Contamination (Books 0-3)

by T. W. Piperbrook

  “Maybe if I’m lucky I’ll see a goddamn bird,” he mumbled.

  He stood up from his chair, heard it roll back a few feet behind him, and stretched. He had originally been worried about dying in combat, but now he was beginning to think he would die of boredom first.

  When he had been recruited six months ago, he had been promised not only a piece of land in the new world, but also a chance to take part in the action. Hopper had never been one to rest on his laurels, but it seemed like that was all he had been doing since coming to the compound.

  A few times he had asked to be reassigned, but each time his agent leader had instructed him to hold tight—that he would be pulled in as soon as he was needed. Hopper was starting to think that would never happen.

  And then there was his shift partner, Cromwell. Clearly, the man didn’t care about his work. Aside from his constant exercise, the man seemed to lack discipline, and seemed to care more about taking breaks than manning his post.

  Where was he going all the time, anyway?

  Stomach issues, my ass.

  “I should follow that son of a bitch one of these days,” he said to himself. “See where the hell he goes all the time.”

  He laughed at the thought. If nothing else, it would alleviate some of his boredom.

  Hopper stared back at the monitors—nothing had changed. He squinted at one of the screens, watching the picture turn into an army of pixelated dots. Sometimes when he was really bored, he would pretend that they were hordes of the infected, crawling over each other in an effort to get to the compound. Then he would picture going outside to mow them down, preferably in a tank, or at the very least an automatic weapon.

  He had heard rumors that the infection was starting to take hold in Salt Lake City, but his superiors had given him no further information. That was another thing that pissed him off.

  Why was everything so damn secret around here? If he were truly a part of the plan, shouldn’t he know more of the details?

  Hopper slapped his palms on the desk and let out a sigh.

  A few seconds later, the phone on his desk rang.

  He reached over and grabbed the receiver.

  “Hopper.”

  “How are we looking out there?” a voice asked.

  “Nothing to report.”

  “Good.”

  “Sir?”

  The person paused. “Yes?”

  “Have we taken Salt Lake City yet?”

  The phone line went silent. Hopper held the receiver away from his ear and looked at it, unsure if the call had been disconnected. A few seconds later, he heard the sound of someone breathing.

  “Hello?”

  “Thanks for the report, Hopper.”

  This time, before he could stop them, the agent leader hung up.

  9

  SAM WATCHED THE DOOR SWING open, keeping his finger on the trigger of the shotgun. As soon as he saw movement, he would shoot. Even if his shot was inaccurate, the shotgun should have a wide blast, and hopefully he would hit one of the men outside the door.

  It wasn’t the best plan, but it was all he had.

  The door slammed against the wall, and Sam saw an arm make its way through the opening. He aimed his weapon.

  “Wait!” Delta whispered.

  The person coming through the door wasn’t dressed in white. In fact, whoever it was had on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. Sam held his fire, watching the figure stumble into the room. From the corner of the room, the lantern seemed to project both light and shadow, revealing the emerging figure in bits and pieces.

  From what Sam could tell, it appeared to be a man. The person walked a few feet into the room and then collapsed.

  Delta started to stand, but Sam grabbed hold of her arm.

  “It’s a trap!” he hissed.

  On the floor, the man began to moan.

  They held their position, watching the open door, the rest of the store quiet.

  Somewhere outside, an engine fired. It sounded like the Harley.

  “Do you have the keys?” Delta mouthed.

  Sam let one hand off the gun, patted his pockets. He shook his head. He must have left them in the ignition.

  Dammit.

  If there were agents outside, why would they take his motorcycle? Surely they must have better vehicles that that.

  Unless they’re trying to strand us here.

  But that wouldn’t make sense. From everything he had heard, the agents were intent on killing any remaining survivors. While stranding Sam and Delta may lead to their demise—eventually—it wasn’t a surefire way to kill them.

  On the ground, the man began to make a gurgling noise in his throat. He lifted his head, meeting Sam’s eyes for a split second, and then collapsed again. This time, he stopped moving.

  Something white entered the doorway.

  Sam pulled the trigger. The blast tore off the side of the doorframe, and the figure fell back into the store. Two more figures flitted past—this time firing guns—and he ducked behind the mattress. The bullets tore through the fabric and pinged into the wall on other side.

  He cocked the gun, preparing to shoot another round.

  Delta poked her head up and started to fire, as well. Sam heard the sound of a man grunting, and then a thud as someone else hit the floor. She ducked back down beside him.

  He smiled at her. “Nice shot.”

  “You, too,” she said.

  “How many more are there?”

  “One, I think.”

  Sam nodded. Before he could stand, bullets ripped into the air once again. He covered his head, feeling the bedframe push back against them. As soon as the gunfire stopped, he threw the shotgun back over the top of the mattress and pulled the trigger. This time he didn’t even aim.

  He heard their attacker cry out as the shot connected.

  “Think that’s all of them?”

  Delta shrugged. “We’ll find out soon enough.”

