Contamination (Books 0-3)

by T. W. Piperbrook

  He shouldn’t be out there alone, Delta thought. What if it’s one of those things?

  Disobeying his instructions, she crept after him.

  She followed his path along the trailer, treading quietly on the pavement, and then peered into the cab. The seats were empty. She picked up her pace, fearing that at any second she would hear him cry out, attacked by some unknown assailant.

  She proceeded around the hood, still hearing nothing from the other side.

  When Sam finally came into view, he was bent over a figure on the road about fifty feet away. He was talking but she couldn’t make out the words.

  “Sam? Are you OK?” she yelled.

  He looked up, startled, and then waved her over.

  She jogged over to him. On the ground next to Sam was a man in his mid-forties. His face was contorted in his pain, and blood trickled from his lips. It looked like he could barely speak. When Delta approached, he attempted a smile.

  “H-hello, ma’am,” he said.

  She opened her mouth to reply, and then noticed the gaping hole in his stomach. A jagged metal pipe lay next to him.

  “I don’t s-suppose you’re a doctor? I could really use one right now.”

  “No. I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  “Don’t be.” The man began to cough, spitting up flecks of blood onto his t-shirt. “I put up a good fight.”

  “You’ll be fine,” she tried.

  The look in the man’s eyes told her that he knew the truth.

  “Who did this to you?” she asked.

  “The men in the white coats. They’re heading north. It sounds like they’re going to Salt Lake City.”

  Sam glanced at Delta. “Would you mind grabbing him some water?”

  She nodded and stood. Before she left, she gave the man one last look.

  “Be careful out there, young lady,” he said.

  By the time Delta returned, he was dead.

  Sam flipped up the kickstand on the motorcycle. Delta hopped on back. Before he could turn the ignition, she tapped him on the shoulder.

  “What else did he say?” she asked.

  “They’re expanding north into Utah. Most of the southwest is already overrun.”

  “What does that mean for us?”

  “It means we’re going to run into a whole lot of shit on the way to Salt Lake City. Up there, things are just getting started.”

  He reached for the key, but she stopped him again. Out of nowhere, she felt a surge of anger.

  “What are we doing here, Sam?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We can’t possibly fight all of them on our own. What are we going to do when we catch up with them?”

  “I’m not sure,” he admitted. “I was hoping we’d figure it out once we got there.”

  “Do you know how ridiculous that sounds?”

  Sam rested his elbows on the handlebars and let out his hands. He gave a deep sigh.

  “I know. I can’t say I haven’t thought about just driving west and trying to get as far away from this thing as possible. But then I think of all the people that have been killed or infected, and how many more will probably die.”

  He turned to face her.

  “It’s not going to end here, Delta. This thing is going to keep going until someone puts a stop to it. With the information we have, we might be able to make a difference.”

  She sighed. “There has to be someone else out there doing something. Can’t we just leave it to the government?”

  “In all the time we’ve been on the road, I haven’t seen anyone making an effort to fight this thing. I know it sounds crazy, Delta, but I feel like this is something we were meant to do.”

  She looked at him, catching a hint of sadness in his eyes, and felt her anger subside.

  “The last thing I want to do is drag you into this thing against your will,” he said. “If you don’t want to go, I completely understand. It just bothers me to think that every minute we wait, more people are potentially being killed.”

  She patted him on the shoulder.

  “In that case, we better get a move on,” she said. “We’ve wasted enough time already.”

  PART TWO – NEW ETHIC

  7

  WHEN HIS SHIFT IN THE control room had ended, Cromwell returned to his private quarters once again. There, he began to pace the room while working on a new set of tactics and strategies.

  Despite the complexity of his plans, Cromwell seldom wrote anything on paper or kept any files electronically. Instead, he preferred to keep everything in his head, fearing that the information might be otherwise breached.

  He was able to recall facts and locations with remarkable clarity, and his memory rarely failed him. According to what he had read, the same was true for many of the world’s great leaders, including Napoleon.

  For instance, he knew that today first strikes were being made on both Denver and Baton Rouge. Having conquered the southwest, Cromwell’s next move was to expand into the surrounding territories.

  Even with the plans in motion, the attacks wouldn’t begin without his say-so. He always ensured that he had final approval, just in case things needed to be revised or adjusted. He alone was the hub, the source of everything.

  And that was exactly the way he wanted it.

  Cromwell stopped pacing and sat on the floor. He then laid back, placed his arms behind his neck, and started on his abdominal crunches. As he began his first set, he contemplated the phone call he was about to make.

  Denver or Baton Rouge?

  He smiled, watching his stomach muscles tighten as he worked his midsection. He had always enjoyed the food in Louisiana—at least, before he had changed his eating habits.

  Maybe I’ll start with Denver, he thought.

  Sam coasted through the broken-down vehicles, alternating between the brakes and the gas. Because of the constant obstructions, he was forced to drive slowly. They were only supposed to be on I-40 for five miles, but the trip was starting to feel much longer, and he found himself scanning the roadside for the next exit.

