddled with holes; his white clothing stained red with his blood.

  Dan stepped around him, approaching the second vehicle.

  The second driver swung his legs out of the vehicle, then abruptly collapsed into the dirt. A puddle of red blossomed from his stomach, and he cried out in pain and looked down at his white coat.

  “I-I’m hit!” he said, as if in shock.

  Dan nodded. “Are you armed?”

  “N-no. I’m not.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Brown. Nathan Brown,” he said. “Am I g-going to die, sir?”

  Dan looked into the kid’s eyes. He couldn’t be more than twenty-two. He felt a tinge of sadness, though he wasn’t sure why. Clearly, the kid had intended to kill them; had tracked them to the salvage yard like animals.

  “Let’s get you inside and see how bad you’ve been hit.”

  The kid’s eyes widened and he moaned in pain. Dan could tell the kid was in rough shape. He had seen a few similar injuries from his days on the force, and without the proper medical attention, the kid would likely bleed out soon.

  After patting him down, Dan propped him up by the shoulder.

  The two walked into the salvage yard.

  14

  QUINN LOOKED AT THE WOUNDED man, her eyes widening.

  “Is he going to die, Daddy?”

  Dan gave her a look, and she cast her gaze downward. The others were huddled in the corner, unable to look away from the gruesome scene. Nathan bled profusely from several wounds in his stomach, and his groaning filled the RV.

  “Sam, can you check the shack for supplies?” Dan asked.

  The storeowner nodded and exited the vehicle.

  “Look at me, son,” Dan said.

  “I’m sorry…for all of this,” the kid whispered.

  “Who are you people?” Dan asked.

  “I would never have done anything like this. I’m not s-supposed to be here…They made me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They have my family. They poisoned all these people…s-so they can start over, so they can rebuild. It’s not going to end here. They are going to keep spreading the virus.”

  Dan heard whimpers from behind him. He looked back and saw his daughter clinging to Delta.

  “Can you take her out of here?” he asked. “It’ll be ok, honey. Daddy will be out in a minute.”

  The others shuffled past the dying man and stepped outside. Nathan began to cry, his sobs mixed with whimpers of pain.

  “I’m dying, right? This is the end?”

  “We’ll do what we can, Nathan, but it doesn’t look good. I’m not going to lie to you.”

  The kid closed his eyes and then reopened them. A tear rolled down his cheek.

  Dan continued.

  “You can help make this right, Nathan. Tell us what you know. How is this virus spread? How can we avoid it?”

  “I don’t know what it is, exactly. It’s s-some sort of biological weapon. They’ve planted it in different food products depending on the region…t-to make it less traceable. For St. Matthews, it was put into the new water treatment plant. In other regions, it was injected into animals in the meat plants. I don’t know everything, man. I’m sorry.”

  Dan felt sick to his stomach. His whole family had been exposed.

  “Is there a cure? How long does it take to kick in?”

  “I’m not sure if there is a way to treat it once you are infected. It kicks in at different times, d-depending on the person.”

  “Why haven’t we turned yet?”

  Nathan coughed, splattering blood onto his white suit. His time was clearly running out.

  “There are some p-people who aren’t affected by it. Immune somehow. People who are resistant. Hopefully that means all of you’re safe, b-but I’m not sure.”

  “How will we know what to eat? What to avoid?”

  “C-check the SUVs. We have safe food and water in there. It’s wrapped with red labels. They sent us all on the road with it…so we wouldn’t get sick.”

  Dan stared at the young man and felt a tinge of sympathy. At the same time, he was suspicious. What if Nathan were lying? How would they know?

  The kid certainly seemed honest, yet he had been in on the whole thing from the beginning. Could he really be trusted?

  “I can tell you where they are—the people who started this whole thing,” Nathan whispered. “Do you have a map?”

  Dan stood and scanned the RV. He ran to the front, rummaging underneath the seats. He pulled out a ripped atlas and rejoined Nathan. Held it up in front of him.

  “Salt Lake City,” the kid whispered. “In the mountains.”

  Dan rifled through the pages, found the one for Utah. Nathan pointed with his index finger. The police officer nodded.

  “You have to find my family. My sister is only eleven years old. Her name is Margaret Brown,” the kid said. “P-Promise me you’ll find her and keep her safe.”

  “We’ll do what we can, Nathan.”

  The door to the RV swung open, and Sam stood in the entrance holding a medical kit. But it was too late. Nathan’s eyes had gone dormant, his stare fixed permanently on t
he ceiling.

  The morning after was spent shoveling dirt over the dead.

  Sam had located a wheelbarrow near the shack and was using it to haul the bodies out into the desert. It took several pairs of hands to lift Bubba, but the survivors finally propped him inside, each taking a side of the makeshift hearse as they wheeled him out of the salvage yard.

  Despite what Bubba had tried to do, Dan had insisted that he receive a proper burial.

  Delta and Quinn remained in the RV. Although they had all tried to sleep, the storeowner doubted that anyone had been able. For the remainder of the night they had taken shifts covering the perimeter, watching for any creatures that might try to breach the perimeter. The SUVs had been moved inside the lot and out of sight of the road, the fence locked.

  The body of Nathan Brown was the last to be carried out.

  After finishing the last of the burials, Sam and Dan stood over the shallow graves in silence. The storeowner finally spoke.

  “I wish I could say that this will be the last time we’ll have to do this,” he said solemnly.

  The police officer nodded back at him. “I don’t see things getting much better, knowing what we know now. Knowing what he told us.”

  “What’s your plan?” Sam asked.

  “We can probably stay here for a bit, but I don’t think we should wait too long. I’m sure there will be others coming.” Dan pointed toward the SUVs in the distance.

  “I’m sure.”

  “There’s something else, Sam.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Noah is leaving for Portland—he told us last night. I guess he has family there, and he wants to find them. I tried to stop him, but he won’t listen to reason.”

  “I’ll try to talk him out of it,” Sam said.

  The storeowner looked up into the sky, then shifted his gaze to the mountains on the horizon. It looked like he had more to say.

  “I’m leaving, too, Dan. I’m going to Salt Lake City,” he finally stated.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Someone has to try and stop this. I have no family left; no one I need to protect.”