Contamination (Books 0-3)

by T. W. Piperbrook

  Cromwell glared at him.

  “You’re nothing but a sick fuck.”

  Without giving the man a chance to respond, Hopper fired the rifle, squeezing off the remaining rounds until the chamber was empty. The bullets pierced the man’s chest, and Cromwell swayed back and forth like a rag doll, arms flailing at his sides, before finally succumbing to gravity and crumpling to the floor.

  The knife fell to the ground next to him.

  Hopper lowered his rifle, shaking.

  “Put it down!” a voice yelled from behind him. This time it was Delta. In the midst of the struggle, she had crawled to the front of the church, picking up the rifle Cromwell had dropped.

  Hopper dropped his weapon to the carpet with a thud.

  Delta ran to the storeowner’s side.

  “Are you OK Sam?” she asked.

  “I-I think so,” he stuttered. “But I’m not going to lie to you. I’ve been better.”

  He attempted a smile.

  “I’m going to shut the front door. Those things will be headed in here if we don’t.”

  Delta made her way down the aisle, her sights still set on Hopper, and she collected his rifle as she walked by him.

  By the time she reached the door, Sam had already passed out.

  When Sam awoke, both Delta and the priest were standing over him. He had been transported to a bed in a small room. His shoulder still blazed with pain, but when he looked down, he saw that it had been wrapped up and the knife had been removed.

  He attempted to sit up, but his head was throbbing.

  “Easy, there,” Delta said. “You need to relax.”

  “Where am I?”

  “You’re in my bedroom, just above the church,” the priest said.

  Sam noticed the man had changed out of his robes into a t-shirt and pants. He had a small bandage on his forearm—presumably from where the agent had cut him—but he seemed otherwise unharmed.

  Movement across the room distracted him, and he gazed to his left. The other agent—the one with the stomach wound—was propped up against a wall. It looked like his injury had been wrapped up, as well, but he appeared to be in worse shape than Sam, and his hands were tied in front of him.

  “Is the other agent dead?” Sam asked.

  “Cromwell? Yeah, I killed him,” the man said.

  “What’s your name again?”

  “Hopper.”

  Hopper closed his eyes, then reopened them. He slid down the wall, letting his body sag beneath him. It was obvious he was in tremendous pain.

  “We’re going to need your help, Hopper.”

  “Why the fuck would I help you?”

  “We need to get to the compound to stop this thing.”

  The agent laughed, and then began to cough. When he had composed himself, he spoke. “Cromwell was the brains behind this whole thing. With him dead, the whole plan’s probably fucked as it is.”

  “I’m sure someone else will take his place.”

  “That’s the thing,” Hopper said. “I don’t think anyone else knew who he was. From what I could tell, he didn’t share his plans with anyone, and he was calling all the shots.”

  “Didn’t you say there were people being held captive there?”

  Hopper paused.

  “Yeah. He had a bunch of people in jail cells. I think he was torturing them.”

  Sam’s eyes narrowed, and he thought back to what Nathan Brown had told him. According to him, the agent leaders were keeping Brown’s family hostage.

  “We have to get those people out of there,” Sam said. “And we need you to help us.”

  Hopper snickered. “Good luck with that.”

  “I don’t think you understand. You don’t have a choice. Like it or not, you’re coming with us.”

  19

  “THIS IS AGENT HOPPER. WE’RE headed back in. Things are under control.”

  Before the agent could say anything further, Sam disconnected the call, still holding the gun to the man’s temple from the backseat. Delta sat at the wheel of the cargo van—now dressed in a white jacket—and shook her head.

  “Sam, I’m not sure this is a good idea. You’re hardly in the condition for this.”

  “I’ll be fine,” he said. As he spoke the words, his shoulder throbbed, but he did his best to ignore the pain.

  They had left the priest back at the church. Despite all he had been through, the man refused to leave his home. Sam and Delta had promised they would return for him once they had things settled.

  “How many people are at the compound?” Sam asked Hopper.

  When the man didn’t respond, Sam reached down and pushed on his bandage. The agent cried out in pain.

  “There’s only a skeleton crew there now. Most of the agents are in the field.”

  “How many?”

  “I’d say about twenty people.”

  “Where are they located?”

  “All throughout the compound.”

  “What about the virus?”

  “What about it?”

  “Is it kept at the compound?”

  “Yeah. They have a lab there. It’s on the same floor as the prisoners.”

  Sam glanced out the front windshield. Since leaving the city, the mountains seemed to have increased in size and magnitude. Brown and green peaks surrounded them on all sides. The view was breathtaking, and he did his best to take it all in, trying to forget about the dangerous mission they were undertaking.

  The prospect of facing twenty agents was daunting, especially in his wounded condition. At the same time, he knew that Hopper might not have much longer to live, and they would need to man’s help to get inside.

  At Sam’s direction, Delta took a turn off the highway, curving up onto a secondary road that wove into the Wasatch Mountain Range. He stared at the map, and then glanced over at Hopper for verification.

  “Is this the right way?” he asked.