  “Look out for signs,” he called back to Delta. “We need to get back on I-191. It should be exit 333.”

  Ahead of them the highway remained flat, the landscape dotted with green shrubs and sand. After a while the road began to clear, and with fewer cars to contend with, Sam was able to pick up speed.

  Aside from the man they had just left, there hadn’t run into any other survivors. On several occasions Delta motioned for Sam to stop, thinking she saw movement, but it always proved to be a false alarm.

  At one point, Sam noticed a phone on the ground, and they had stopped to pick it up, hoping for a signal. The cellphone had been dead. Even with service, he doubted they would get a response.

  Finally, Sam spotted the sign for the next exit. He hit the gas, kicking up a cloud of exhaust, and swung onto the ramp.

  Unlike I-40, Interstate 191 was narrower and contained fewer disabled vehicles. The landscape contained more of the same scenery—dry green junipers, brown desert, and flecks of trees in the distance. Though there were several houses and small businesses scattered along the roadside, none appeared to be occupied, and all appeared to be without power.

  Sam glanced down at the gas gauge. The bike still contained about a half tank, but he made a mental note that they would need to refill it. The last thing they needed was to run out of fuel.

  As he gripped the handlebars, Sam let his mind wander, thinking back to what the man on the road had told him.

  Just a few hours ago, three men in white coats had passed through the highway. After arriving, they had made their way from vehicle to vehicle, systematically eliminating any survivors. Instead of bullets, they had resorted to using sharp objects they found on the road, saying that the people weren’t worth the ammunition.

  The man on the road had been gored with a pipe and left to die.

  Sam shuddered.

  He looked at the odometer. At their curre
nt speed, they would reach Salt Lake City by early evening. However, if any of the agents had taken the same road, they might run into trouble sooner.

  In the distance, Sam spotted a rusted pickup at the side of the road. The hood and grill were orange—as if the vehicle had been exposed to the elements for many years—and the bed had been built up with pieces of plywood. It appeared that something had been spray-painted on the side. As they drew closer, Sam slowed the bike to read the message.

  “Two Rocks Trading Post & Café—2 Miles. Gas Available”

  He pointed to the sign.

  “We should stop,” he said.

  With the road as desolate as it was, he didn’t want to risk waiting to fill the tank any longer. They had enough things to worry about without breaking down on the highway. Having made up his mind, Sam continued on, watching the side of the road for the upcoming turn.

  A few minutes later, he saw it. Sam veered off the main road, the tires of the motorcycle crunching on loose stone, and pulled into the parking lot.

  True to its name, the Twin Rocks Trading Post had been built at the base of two large rock formations, two reddish spirals of sandstone that jutted into the sky several hundred feet above it. The building itself was a log cabin, with a roof made of red shingles and a covered walkway at the front. Lining the property was a small brick wall adorned with plants and Native American statues.

  There were two cars in the parking lot. Both appeared to be empty.

  As he drove across the lot, Sam noticed a single gas pump on the side of the building. He pulled up next to it and cut the engine.

  “Do you think anyone’s here?” Delta asked.

  “It doesn’t look like it, but we should check first.”

  “Is the pump even on?”

  Sam glanced over at it.

  “Nope. Looks like we’re going inside.”

  He dismounted the bike and withdrew his pistol. Delta followed behind him.

  Before going inside, Sam inspected the vehicles in the parking lot. Both appeared to be at least twenty years old and were covered with rust and dents. One was a truck, the other a sedan. He glanced inside the windows, but saw nothing of interest.

  The store itself was several hundred feet wide, and contained eight evenly spaced windows along the front. Sam squinted to see inside, but couldn’t see past the signs and merchandise that had been placed against the glass.

  There were two solid oak doors at the entrance. Both were closed.

  Motioning for Delta to stay put, Sam walked up and tried the handles, surprised to find them open. He cracked the entrance, leading with his gun, and peered into the store.

  The place was a mess.

  Rugs, baskets, and jewelry were scattered everywhere, homemade paintings had been ripped from the walls, and display cases had been toppled over. Seeing no signs of life, Sam entered the building. He stepped over the fallen merchandise, carefully avoiding the debris with his boots.

  Delta entered behind him, and the front door shut with a click.

  Although the store appeared to have been ransacked, there were no dead bodies in view, and Sam found himself both surprised and relieved. Hopefully, the owners had left some time ago and had made it safely to another state.

  Along the back wall, Sam noticed two doors: one on the far left, and one on the far right. He made his way through the store, still searching for a gas can.

  As he did, the one on the left opened to a crack and then shut.

  Sam stopped moving and stared at it. Was he seeing things?

  He waited, but the door remained closed.

  “What was that?” Delta whispered.

  “I don’t know. Get down.”

  They crouched behind a wooden display case—one of the few that hadn’t been knocked to the ground. Sam aimed his gun over the top and pointed it directly at the door.

  A few seconds later, he heard a noise to his right. He swiveled his gaze, and was just in time to see the other door swinging shut. Heart hammering, he nudged Delta, but noticed she already had her pistol trained on it.

