Contamination Box Set [Books 0-7]

by Piperbrook, T. W.

  He fumbled with the lock for a few seconds, finally finding the keyhole. He pushed the door open with his foot, and then let his pistol lead the way.

  A minute later he returned to Dan’s side.

  “The window’s open,” he said. “Quinn’s gone.”

  PART TWO – SECRET CHAOS

  6

  Quinn Madison Lowery had never left home without permission. In fact, there were a lot of things she had never done. As she ran into the night, alone, she wondered if she would ever get the chance to do them.

  She liked to think she was a good kid, and respectful to her mom and dad. Besides, her father was a police officer, and he could sniff out what she was up to before she even knew it herself. He was smart like that.

  “Don’t forget, I was a kid once myself,” he often reminded her.

  She wasn’t perfect, though. Far from it. A year ago, she had been caught shoplifting at the local grocery store.

  Quinn loved to read. She had been reading ever since she could remember—books, comics, magazines, or anything else she could get ahold of. For the most part, her parents were supportive of her habit. This time, however, her mom had been in a hurry, and wasn’t in the mood to indulge Quinn’s literary appetite.

  “Not today, honey—I mean it.”

  All she’d wanted was one of the newest tabloid magazines. Inside, there was an article on one of her favorite actresses. Quinn didn’t see the harm in it.

  Unable to convince her mother, she’d tucked the magazine up into her shirt, securing the bottom in the waist of her blue jeans. She remembered how it felt—smooth against her stomach, but at the same time bulky and uncomfortable. In order to get out the door with it, she had needed to walk upright, arching her back like there was a metal rod in her spine. She remembered feeling a tinge of excitement as she walked out of the store, and then a moment of fear as she realized she would have to sit down in the car.

  “What’s wrong with you, Quinn? Why are you doubled over like that?” her mom had asked.

  Quinn tried to bend down, but the thick folds of the magazine were digging into her gut, and it hurt too much to move.

  “Do you have something in your shirt? Get over here!” her mother had demanded. “Lift it up!”

  Quinn had revealed the magazine, her cheeks stiff, and the blood draining from her face. Without a word, her mother had snatched it from her grasp, returning to the store to pay for it. While she was gone, Quinn started to panic. What would they do with her? Would she be sent to jail? Would her father arrest her? It was such a small town—she was sure everyone would find out her secret.

  Quinn Madison Lowery was a thief, they would say. The thought made her nauseous.

  Her mother had driven home in silence, the look on her face enough to fill a thousand conversations. But that had been the end of it. As far as Quinn knew, her mother had never spoken of the incident to her father.

  Quinn promised herself she would never make the same mistake again. After all, she was ten years old now. She had learned a lot since she was nine.

  Now, as she climbed from her bedroom window and into the night, she wondered how much trouble she would be in. Would she ever be allowed to leave the house again? Her legs scraped against the windowsill, creating red marks in the pits of her knees, and she swiveled her arms and dropped to the ground below. Her heart pounded in her chest with fear.

  She fell on her butt, using her hands as a cushion to break her fall. Inside the house, she could hear grunting and banging, as if a wrestling match were taking place in the dining room. She heard a voice, too, but wasn’t sure if it was her father’s. She couldn’t take any chances. He may have a knife, too.

  The air tasted dark and thick, and she struggled to catch her breath.

  As she fled into the night, Quinn wondered who would punish her when she finally returned. In just a few hours, her world had been turned upside down.

  7

  Howard paused on the Lowerys’ front porch, searching for movement in all directions. His cruiser sat where he had left it, and the garage door was still closed. To his right, he saw the open window where Quinn must have exited, curtains wafting outwards in the subtle breeze. He couldn’t imagine she had gotten far.

  “I’ll find her, Dan,” he called behind him. “Wait here a minute—she can’t be far.”

  Inside the house, the officer moaned, his grief spilling from the dining room and out into the night. The TV blared over him, playing the theme song of a classic detective show. Howard considered turning it off, but descended the steps instead.

  He tried to put himself in the little girl’s frame of mind. Where would she have run? He looked to his right, past the few trees that lined the property. The closest house was a few yards away. An old woman lived there. He thought her name was Sadie, but he couldn’t recall. Either way, she must be approaching her eighties, and was probably fast asleep. Her house was black inside, offering no sign that she had received an unexpected guest.

  The Reynolds family lived in the house on the left. Howard knew them well. They would often stop at the Lowery’s for an evening barbeque. Their house, too, was dark. A single porch light illuminated the front steps, casting shadows like fingers into the yard. If they had received a knock at the door, he was certain they would have called the police by now.

  Howard swept the perimeter of the house. In just a few minutes, he cleared the front and then made his way to the backyard. He almost tripped over a piece of wood on the ground, and realized it was the side of Julie’s garden.

  Four pieces of plywood flanked the sides, surrounding a variety of green, leafy plants in the center. He strained his eyes, but didn’t recognize anything human amongst them. No figure was hiding in the interior.

