Sam reached across Delta and grabbed hold of the wheel, but the pickup had already stopped. There was nowhere left to go.
The motorcyclist wrenched the handlebars, turning the bike sideways and forcing it into a skid. Sam watched the bike fly past them, filling the air with the smell of smoke and burnt rubber, and then come to a stop about thirty feet behind the pickup.
The driver killed the ignition, plunging the road into silence.
After a few seconds, the rider leapt off the bike, threw up the kickstand, and started walking toward the truck.
“Roll up the window, Delta.”
Delta fumbled with the buttons. The automatic window whirred as it slid back into the track. Sam reached under the seat, retrieving the pistol and placing it on his lap.
“What do you think he’s going to do?” Delta asked.
“I don’t know, but be ready to drive.”
The man approached the driver’s side window. He was dressed in blue jeans, a black leather jacket, and riding boots. On his forehead was a yellow bandana. Although his face was beardless, he retained a hint of stubble, as if he hadn’t shaved in several days. He was of average build and height, but his clothes and demeanor gave him an intimidating aura.
He raised a gloved hand and rapped on the glass.
“You folks all right?” he asked. He wrinkled his brow, and his eyes wandered back and forth between the two of them. He seemed genuinely concerned.
Delta looked at Sam for direction, and he signaled her to roll down the window a crack. As she did so, the man smiled at them.
“I apologize. I was going a little fast there. But I’m sure you can understand why, with all this shit going on.”
Sam nodded. “Where are you from?”
“New Mexico.”
“How are things looking there?”
“Pretty bad, as you can imagine. I take it you’re coming from the other way?”
“Yes. We’re coming from St. Matthews.”
“Well, there’s not much to see back there.” He pointed to the road behind him. “The name’s Barry.”
The man reached two fingers through the cracked window, then paused, unable to fit his hand through.
Sam gave Delta a nod, and she rolled down the window the rest of the way.
“I’m Delta, and this is Sam,” she said.
The man shook each of their hands, and then scratched at the stubble on his chin.
“Where are you folks headed, if you don’t mind me asking?”
Sam and Delta exchanged looks. After a pause, the storeowner answered.
“Salt Lake City.”
“Do you have family there?”
Another delay. “Yes.”
“I can’t speak to how bad it is in Utah, but I can tell you it’s not safe in New Mexico. There are gangs roaming the highways, and the infected folk are everywhere.”
Delta leaned her head out the window.
“We came across a campsite a few miles back,” she said. “Everybody there was butchered. It was awful. All of this seems so unreal.”
Barry nodded grimly.
“Well, I won’t trouble you folks any further. I’m planning to camp out in the mountains here—hopefully I can find someplace safe to hide.”
Delta glanced over at Sam, then turned back to the man.
“Do you need anything?” she asked. “Is there anything we can help you with?”
The man paused for a moment, thinking.
“Well, I am a bit worried about my bike. To be honest, I’m not much of a mechanic, and I’m hoping I didn’t ruin anything with that little stunt I pulled. Would either of you happen to know anything about motorcycles?”
“I don’t myself. Do you, Sam?” Delta glanced over at him with hopeful eyes.
“A little,” he said, shifting in his seat. “I suppose I could take a quick look. But then we’d have to get going.”
“I would really appreciate it.” Barry adjusted his bandana and then started walking back toward the bike.
Sam unbuckled his seatbelt and tucked the pistol in his pants.
“Stay here,” he said to Delta.
He reached for the door handle, the hinges groaning in protest as he opened the door, and stepped out into the street.
Barry was already on his hands and knees, examining the bike. Sam joined him.
“You’d think a guy like me would know a little more about what he’s driving,” Barry joked. “I can’t thank you enough for helping me out.”
“No problem.”
Barry moved out the way, allowing Sam access to the motorcycle. The storeowner glanced it over, checking out the engine and frame, looking for signs that anything had been damaged. As far as he could tell, the bike appeared to be in good shape.
“I don’t see anything,” he said.
“How about the tires? After skidding to a stop like that…”
Sam bent down and ran his fingers over the tread, but found nothing.
He had just started to stand when he felt something cold and hard against the base of his neck.
“Stay right where you are,” Barry said from behind him. “If you move one inch, I’ll blow your head off.”
Before Sam could react, he felt a surge of pain in his head, and then everything went black.
Delta was gazing off the side of the mountain when she heard commotion outside her window. Startled, she looked to her left just in time to see Sam fall facedown on the asphalt. She cried out and reached for her weapon.
Barry was already headed towards the pickup.
Delta jabbed at the buttons on her armrest, simultaneously locking the doors and rolling up the windows. When she had secured the vehicle, she held the pistol up to the window so the biker could see it.
“Put down the gun, missy,” he said through the glass.
He peered at her through the windowpane, his breath fogging the window, and gave her a wide smile. His teeth were yellowed—several of them were chipped. Her heart skipped a beat.
On the other side of the road, Sam hadn’t moved. It looked like he was out cold.
“If you want your friend to live, you’ll do what I say.”