  After waiting a few more minutes in silence, the two stood from their position and lowered the mattress to the floor. The front had been torn to shreds, pieces of foam spilling out from the inside. There were three bodies in view: two inside the room, and one in the main store.

  Sam padded over to the first man—the one in the t-shirt and jeans—and verified that he was no longer breathing. The second man, the agent, was dead as well.

  They crept over to the doorway and looked out into the main store. There, they saw the third body, but no sign of a fourth.

  Sam held his finger to his lips and continued walking.

  After a few steps, he noticed a trail of blood leading across the floor. He followed it, shotgun in hand, and saw that it led outside. Once he reached the oak doors in front, he paused to listen. Hearing nothing, he pushed them open and stepped out into the air.

  The desert sun beat down on the parking lot, reflecting off of the roofs of the two cars. Even under the covered walkway the temperature difference was noticeable, and Sam started to sweat. Below him, he saw drops of blood on the walkway planks. It looked like the wounded man had traveled to the other side of the building—opposite from where they had parked the Harley.

  Sam hunched low to the ground and followed the man’s trail. Delta fell in line behind him, her boots creaking on the floorboards.

  As they rounded the corner of the building, stepping out from the cover of the overhang, they saw one of the agents lying facedown in the dirt, panting.

  Sam stopped for a second, putting up his palm. He glanced around for the man’s weapon. About ten feet away, he saw a rifle lying unmanned in the dirt. Satisfied, he continued until he was standing over the agent.

  On the man’s back were several bloody exit wounds, and he wheezed as he fought for breath.

  Sam knelt beside him, rolled him over. The agent’s eyes rolled up to meet him, a string of blood dripping from his mouth.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  The man’s eyes fluttered. It appeared he was too
injured to speak. He began to wheeze, and his lips parted even further.

  Beyond him, Sam saw a white SUV parked in back of the building. He motioned for Delta to stay put, then headed toward the vehicle. When he reached it, he found the doors to be locked, no one inside.

  He returned to Delta and the downed agent.

  “Where are the keys?” he asked the man. But it was too late.

  The agent’s eyes were already glued skyward, and after a few more labored gasps, he stopped breathing altogether.

  Delta stared at the man for a second and then rose to join Sam.

  “We should check on the motorcycle,” she said.

  “Forget that. I have a better idea.”

  The two moved the Harley around back and then Sam emptied the contents of the saddlebags onto the ground.

  A few minutes later, Delta appeared from around the corner and held up a set of keys.

  “I found them!” she said.

  She walked over to meet him and they made their way to the SUV. Delta unlocked the doors and they both began to inspect the vehicle. The interior was spotless—not a can or wrapper inside. Underneath the seats, Sam located several knives, a small set of tools, and a United States atlas. In the back were several cases of food, all marked with red labels, along with several dozen bottles of water. The SUV had a full tank of gas.

  “This should keep us in business for a while,” Sam said.

  When they were finished looking over the vehicle, Sam transferred the food and weapons from the motorcycle into their new car and then gathered the guns from the fallen agents. Several of the weapons had been emptied.

  Comprising their arsenal were the shotgun, four pistols, a rifle, and several knives of various sizes.

  The two got into the SUV—Sam in the driver’s seat and Delta in the passenger’s seat—and began to pull out of the parking lot. As Sam drove past the Two Rocks Trading Post, he glanced at the front of the store, suddenly envisioning his own in White Mist.

  He pictured working there on a day just like today—ensuring the displays were visible, cleaning the shelves, waiting for the weekly delivery. It was a simple life, but it was one he had chosen, unlike the new one he had been forced into.

  Now, separated from his store by a few days and several hundred miles, he could feel his old life already starting to fade.

  He glanced over at Delta and was surprised to find her watching him. He had stopped at the edge of the parking lot, his foot hovering over the gas pedal, but hadn’t pulled out into the road yet.

  “You ready, Sam?” she asked.

  “I think so.”

  She gave him a wide smile and patted his leg.

  “Great. Then let’s get the hell out of here.”

  Hopper drummed his hands on the desk in front of him. Since earlier that day, he had had a song stuck in his head, and he couldn’t seem to get rid of it. He began to sing—softly at first, and then louder as he got to the chorus.

  They should at least allow us to listen to music in here, he thought. What the fuck difference would it make?

  He had just finished pantomiming a guitar solo when Cromwell interrupted him.

  “Are you finished, Hopper?”

  Hopper turned to face the other agent, who was on the floor doing sit-ups as usual. He had almost forgotten the man was in the room.

  “I’m trying to concentrate.” Cromwell gave him a hard stare and then resumed his repetitions.

  What the hell was the guy’s problem?

  Rather than pick a fight, Hopper swiveled back around in his chair and rolled his eyes. One of the screens had suddenly switched views from the side of a mountain to the compound’s front entrance. He saw movement in the corner of the monitor, and he pushed forward on his black joystick to zoom in.

  A hawk was picking at a carcass on the ground. In the middle of its meal it had stopped to preen its feathers, head cocked to the side. Hopper zoomed out and then in again, staring at its black pupils.

  Even the damn birds had more to do than he did.