  The rest of the backyard was open, and he didn’t see any other places Quinn could hide. He checked the far side of the house, but to no avail. If he had been the little girl, he probably would have run quite a ways before stopping. He imagined her trust was thin at this point. It wasn’t every day that your mother came at you with a kitchen knife.

  Howard thought back to what he had seen in the house. Julie was barely recognizable—a soulless, corpse-like version of her former self. Her eyes had seemed to penetrate through him, intent on destruction. Howard shuddered and bit his lip, trying to forget what he had seen.

  This had to happen, he reminded himself.

  He gripped his gun. A sudden glow in the distance drew his attention. Several hundred yards away, on what must have been an adjacent street, a light had just gone on in one of the houses.

  Howard contemplated using his radio, and then withdrew his hand. It didn’t matter, now, anyways. Nothing did.

  He sucked in a breath and sprinted toward the light.

  8

  Quinn ran until her cheeks were red, her stomach was tight, and her legs began to tire. She fought the urge to look back, fearing that someone would grab her if she did. Surely, whenever the scuffle ended, somebody would come looking for her. Maybe even to kill her. Her heart leapt against her ribcage. She needed to get help—and fast.

  She hadn’t dared stop at the neighbors. The noise would have attracted immediate attention. Something told her she needed to get farther away in order to have a fighting chance.

  Behind Shunpike Lane was another street—she forgot the name, but it was a nice road, and full of houses. Often, she would ride her bike there, watching the families and children. She used to dream about living there someday. The houses seemed nicer in that neighborhood. Now the houses hung in the distance: dark shapes that seemed strange and unfamiliar. She’d never been there at night.

  Quinn wondered what time it was. It must be late—not a single house seemed active. The one closest to her had a small picnic table in the backyard. She could make out a dim glow from one of the back windows, probably f
rom a nightlight. The Anderson family used to live here, but someone new had moved in last month. Her mother had been meaning to stop in to welcome them to the neighborhood. Back when things had still been normal.

  There was a sliding glass door in back, but she realized knocking would make her visible to anyone behind her. Instead, she walked past the picnic table and began to cut through to the front yard. As she did so, the rear light flicked on. She stopped suddenly and turned back to face it.

  A shadow stood behind the glass, surveying the lot outside. The lights inside the house were off, so Quinn could only make out a silhouette. The person remained still except for their head, which swiveled from side to side. Quinn hugged the side of the yard, hidden from the glow. She wanted to cry out, but her inner voice told her to stay still.

  The shadow slid its hands down the glass, as if wiping at some unseen condensation. Its fingers were long and curved, and it rapped at the pane with its fingernails. She wondered if the hands’ owner was a man or a woman. The person seemed to move unnaturally—unlike anyone she had ever seen. Without realizing it, she held her breath.

  Quinn looked to her left, where another house sat in silence. If anybody else had been awakened by the light, they hadn’t let on. Across the street, she made out another row of houses. They remained still. She looked back to the patio window.

  The head and hands had stopped moving. She squinted, and could now make out a pair of ovals where the person’s eyes should have been, reflecting in the moonlight. They seemed to be staring in her direction.

  Quinn had been spotted.

  She ran, letting out bursts of breath as her legs kicked into gear. Behind her, she heard the sound of a sliding glass door being thrust open.

  She crossed the side yard and into the front, the dry grass crunching under her feet. Although she wanted to look back, she pushed on. She entered the roadway, heard another pair of feet hit the grass behind her. She pictured the long fingers swaying at the person’s side, preparing to wrap around her neck like pieces of rope.

  Hurry up, Quinn, she thought. Something wet hit her cheeks, and she realized she was crying. She wished her mother and father could be here, that they could help her. But they were in on the whole thing. Whatever the thing was.

  She was on her own.

  Pavement gave way to grass again, and she flew up the walkway to the nearest house. She banged on the door and rang the bell at the same time.

  “Help!” she cried, but her voice was raspy and weak.

  Footsteps slapped on the pavement behind her, drawing ever closer. She didn’t have time to wait. Keep moving, she thought. Quinn stumbled through the darkness to the side of the house, heading deeper into the property. When she hit the backyard, a voice echoed from the front. She dared to glance behind her.

  “Hello? Who’s out there?” the person called.

  The front lights came on, and she heard the homeowner open the screen door. Her pursuer stopped in the road.

  “What do you want?” the homeowner asked.

  The figure hovered in the street, arms at its sides. Quinn gripped the edge of the house, wondering if the shadow could still see her. She hoped not.

  “I’m going to call the police!” the homeowner threatened. It was a man’s voice, and his words rang with fear.

  The figure crouched, its arms hanging low to the ground. It hissed into the night, and Quinn pictured a tongue as long as its fingers, sliding across a pair of razor-sharp teeth. She kept quiet, wondering if it could hear the sound of her heartbeat. It certainly seemed loud to her. She drew a breath and held it, wishing as hard as she could that she were invisible.

  The figure moved, arms swinging at its sides, heading for the front of the house. The homeowner continued to yell, but the figure ignored his warning.

