Contamination Box Set [Books 0-7]

by Piperbrook, T. W.

  She began to cry.

  The sheriff made a grab for her leg, and she swung it upwards and out of reach, letting out a stifled scream. She threw her arms over the couch and pulled herself to the other side. Something sharp on the fabric ripped at her leg, and she cried out. She slid over the couch and onto the floor, just as Sheriff Turner landed on the cushions in front. His weight slid the couch backwards and into her shins, and she screamed in pain.

  She limped towards the kitchen. A large lamp hugged the wall at the entrance, and she threw it down behind her to create a barricade. The Sheriff grunted as he regained his footing. Quinn forged ahead, avoiding the kitchen table and heading for the back door. She reached it and fumbled for the handle.

  The doorknob turned, and then stopped. The door was locked. Her hands slid wildly around the knob, and she finally found the button on the center, twisting it sideways and releasing the catch.

  The door wouldn’t budge. It must be dead-bolted.

  Sheriff Turner was in the kitchen now, making his way toward her, and she began to panic. Her eyes were starting to adjust, and she searched for anything she could use as a weapon. The counters contained a mess of appliances—a toaster, a blender, and some dirty dishes—but nothing of use. It was too late. He was upon her now, and he flung his arm forward, reaching for her head.

  Quinn tried to duck, but not in time. She felt a piece of hair rip from her scalp, and her eyes stung with pain. She scooted on the floor, the vinyl cold on her fingertips and knees, and slid her way across the kitchen and back into the living room.

  There was a door on her right, and she yanked it open and slammed it shut behind her, wedging herself between a mop and bucket. She held the inside handle, waiting for it to turn in her fingers, and choked back a sob.

  On the other side of the door, she heard the Sheriff knocking over the kitchen table and chairs, destroying his own belongings to get to her. She imagined what would happen when he found her hiding in the closet, weaponless and alone. Her eyes welled up, and she began to shake.

  10

  Howard raced toward Sullivan Avenue. If he’d calculated correctly, the road was about four blocks away—cutting through backyards, of course. He could have returned to his cruiser, but he would have lost precious time.

  I should probably return home, he thought.

  But something pressed him onward. Whether it was the adrenaline or the taste of the night air, Howard felt more alive than he had in years.

  And that feeling was keeping him going.

  He perked up his ears, listening for signs of the girl. He hadn’t heard any screaming now for a few minutes. Either the girl had wised up, or she had already reached her destination. The thought struck him that she may have fallen prey to another attacker.

  As he ran, Howard wondered if he had guessed correctly as to her whereabouts. If she had taken another turn somewhere in the dark, it would be almost impossible to find her. He would need to use the spotlights on his cruiser.

  As he passed through the next street, he saw lights flicking on from the houses around him. Presumably the homeowners had heard the commotion. In several doorways, shadows stared at him, and he felt an even deeper sense of unease.

  The grass crunched underfoot, fried from the desert heat and lack of water. He imagined that if he stopped to inspect it, he would see Quinn’s footprints leading the way. The radio crackled in his ear, breaking his concentration.

  “Howard, you there?” Mickey said.

  Howard reached up to his shoulder and silenced the radio.

  As he finally reached the fourth street, he noticed all the lights were off. There was no sign of activity among the residents. Perhaps Quinn had veered off in another direction, or she had stopped screaming just shy of Sullivan Avenue, leaving its residents blissfully asleep. He glanced farther up the road, and squinted into the night. His initial observation had been incorrect. One set of porch lights was on, near the end of the road. Now that he had noticed them, they seemed to illuminate the house in the night like a beacon.

  Sheriff Turner’s patrol car sat in the driveway.

  Either his boss was getting ready to leave the house—already made aware of the night’s events—or else a little girl had knocked on his door just short of midnight. Howard crossed the road, running now.

  He drew close to the car, holding his gun in front of him. The screen was shut, but the storm door had been left open. As he started up the walkway, he heard a tremendous crash from inside.

  “Sheriff?” he called in.

  The banging continued. A girl’s shriek rang out from within. Howard threw open the door, leading with his pistol, and entered the living room. A massive shadow hugged the back of the room. It was ramming against a door on the other side.

  “Police! Hold it right there!” Howard yelled.

  He felt for the light switch. Thankfully, his memory served him well, and the room lit up. He had been to the Sheriff’s house plenty of times, but never on police business. His jaw dropped as he surveyed the scene.

  The first thing he saw was the body of Mrs. Laney Turner. The woman was facedown in the middle of the room, her head caved in. The busted frames of her glasses lay beside her, stuck to the wood floor in a collage of blood. Clumps of her hair covered the carpet.

  Sheriff Turner stood behind the couch, his hands raised above his head. Black streaks covered his eyes, as if they had been injected with vials of India ink. He had ripped open the hall closet, tearing the frail wooden door from its hinges, and it lay sideways by his feet. His massive figure concealed the majority of the doorframe, but Howard could see through his legs.

  Quinn Lowery sat amongst the cleaning products, arms tucked over her head. She whimpered as she saw him, as if he, too, had come to attack her.