  Hopper paused for a second, and Sam noticed that his eyes were closed. When he finally opened them, he nodded.

  Sam glanced around the floor next to him. In the rear of the cargo van were a slew of weapons, as well as several cases of untainted food. He had laid out the guns so that they would be within easy reach when they got to the compound. Currently he was holding a pistol, but once leaving the van, he figured they would need as much firepower as they could carry.

  Hopper let out a groan and turned sideways in his chair.

  “Can’t you untie my hands?” he asked, his breathing getting shallow.

  Delta looked back at Sam, who shook his head.

  “No,” she said.

  Since holding him captive, Sam had already gleaned as much information as possible, afraid that the man would perish on the ride to the compound. As expected, most of his suspicions had been true: the virus could only be transmitted through ingesting contaminated food, and there was no cure once someone was infected. The creatures were expected to die out within several weeks.

  According to Hopper, the organization would be crippled without Cromwell calling the shots. By taking out the compound, Sam hoped to further solidify those odds.

  Several miles later, the road began to wind around the base of a large mountain. Delta followed the curves, reducing the van’s speed to account for the turns. When they had reached the other side, the road leveled out, creating a path in between two other larger mountains.

  In the distance, Sam could make out a single white building. The structure was long and flat, and on the side he saw what looked like a cargo area. The road seemed to reach the compound and then die, providing only one means of both entry and escape.

  As the van approached, Sam began to sort through the weapons on the floor. Even with what they had, he knew that getting in and out alive would be a long shot.

  He took a deep breath and then exhaled, hoping once again for a miracle.

  Once they had reached the building, Hopper instructed them to follow the dirt road around to the back of the compound
. There they would find a loading dock that they could pull into. Before reaching the vicinity, Sam and Delta had switched positions—he would be the driver and she would ride in the rear.

  Sam adjusted his white jacket, hoping that he could blend in long enough to get into the building and rescue the prisoners inside. Delta was to remain with the vehicle with Hopper. While Hopper did the talking, she would hide in the backseat and out of view. The agent would instruct the mechanics to refuel and inspect the vehicle—all while he stayed inside—so that he could return immediately to the field. To ensure the agent’s compliance, Delta would hold a pistol to his back.

  It wasn’t a failsafe plan, but it would have to do.

  As the van curved around the building, Sam inspected the exterior. For the most part, the compound was windowless, providing little clue as to what was inside. After some coercion, Hopper had given him instructions on how to navigate his way through. He had also given him codes to get through the door locks.

  Sam just hoped they were the right ones. He still didn’t trust the man.

  The van tires chewed the gravel, spitting it back onto the road. A few seconds later, the bay doors came into view—enormous, red metal doors that were tall enough to fit a tractor-trailer. Once the van was within fifteen feet of them, they automatically began to rise.

  Sam peered into the interior of the garage as the doors retracted. Inside was a fleet of vehicles—SUVs, trucks, and cargo vans like the one they were driving. All were white and non-descript; most were in perfect condition. A few mechanics were milling about, either working on vehicles or rummaging through tools, but none seemed to be paying attention to the approaching van.

  Sam pulled the vehicle inside, finding an empty spot between two already-parked vans, and then unbuckled his seatbelt. No one came to greet them.

  “What now?” he asked Hopper.

  “Just head out. Someone will be over in a minute, and I’ll deal with them.”

  Sam eyed the agent suspiciously. He had no reason to trust him, but he didn’t have a choice. He stared into the rear of the van, catching Delta’s attention, and mouthed for her to be careful. She nodded.

  He gripped the door, doing a mental check of what he was carrying. In his pocket were two pistols, and he was going to carry the rifle with him. According to Hopper, he should have no trouble getting through the door, provided he acted casually. All of the agents inside were armed as well.

  Sam stepped out into the garage. He could feel his heart slamming against his chest, and his shoulder hurt like hell. He had done his best to cover the wound with his jacket, not wanting to raise any further suspicion, but he was worried that the injury would leave him compromised in the event of a battle.

  As he walked across the cargo bay, he saw a few of the mechanics glance in his direction, but he didn’t return their gaze. He kept his pace even and made his way toward the building’s entrance.

  When he reached the door, he saw a numbered keypad. He pushed the sequence of numbers that Hopper had given him, followed by the pound sign. Then he waited. For a few seconds, nothing happened. He stared at the keypad, afraid to turn and look behind him, and his mind started to race.

  Had Hopper given him a secret code that triggered some sort of alarm? Was it possible he had gotten the numbers wrong?

  A second later, the door buzzed and a light on the keypad turned green. He grabbed the handle, turned it, and opened the door.

  The first thing he saw was a hallway. The walls were painted white, the floors hard and linoleum. He proceeded down the empty corridor. Several doors flanked either side, but he continued past them without stopping. Behind a few he heard the sound of voices, which made him pick up his pace.

  At the end of the hallway he took a right. According to Hopper’s directions, he would only have to take one more turn, and then there would be an elevator in the adjacent corridor. He kept on, taking note of several more closed doors and listening to conversations drifting out from behind them.

  A man complaining about the heat. An argument about a sports team.