“Fuck you,” Delta spat.
Barry’s smile faded.
“You either come out on your own, or my friends and I will pull you out kicking and screaming.”
As soon as he said the words, Delta heard a rumble from up the road. This time the noise was overpowering, echoing down the side of the mountain and into the valleys below. She clutched her pistol, terrified of what was coming her way.
Were there more of them?
A few seconds later, her worst fear was confirmed.
Three motorcyclists rounded the corner—all dressed in garb similar to Barry’s. They raised their fists into the air, and then converged in front of the pickup, blocking the road. After coming to a stop, the three riders dismounted and joined their friend at the window, eyes fixed on Delta.
“What do we have here, Barry?”
“There’re only two of them—this pretty little thing here, and the old guy on the ground.”
Barry motioned to the still figure of Sam behind them. A few of the bikers began to laugh.
“Looks like he didn’t put up much of a fight,” one of them said, smiling through a shaggy gray beard.
Another one—a man with a long, curved mustache—made his way to the passenger’s side of the truck and tapped on the glass.
“Hey, you! I see you in there!” He gave Delta a ravenous grin.
She aimed the pistol at the window, her hands shaking. The man proceeded to laugh.
“You ain’t gonna use that thing, sweetheart.”
She waved the pistol as if to solidify her intentions, but the biker stood his ground. Behind her, she heard the others begin to tug on the door handles. Her pulse raced.
The man was right. Even if she shot one of them, there was no way she could take them all out. Her only hope was Sam, and by the looks of it, he
wasn’t waking up anytime soon.
She stared past the bikers, searching for another way out.
She could throw the car into drive and aim for the motorcycles, hoping to make her way through them, but that would mean leaving Sam behind, and if she did that, the bikers would surely kill him.
At the same time, if she stayed here among these men, there was a good chance she would die herself.
I’m going to have to shoot my way out, she thought. I have no other choice.
The biker with the moustache banged on the passenger’s window again—louder this time—and began to catcall at her through the glass. She extended her arms toward him, pistol pointed at his chest, and prepared to pull the trigger.
Before she could make a move, one of the windows in the backseat shattered.
Delta spun, but she was too late. Several pairs of hands had already reached through the window, unlocking the door, and someone grabbed her by the hair. She screamed out in pain and tried desperately to aim her weapon, but it was too late. She was surrounded.
Someone latched onto her arm, sending the pistol clattering to the floor.
As she was dragged from the truck, her last thought was of Sam.
Would she live to see him killed, or would they kill her first?
4
AFTER PLACING SEVERAL MORE CALLS from his room, Cromwell stood and walked toward the door. Affixed to the back was a full-length mirror—another amenity that the others were unaware of. He stared at his reflection in silence for a few minutes, examining himself for imperfections.
Over the past several years, Cromwell had followed a strict diet and exercise regimen. He was careful only to ingest only natural foods, avoiding anything that contained chemicals or preservatives, and he avoided any substance that might cloud his judgment. It was the same diet he had impressed upon his agents, one that he hoped would give them an advantage.
For too many years, humanity had mutated and destroyed the environment, filling the Earth with unnatural chemicals, polluting its natural resources. He found it both ironic—and fitting—that the source of their demise would be a man-made virus.
He took off his shirt, flexed his biceps. His arms were thick and toned, and his stomach contained a set of rock-hard abs.
In order to lead the new world, Cromwell knew had to be in perfect shape.
He turned to inspect his back, doing his best to ignore the red scars at the bottom and focusing on the beads of muscle that he had worked so hard to maintain. Despite what his father had done to him, he had overcome the odds: his past had only made him stronger.
Satisfied for the moment, he pulled his v-neck back over his head, tucked it into his camouflage pants, and opened the door.
To his surprise, there were two other agents in the hallway. From the looks on their faces, it appeared he had startled them. Cromwell walked over to join them. Both of them were young—probably in their mid-twenties—and he recognized them as some of the newest recruits from a recent training session.
One had blond hair; the other dark. Both had recently shaved their heads. The dark-haired recruit spoke up.
“Morning, Cromwell. We thought you were one of the leaders.”
The dark-haired agent gave a nervous laugh, and the other one joined him.
No. I’m someone much more important.
“It’s just me,” Cromwell said. “Where’re you coming from? Aren’t you supposed to be in the ops room?”
“We were just outside taking a smoke break. You won’t say anything, will you?” the blond-haired one said. “I know we were supposed to quit, but it’s been hard, man.”
Cromwell felt his temperature start to rise, and he fought to control his anger.
“Don’t worry, I won’t say anything,” he said.
The dark-haired agent patted him on the back—right on the area with the scars—and Cromwell tensed. It took all he had to avoid unleashing his rage on the ungrateful prick.
“You know what?” Cromwell asked. “I know a great place where you can go to smoke. It’s on the lower level. I don’t think anyone knows about it. I can show you, if you’d like.”
“Really? That sounds great.” The blond-haired agent’s eyes lit up. “Can he come too?”
“Sure thing. Follow me.”