  He glanced in all directions, wondering if someone had entered the main room, but the store was still empty.

  Footsteps sounded from the walkway outside.

  In a panic Sam turned, realizing their backs were exposed. Before he could move, the oak doors began to open.

  Whoever it was had them completely surrounded.

  8

  SAM AND DELTA SAT BACK to back on the floor, watching the doors with impending dread. Delta kept an eye on the doors at the rear while Sam guarded the front entrance.

  The oak doors had closed again, betraying nothing about the person or persons that waited outside. Sam stared intently, but saw no further sign of movement.

  Maybe they’re trying to flush us out.

  A few seconds later, the oak doors opened again and the nose of a pistol poked through.

  “Get down!” Sam yelled.

  He pushed Delta to the floor. Gunshots sounded from around them. Sam heard the sound of doors opening—this time from the rear of the store—and then more gunfire. Bullets pinged off the display case in front of them, sending fragments of wood into the air, and several clay pots exploded.

  When the noise ceased, he turned his head, looked at Delta.

  “Are you hit?” he asked.

  “I don’t think so.”

  He craned his head and inspected his own body. Seeing no sign of injury, he swiveled back to Delta.

  “We need to get out of here. We’re sitting ducks.”

  “Where are we going to go? They have us surrounded.”

  Sam peered around the store. On one side of the building were several display windows. Unlike those in front, these had no merchandise in front of them. He waved his gun at them.

  “Maybe we can shoot them out and jump through.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “I don’t know. Do you have any better ideas?”

  She shook her head.

  Sam aimed his pistol at one of them and squeezed the trigger. The window burst, sending shards of glass onto the gravel outside.

  “On three?”

  She swallowed and nodded.

  Sam mouthed the first two numbers. Before he could get to the third, a figure in white ran past the now-open window.

  “Shit,” he muttered.

  “What is it?”

  He trained his pistol on the oak doors.

  “Agents. One of them just ran around front. Keep your eyes on the doors in back; I’ll watch the front.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Delta stand and point her weapon over the display case. A second later, she fired.

  Startled, Sam glanced back over his shoulder. A figure pitched forward and fell into the store. The rear door on the left was still swinging from where he had emerged.

  “Let’s go!” she shouted.

  Following her lead, he pulled himself to his feet and began to run toward the rear door Delta had just fired at. The ground was uneven, littered with remnants of wood and clay, and he struggled to keep his balance. Delta got there first and she tugged it open, stuck her gun through the crack, and then shouted at him to proceed.

  As he ran, he caught a glimpse of the fallen agent. The man’s mouth hung open, and a trickle of blood had escaped down his chin. His white jacket was marred with a red stain.

  Sam leapt through the open doorway and into the room beyond. Delta closed the door behind them just as gunfire began to pummel the frame.

  The two found themselves in a small living area containing a single bed, a refrigerator, and a counter. At the far end was a bathroom no bigger than a closet. The door was open, revealing a white porcelain toilet. A single lantern lit the room.

  On the bed, their throats slit, were two women.

  Sam raced over to examine them, but was unable to find a pulse. Their wounds were still fresh.

  Delta looked away, clasped her hand over her mouth.

  “We need to fi
nd a way out,” Sam said.

  His eyes darted around the room, searching for a means of escape. Aside from the single doorway they had come through, there appeared to be no other exit.

  “What are we going to do?” Delta whispered.

  The shooting had stopped, filling the air with an eerie calm. From beyond the door, they could hear the crunch of footsteps. It sounded like they were getting closer.

  Sam got on his hands and knees and felt underneath the bed, looking for something—anything—that could alter their predicament. At first he felt the outline of shoes, and then something cold and hard. He pulled, untangling the object from some clothing, and then emerged.

  In his hands was a shotgun.

  “It looks like this is our lucky day,” he said. “Help me move the bed.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We need to flip it.”

  Delta sucked in a breath, her eyes locked on the bodies of the two women.

  “What about the—?”

  “No time.”

  The two transferred the bodies to the other end of the room—Sam grabbing the legs, Delta the arms—and then overturned the mattress and propped it up against the bed frame. When they were finished, they hovered behind it, the storeowner aiming the shotgun over the top.

  Then they waited.

  The footsteps continued, careful and deliberate.

  A few seconds later, somebody tugged at the door, rattling the wood against the frame. Sam cast Delta a look, and she stared back at him, her pistol trembling in her hands. The door was locked, but the paltry hook and latch would hardly stand up to a well-placed kick.

  More footsteps sounded from beyond the door. If Sam had to guess, he thought there had to be at least two other agents—maybe more.

  He held the shotgun in place.

  The door wiggled again. This time, the hook slipped out of the latch and clacked uselessly against the wood. Sam heard a laugh.

  And then the door opened.

  Agent Hopper felt his eyes start to close, and he shook his head to keep from falling asleep. In front of him the monitors blinked back and forth, revealing nothing but desert, dirt, and highways. At the moment, none of the cameras were focused on anything of interest. It felt like he had been staring at the same backgrounds for hours.