  When Sam was halfway down the hall, he saw one of the door handles turn then watched as the door cracked open. He strode even faster, but he was too late. An agent had already emerged from the other side.

  The man was dressed in a white suit jacket much like his own. His face was lined and weathered, as if he had spent too much time in the sun, and he patted his pockets as if he was looking for something. When he spotted Sam, he stopped to stare.

  Sam nodded at the man as he walked past. He could feel his pulse throbbing in his neck, and he wondered for a split second if the agent could see it, too. He waited for the man to shout at him, to question who he was and what he was doing there, or at the very least pull out a gun and demand that he stop.

  Instead, the corridor remained silent.

  He kept on, waiting to hear the sound of footsteps behind him, but none came. At the end of the corridor, he took another right per Hopper’s instructions.

  He could now see an elevator at the end of the hall. Right before it was a door with a glass window, through which he could see a flight of stairs. Hopper hadn’t mentioned them as an option, so Sam continued.

  At the elevator car, he jabbed the button, waited. A whirring noise resounded from somewhere above him. Footsteps echoed from an adjacent hallway, and he tensed up, fearing discovery.

  As the elevator got closer, he heard the sound of several people talking. Apparently it was occupied. The voices increased in volume as the car descended, and the boots clapped louder behind him.

  If for some reason he had been made, he would be surrounded.

  In a panic, Sam backtracked several steps to the door with the stairs and opened it. He had just slipped through when he heard the ding of the elevator. He paused, peering out through the small glass window. Three agents walked out of the elevator car. None appeared to be in a state of alarm.

  A few seconds later, he saw another agent round the corner on foot. The man made his way to the elevator, walking past the door with the stairs that Sam now occupied, and stepped inside.

  Breathing a sigh of relief, Sam waited for a few seconds and then reentered the hallway. He pressed the button for the elevator once again, listening to it whir above him. When the doors opened again, the car was empty.

  He stepped inside, staring at a row of buttons, and hit the one for the third floor. As he ascended, Sam said a silent prayer, hoping he wasn’t too late to rescue the people that were being held captive. He pulled out a sheet of paper from his pocket on which he had scrawled some directions from Hopper, and did his best to memorize them.

  When the elevator doors opened, he poked his gun into the hallway first, aiming in both directions. The floor was quiet.

  He made his way down several corridors, doing his best to muffle his footsteps as he walked. Finally, he arrived at a door on the right, lowered his gun, and placed his fingers on the keypad.

  Though Hopper had provided his code, he had warned Sam that it might not work.

  Sam pushed the sequence of numbers, hoping for the best. The door buzzed, but remained shut. The light on the keypad flashed red.

  Dammit. What now?

  He inspected the door. It was several inches thick, and appeared to be made of painted metal. There would be no way to shoot through it. He tried the handle, but it wouldn’t budge.

  He aimed his gun at the keypad, wondering if he could shoot it to disable the locking mechanism. Before he could decide, the door swung open.

  Startled, Sam jumped back, finding himself face to face with one of the agents.

  20

  DELTA NUDGED THE PISTOL INTO Hopper’s side, and he groaned in pain.

  “Why aren’t they coming over to our van?” she asked him, pointing at the mechanics.

  A few had taken notice of the vehicle, but instead of approaching, they lingered by their workbenches.

  “I don’t know,” Hopper said.

  Although De
lta was crouched in the rear of the van, she had been peering over the seats into the garage, ensuring she had a bead on the situation outside. A few seconds ago, Sam had disappeared inside the building. Since then, no one had moved.

  “Did you trigger an alarm?” she asked. “If you did, I swear I will shoot you right now.”

  The agent chuckled. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m almost dead already.”

  “What the hell did you do? Why are those guys just standing there?”

  “I didn’t do anything. If they know something, it has nothing to do with me.”

  As if on cue, the mechanics began to filter away from the workbenches. There were four in total. Two of them headed for a storage area on the side of the garage and the other two began to walk toward the van.

  Hopper sat up in his seat, grunting in pain.

  “Are you OK?” one of them called out.

  “I’m fine.”

  Delta watched the mechanic’s face. He was wearing a blue button-up shirt and jeans, and his head was shaved. He stared into the van for several seconds, as if deciding what to do next, and then he stepped back.

  Without warning, he reached into the top of his pants and withdrew a pistol.

  Dammit. They must have spotted me.

  Shots rang out across the garage, and Delta flung herself to the floor of the van, covering her head with her hands. The windshield shattered. She heard Hopper cry out in pain from the passenger’s seat.

  Apparently they had no issues sacrificing their own to get to her.

  She waited for several seconds, listening to bullets pummel the exterior of the van, and then pulled herself into a crouch, clutching her pistol. She looked out into the garage.

  The first two mechanics had guns trained on the van. She aimed and fired, striking one of them in the chest. The other one ran for cover.

  Meanwhile, two others emerged from the storeroom. Unlike their counterparts, these men were armed with rifles. They began to fire on the van again, and Delta hit the deck. She heard the sound of the tires popping and bullets thudding into the front seats.