  “What is it?” Cromwell asked, coming up behind him.

  Startled, Hopper hit the joystick, zooming the camera in on a piece of whatever the hawk was chewing on. It looked like a snake.

  “Nothing. Just looking at a bird,” he said.

  “All right. I’m going to take five minutes to hit the bathroom. Do you mind?”

  Hopper shook his head. “Nope.”

  He listened as Cromwell’s feet retreated on the tile. When he heard the door close, he stood up from his chair.

  Time to see what that asshole is really up to, he thought.

  He crept across the room and opened the door a crack, peering down the hallway. Cromwell was about ten feet in front of him. He had already passed by the bathroom.

  I knew it.

  Hopper slipped out the exit, shutting the door quietly behind him, and started after the other agent. As he progressed down the hallway, he walked softly, doing his best to dampen the sound of his footsteps. Cromwell veered to the right, taking another corridor, and Hopper struggled to keep up. At one point he almost tripped, but he caught his balance just in time to avoid falling.

  After a few seconds, the hall curved around to the right and he lost sight of Cromwell. He cursed at himself and picked up speed.

  The hallway straightened, and Hopper caught sight of the other agent again. This time, Cromwell had stopped at the elevators. Hopper took a few steps back and hid, hoping that he hadn’t been spotted.

  Now what?

  He had already been away from his post for several minutes—if the phone rang, he needed to be there to answer it.

  Hopper turned around, about to resign himself to the fact that he had failed his quest. As he started back toward the control room, he noticed a door on his left, and he stopped to stare through the small glass window.

  I could always take the stairs.

  As soon as the thought hit him, he grinned with excitement. There were only a few floors to the compound. Chances were Cromwell would be going to either the second or third floors, as those were the most commonly used. If he could beat him up there, he could catch sight of the agent through the window and pick up the chase from there.

  Happy with his new plan, Hopper opened the door and stepped into the stairwell, making sure to close the door gently behind him. He then raced up the stairs, using the railing to increase his momentum.

  When he reached the landing to the second floor, he paused, cupped his hand over his eyes, and peeked into the hallway. The corridor was deserted. There was no sign of Cromwell.

  I may have beat him, he thought. Either that, or he’s on his way up to third.

  If Cromwell had gone to the third floor, Hopper would need to be quick to catch him in time. On the other hand, if he were stopping at second, Hopper’s best bet would be to wait right where he was.

  Hopper continued to stare through the glass, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. After a few seconds, he stepped away and glanced at the stairs above him.

  The elevator shouldn’t have taken this long.

  Taking a leap of faith, he raced up the next flight of stairs, feet pounding against the cement.

  When he reached the next landing, he scanned through the window. At first, he saw nothing. Then, after staring for a few seconds, he caught a glimpse of Cromwell’s army pants turning down a distant hallway.

  I got him!

  Hopper opened the door, slipped through gently, and then took off after the other agent. When he reached the turn where he had seen him disappear, he stopped and poked his head around the corner.

  Cromwell was standing in front of a door about twenty feet away. Hopper watched as he punched some numbers on the keypad and then opened the door. After he had entered, the door began to swing shut behind him.

  Hopper broke into a run.

  If that door closes, I’ll have followed him for nothing.

  Feet slapping the ground, he sprinted down the hallway,
hoping that the other agent couldn’t hear him. When he reached the door, he threw the toe of his boot in the jamb, catching it with just an inch to spare.

  He paused for a few seconds, waiting for the door to swing open and Cromwell to confront him, but nothing happened.

  Relieved, Hopper pushed the door open several more inches and looked inside.

  In front of him were rows and rows of jail cells.

  He glanced from side to side, heart pounding, and noticed that they were all filled with people. The prisoners were dirty and disheveled—clothes ripped, faces stained with blood. A young girl of about eleven stared at him with vacant eyes and he put his finger to his lips, signaling for her to be quiet.

  As far as Hopper knew, the agents weren’t supposed to be taking prisoners. Who were these people?

  At the end of the hallway, he saw that Cromwell had stopped in front of one of the cells. He watched the agent withdraw a hunting knife from his pants and then begin to scrape the blade along the bars.

  “Well, what’s it going to be?” Cromwell asked, his voice echoing down the small corridor.

  From inside the cell, a woman began to whimper.

  “The knife or the virus?”

  The person fell silent. Cromwell stared at the occupant for a few seconds. When he didn’t receive an answer, his face contorted with rage.

  “Did you hear me?” he screamed. “I said I want an answer today!”

  The woman began to sob, pleading with him in between gasps.

  “If you don’t choose, I’ll make you regret it! Do you understand me? I’ll keep you alive for weeks. You can’t even begin to imagine the things I will do to you.”

  The woman stopped crying.

  “So what will it be?”

  “Th-the virus,” she said finally, and then burst into tears once again.

  “Suit yourself,” he muttered.

  Abruptly, Cromwell turned on his heel and started back down the corridor.

  Hopper let go of the door, letting it slam shut behind him, and tore off down the hallway as fast as his legs could carry him.