Cromwell turned his back and began walking in the other direction, leading the two agents to the elevator at the far end of the hall. He hit the button and waited for the car to descend.
“Are these guys really serious about all the ‘no drinking’ and ‘no smoking’ stuff?” the dark-haired agent asked.
“Dead serious.”
“I mean, after all this is said and done, will any of that really matter? There will be no one left to fuck with us.”
Cromwell smiled but didn’t answer. The elevator doors whooshed open and he ushered them inside. After the doors closed, he watched the orange lights at the top of the car blink as they made their descent.
When they reached the lower level, he led the agents down a series of hallways, and finally stopped at a lone door at the end of one of them.
“I don’t know, man,” the blond-haired one said. “This is a little far from our post. Won’t they miss us?”
“Doubtful,” Cromwell said.
He reached for a small keypad, activating the lock with the touch of his hand, and then pushed the door open. The two agents stepped inside and he closed the entrance behind them.
“What is this place?” the dark-haired one asked.
Inside the room was a wall filled with knives and swords. Each hung on a unique wooden peg, and all of them were evenly spaced. Cromwell walked over to the arrangement and pulled a seven-inch knife off the wall. He turned it in his hands.
“Do you know what this is?” he asked the two agents.
Both shook their heads, confused.
“This is a Fairbairn-Sykes fighting knife. It was originally used by British soldiers during World War II. Today, it is primarily sold to collectors. Unfortunately, this particular knife is just a replica, so it was never actually used in combat. Isn’t that a shame?”
“Can we really smoke in here?” the blond-haired agent asked.
“Now why would you want to do that?” Cromwell asked. “Do you really want to ruin this nice showroom with that stench?”
The agent shook his head.
“I didn’t think so.”
The dark-haired agent moved toward the door.
“We appreciate the history lesson, but we really have to get back to our posts,” he said.
Cromwell took a step toward them, holding the blade at his side.
“Did you know that there is more than one way to sever a man’s artery?” he asked.
The agents didn’t reply.
“Well, if you paid attention in your training classes, you would know that. The cleaner the cut, the quicker your enemy will bleed out.”
The agents began to fumble with the keypad. The lock beeped as they punched in various combinations, but the door wouldn’t budge. Cromwell continued, unfazed.
“A stomach wound is particularly interesting, because it will confuse your opponent psychologically while also causing tremendous pain. Can you imagine what it must feel like to get stabbed in the stomach? I can’t imagine it feels too good.”
The dark-haired agent held up his hands. “Listen, man, we’re not looking for any trouble. We just want to return to our station. We won’t bother you anymore.”
Cromwell paused, as if considering the man’s words.
“You know what might help make this easier for you?” he asked. “Rather than looking at this negatively, think of it as an initiation. Not only for the knife, but for you.”
With that, Cromwell lunged forward, thrusting the blade deep into the man’s stomach. The dark-haired agent cried out in pain and surprise, watching a circle of red blood blossom beneath his uniform.
“W-what d-did you do that for?” he whispered.
The man pawed at
the open wound, his eyes wide. The blond-haired agent began to scream and pound on the door.
Cromwell advanced without a sound, licking his lips in anticipation.
Sam awoke to the sound of Delta screaming.
He tried to move, but his hands were bound behind him. He opened his eyes, head still throbbing, and realized that his world was still dark. From somewhere outside, he could hear the sound of men’s voices. He recognized Barry’s among them and felt a surge of anger.
Sam had been tricked. They both had.
He wriggled his arms and legs. He couldn’t twist more than a few inches. When he rolled his head, his face pressed up against what smelled like cardboard, and he could detect the faint odor of food.
I’m in the bed of the pickup.
Barry—or the others—must have put him there after knocking him out. Was he still on the main road, or had they driven the truck somewhere else? He could smell smoke from a fire, and guessed that the vehicle had been relocated.
Delta had stopped screaming, but the men continued to laugh and chide her. He strained his ears to make out what they were saying.
“We’re going to have a lot of fun with you,” one of the voices said.
“Yeah, you’re a pretty one,” said another.
Sam struggled at his bindings. It felt like he had been tied with rope; the knots were so tight that his hands had lost circulation. Whoever had done it had done a good job.
Think, Sam.
Was there anything sharp in the bed of the truck that could help him? From what he could tell, he was wedged between several boxes, giving him little room to maneuver. He rolled his body from side to side, trying to flip over onto his back, and felt something dig into his stomach.
My knife.
It was still tucked in the front of his pants. They must not have checked there.
Feeling a renewed sense of hope, Sam wrenched his body back and forth, trying to dislodge it. Even if he could get it out, he wasn’t sure what he would do next. To use it he would have to roll over, and his space was limited.
Still, he had to try. His life—and Delta’s life—depended on it.
He felt the blade start to slide out of the sheath and he pushed his stomach against the bed lining, trying to put pressure on the handle. He curled his toes and then retracted them, pushing his boots off the tailgate so that his body moved back and forth.
Contamination (Books 0-3) Page 28