  The sheriff grunted, turning his attention to the new visitor. He moved towards the front door.

  Howard gritted his teeth and fired the pistol. He continued to squeeze the trigger, firing one round after the next, until he had emptied the entire clip into his boss. The bullets riddled the fat man’s body, pulling corks of flesh from his stomach and spilling red fluid beneath. The sheriff’s eyes rolled in his head, and he collapsed with a thud onto the floor.

  The girl began to bawl. She put her head between her legs, hair billowing over her knees. Howard looked at her and then at the body on the floor. The sheriff lay in a pool of blood, his dead wife just ten feet away. Howard felt nothing.

  Nothing at all.

  He lowered his gun. For the first time that night, a sense of calm swept over him.

  “Come with me,” he said to the girl. Although he didn’t realize it, his lips had curved upwards into a smile.

  Howard and Quinn walked in silence. The girl trailed behind, sniffling quietly to herself, but didn’t utter a word.

  After taking care of the sheriff, Howard had warned Quinn to keep her composure and remain quiet. He instructed her to stick to his side as they made their way back to the Lowery residence. He’d been harsh, but it was what she needed to hear. The gunshots had attracted enough attention.

  Even still, the streets seemed eerily silent. Many of the houses still had their lights blazing, but Howard no longer saw any shadows in the doorways. It was as if the residents had returned to bed, unaware of the danger. Or else they were roaming the streets, looking for victims, he thought.

  Howard stopped suddenly. A sound had emitted from a pair of trees in front of them. The girl stopped behind him.

  He aimed his gun. An object moved behind one of the tree trunks. He saw a flash of white from near the ground, and then something jutting out into the open. A tail. Howard lowered his weapon. A cat slinked towards them, purring. He imagined they had caught the animal mid-chase—probably on the hunt for a mouse or some other rodent. It rubbed against the girl’s legs, an
d he waved his arms at it, sending it scurrying back behind the trees.

  Howard glanced around them in all directions, but no other figures emerged. He took the opportunity to withdraw a cellphone from his pocket. A text message was waiting for him.

  Status? It read.

  He returned his gun to its holster, and signaled for the girl to wait. Her eyes fell downwards, and she stared at her shoes in compliance. Using his thumbs, he drafted a reply.

  On schedule.

  He hit the ‘send’ button, and returned the phone to his pocket. Later, he would break it into pieces and discard the remnants in various locations. Just to be sure. Though he doubted anyone would ever make the connection. The cellphone had been sent to him by mail, probably purchased from a remote location. He knew he could trust the phone’s sender.

  Right now, he needed to focus to ensure his survival. That was what was expected of him. To monitor the townspeople, to ensure all went as planned. Only when the destruction of St. Matthews was complete would he be able to relax. He withdrew his pistol once again and began to move. The girl fell in line behind him.

  Out of respect for Dan, he had decided to return the little girl—but that was it. Afterwards, the pair would be on their own, along with the rest of this God-forsaken town.

  PART THREE – BROKEN FOUNDATION

  11

  Dan clung to his dead wife for what seemed like an eternity. He parted her hair, kissed her forehead, and tried to ignore the fact that she looked nothing like the woman he loved. The gash on her head had stopped bleeding, but a puddle of blood on the floor served as evidence that she had once been alive.

  His mind was spinning, still trying to comprehend what had happened. For a second, he felt like he was out of his own body, looking down at himself.

  He needed to find his daughter. Where the hell was Howard? And where the hell were the medics? Howard had called them, hadn’t he?

  His eyes darted around the room, passing over the wreckage that had once been his dining room. Julie’s chair lay on its back. Several of the rungs had cracked, and the back had started to separate from the frame. Next to it was the knife, which gave off only a dull shine—far less threatening without a hand to wield it.

  He had dropped his pistol on the floor next to him, freeing up both hands to cradle his wife’s body. The gun seemed to beckon to him now, a subtle reminder of his duties as a police officer and father. He felt a breeze pass through the house, kicking up a lock of Julie’s hair and draping it across his face. Howard must have left the door open.

  Dan began to think about getting up, about releasing his death-grip on a woman who had already embraced death. They’d been married for eleven years. He had known her since high school. He remembered how beautiful she had looked at their wedding—how brave she had been during the birth of their child. He gritted his teeth and fought back the tears. He needed to let go. He needed to move. His daughter needed him.

  He let his hands slip from her body, wiped his arm across his face to dry his eyes, and gently eased his wife back to the floor. Quinn was still out there, and if he lost her too, he would have lost everything.

  Before he could stand, a pair of footsteps clapped against the pavement outside. The rest of the force, he thought. He was sure that Mickey and Sheriff Turner would be on their way—in fact he was surprised they hadn’t made it already. As the noises continued, he realized something sounded off. His fellow officers would have announced their presence. The footsteps he heard seemed muffled, as if the owners were trying to conceal their arrival.

  Dan’s police instincts kicked in, and he scurried to the far end of the dining room, positioning himself between the table and the living room doorway.