  Quinn moved along the side of the house, toward the front, until she was right at the edge. She could make out the homeowner now—it was Mr. Philips, one of her neighbors. His white hair gleamed in the porch light, and he was leaning out into the night, waving one arm at the intruder. Mr. Philips had helped her fill her bike tire once when she had gotten a flat. He didn’t seem quite as friendly now.

  “What the hell?” he yelled.

  Before he could react, the figure was on him, pulling him out of the house. She heard ripping sounds as it tore at his chest, and then screaming as Mr. Philips fell to the ground. His hands flew up to protect his face, but the figure cast them aside, wrapping its fingers around the man’s skull and its thumbs pushing into where his eye sockets would be.

  Quinn held back a sob. She wanted to help. But what could she do? She was only ten years old. The thing screeched, and she saw blood splash onto the door. Quinn covered her eyes and cried—for her mother, for Mr. Philips, and for herself, knowing that she would never reach another birthday.

  9

  Howard reached the house in minutes, his boots pounding hard on the grass. A single light faced outward in the backyard, revealing a picnic table and an assortment of lawn chairs. The sliding glass door had been left open, as if someone had recently exited or entered.

  He held his gun in front of him, watching for any signs of activity.

  “Police!” he shouted.

  He was met with silence. He advanced a few steps—and then heard a scream pierce the night air. It sounded like it was coming from past the house, across the next street. Howard swiveled and worked his way around front, toward the source of the noise.

  His arm brushed his side, and he squirmed in pain. He sprinted past the house and into the road, ignoring the burning in his bicep. Directly ahead of him, illuminated by a porch light, a figure was bent over another man, unwrapping his insides and pulling them onto the walkway.

  Howard aimed his gun in front of him, approaching the assailant and victim. The victim had been mutilated beyond recognition—his face condensed into a soupy puddle of blood and eyeballs. The walkway was stained with flesh and innards, and the figure sifted through the remains with delicate fingers.

  The suspect looked up and raised its hands in the air, dangling pieces of detached skin. Its eyes blazed into Howard, devoid of life, eerily reminiscent of the look Julie had given him earlier.

  Howard squeezed the trigger, firing a round into the figure’s head. It slammed backwards into the door, and he fired twice more into its chest. The emotion he’d felt before was fading.

  He was already starting to feel the way he had felt with Frank.

  Things were going exactly as planned.

  Several lights appeared around him, and Howard tensed up. Heads peered through windows and doors cracked cautiously open. In the distance, behind the house, he heard the sound of a little girl screaming. The noise faded into the distance, her cries softening with each step.

  In an instant, he knew it was Quinn. And he knew exactly where she was headed.

  Quinn was on the move again. This time, she wasn’t going to stop. She had a destination in mind. She wasn’t sure why she hadn’t thought of it before, but she was sure glad she thought of it now.

  She wasn’t ready to die. Not yet.

  She kept running, dragging her feet like dumbbells. She screamed when gunshots rang out behind her, but continued on. A few sparse trees swayed in the wind, pointing her onwards, leading her from one street to the next. Only a few more neighborhoods to go, and she would be there.

  Her throat started to burn. The doctor said she had mild asthma—not the kind that you needed to use an inhaler for, but enough that she should take it easy. In gym class, she was often excused from the more rigorous activities. She felt herself gasping for air now, but she did not slow down.

  Ahead, she saw a familiar house on the horizon. She only needed to cross one more street to get there. Her feet hit pavement once again, and she prayed that she had outrun whoever might be fo
llowing her.

  Up ahead, Sheriff Turner’s patrol car sat in the driveway. She wiped the tears from her eyes and felt a sense of relief wash over her. The house was dark, but he must be home. He had to be. She ran up the front steps and mashed her hands against the doorbell, hearing it ring inside the house. After a few seconds, she heard footsteps plodding through the house.

  Thank God, she thought.

  Quinn doubled over, her pulse beating through the side of her neck, and tried to breathe deeply. She needed to calm down so she could explain what had happened. She looked back, but saw no signs of her pursuer. The door creaked open behind her, and the familiar figure of Sheriff Turner filled the doorway.

  “Sheriff,” she tried to speak, but no sound came out.

  She ran inside the house, under his outstretched arm, and motioned for him to shut the door. The lights were off, and she edged towards the couch, looking over her shoulder to make sure no one was following her inside. Though it was dark, rays of moonlight filtered through the windows and into the living room. Her foot struck something on the floor, and she paused suddenly and looked down.

  Mrs. Turner’s body lay in the center of the rug, curled up in a ball. An awful odor rose from the body. She looked dead.

  “W-What happened?” Quinn whispered, turning.

  Sheriff Turner stood in the doorway like a statue, his arm still propped against the frame. It appeared he hadn’t moved since letting her inside. At the sound of her voice, his body came to life, and he let the screen door slam shut. He lifted an enormous leg and moved towards her.

  “Sheriff—it’s me, Quinn Lowery,” she said, backing up against the couch.

  The man wheezed, placing one calf in front of the other, shaking the living room with each footstep. Beads of sweat glistened from his forehead and rolled down his face. She backed up farther, hitting the couch and falling to a sitting position.