  The screen door at the front of the house banged against the frame. He considered calling out, but decided against it. He aimed the pistol in front of him, propping his arms on one of the chairs.

  The TV volume seemed to increase, and he strained to hear over it. Something scraped against the wall in the living room, and Dan’s body went rigid.

  Someone was in the next room.

  A hand entered the doorway, pawing at the air in front of it, testing the waters. After the appendage came a torso, and then a full body, black eyes scanning back and forth as it wormed sideways into the dining room. Dan recoiled at the figure, whose face was twisted and wild. It idled towards him, feeling its way forward, heading right for the table.

  Dan fired a round, shattering its knee and sending it reeling to the floor. Another was behind it, this one faster than the last, already veering around Julie’s body and gaining ground. He fired again, splintering the side off of the chair opposite him, missing his target. The chair toppled backwards, landing on Julie’s body.

  Dan was on his feet now, scooting around the table. The first attacker fumbled on its broken knee, contending with the chair, and its companion pushed past it without skipping a beat. The creatures—things—spewed bile from their mouths, salivating onto the floor below as they tried to reach him.

  He reached the living room doorway. Behind him, he heard the remaining furniture topple over. He crossed the room, panting, and stopped at the front screen door. Outside, three more were headed up the walkway. They groaned when they saw him.

  “Oh, fuck,” he whispered.

  Dan slammed the front door shut, dead bolting it. He whipped around, gun in front of him, and felt something grab his arm. One of the first houseguests had caught up to him. Its fingers were cold on his skin, wrapping around his wrist like icicles.

  He kicked forward, connecting with its stomach, and sent it toppling backwards into the couch. He raised his pistol and fired into it, gritting his teeth. Three bullets passed through its chest, blood and bile rippling out from the wounds. The creature sunk down onto the couch cushions, and then stood up again, unfazed.

  He heard the sound of nails on the front screen, and then something pounding on the front door. If he didn’t get out of this house, Dan was certain it would become his tomb.

  He skirted around the couch, avoiding the outstretched hands of the creature in the living room, and entered the dining room again. The first creature was still on the floor, crawling on its knees, coming towards him. He shot off a round into its head and watched it collapse to the floor.

  He swiveled again, facing the remaining creature from the living room—this time aiming for its forehead. Maybe that was the key. Just like the goddamn movies, he thought, realizing at once how insane that sounded. His heart sunk when he pulled the trigger.

  He was out of bullets.

  12

  “I don’t want to go back home,” Quinn whispered.

  Howard looked at her, but his eyes seemed distant. He was holding his gun in one hand and a cellphone in the other. He kept checking the phone, as if expecting someone to call. His arms were crooked upwards, and his muscles bulged underneath his shirt.

  Quinn had always looked up to him. Whenever he visited, he was especially nice. On her last birthday, he had even brought her a stack of books to read—introducing her to some of the classics that he had enjoyed as a child. Now, everything seemed different. Howard seemed different.

  “We have to go back,” he said. “Your father is there.”

  But her mother was too. A pang of fear went through her stomach as she pictured her mother shoving her into the bedroom, knife in hand.

  “Are my mom and dad okay?”

  Howard looked at the phone again, typing on the keypad.

  “Sure, Quinn. They’re both fine. I’m going to take you home to them.”

  He kept his eyes on the cellphone, but she saw him watching her out of the corner of his eye. He wasn’t telling the truth. She could sense it. But why would he lie? What would he say when they got to her house and the truth was right there in front of them?

  She p
ictured Sheriff Turner’s body in the living room, bloated and bleeding. She didn’t know much about gunshot wounds, but Howard hadn’t even checked for a pulse—he’d just left the man on the floor. It was as if he wasn’t even concerned about him. Or maybe he knew something she didn’t. She watched him type away on the cellphone. Who was he talking to? And why were they standing here?

  Howard finished his message. A few seconds later, the phone vibrated.

  Quinn moved closer to the officer. In the dark, she could almost make out the incoming text message. She forced herself to cry again, inching towards him.

  “It’s okay,” he said, but he made no physical effort to console her.

  She was standing next to him now; her eyes were level with the phone. The screen glowed yellow. She shuddered when she read the words.

  Every last one must go.

  Quinn ran.

  13

  Dan waved the empty pistol in front of him, but the creature kept coming. It sidestepped Julie’s body and then walked over the body of its dead companion. Its eyes rolled back into its head, and it groaned.

  He stepped backwards into the kitchen, still holding the gun, wishing he had the time or the means to reload. His palms were sweaty, and he struggled to keep his balance. He bumped into the roll of paper towels, and it skittered backwards, unraveling to the end of the tube.

  The creature advanced.

  Dan spotted his keys—they were on the counter to his left. A few steps further, and he could make a grab for them.

  “Stay back!” he shouted.

  The thing’s mouth opened, revealing a row of bloodied teeth. If it understood him, the words had little effect. Dan threw his arm sideways, succeeding only in pushing the keys farther down the counter. He made another grab. This time, he closed his fist around them.