Contamination Box Set [Books 0-7]

by Piperbrook, T. W.

  On the horizon, he saw what looked like a tractor-trailer barreling down the interstate. The setting sun glinted off its hood, capturing the last glimmers of daylight in its grill. Overhead, a lone hawk circled, probably already watching its unsuspecting prey.

  The truck looked like it was slowing down. Sam used the top of his sleeve to wipe another bead of perspiration from his forehead, unknowingly smearing a line of dirt in a half-circle. He went inside.

  He heard the driver pumping the brakes, then the truck tires crunching to a halt. Through the screen windows of the store, he saw the words ‘All-American Beef’ emblazoned on the side. The driver’s window was rolled all the way up, and Sam was unable to see through the tinted glass.

  A sudden fear coursed through his body, making him shiver.

  “What the hell?” he muttered to himself. “It’s gotta be like ninety-eight degrees out.”

  Sam had grown accustomed to talking to himself. It felt good to keep a monologue going, especially when no one else was there to judge or listen. In this case, however, the one-sided conversation was an attempt to calm his nerves.

  What was he afraid of? Trucks came through White Mist all day long, filling up on diesel gasoline, taking a break from the open road.

  But this one seemed different.

  Outside, the hawk swooped lazily. It had either lost sight of its target, or it was still toying with it. The truck sat in silence. There was no sign of movement from the driver.

  Sam glanced over at the floor to the case of noodles. For some reason, he felt like he should continue to unpack it—to act as natural as possible. But that would leave him unprepared. For what, he wasn’t sure.

  Beneath the cash register, strapped underneath the shelf, he kept a loaded rifle. It had been there so long he imagined it was covered with a layer of dust—hell, he wasn’t even sure it worked anymore. He mentally traced the steps from where he stood to the cash register.

  Six or seven steps. That’s what he’d need to reach the counter. Sam stood at six-foot-one inches and weighed a hundred and eighty pounds. He had long strides.

  “This is ridiculous.” He forced a smile. “I’m being ridiculous.”

  As if in response, the truck door swung open with a groan, and a short man with a baseball cap hopped out into the parking lot. Sam jumped slightly.

  “Whew!” the trucker yelled to no one in particular. “It’s damn hot out today!”

  Sam breathed a sigh of relief. He considered going out to greet the customer. Instead, he stuck to the noodles.

  The trucker bounded through the door with a flurry of conversation. Sam imagined the man had been talking the entire trip, with or without an audience.

  “Howdy, sir! I need me a drink. It’s hot as blazes out there!”

  “Welcome to White Mist!” Sam welcomed him. “The cooler is to the left. Before you ask, yes—I am the population of one.”

  “I kinda figured that!” the guy chuckled. “But I’m sure you get that question all the time.”

  “You wouldn’t believe it!” Sam groaned. In truth, he liked the casual banter, the harmless jokes. It helped him take his mind off other, more serious things.

  The trucker brought his purchase to the register and paid in cash. Sam counted back the change and shut the drawer, watching him leave the store.

  He returned to stocking the shelf, lining up the noodles next to each other.

  I must be getting jittery in my old age.

  Either that, or maybe the isolation was starting to manifest itself as anxiety. In any case, Sam was looking forward to closing up shop in just a few hours and heading to his trailer home next door. It had been a long day, and he could use the rest.

  He didn’t hear his next customer come through the door until the screen creaked on its hinges and slammed shut.

  “Welcome to White Mist,” Sam called out. He smiled, and then decided to add: “The best thing west of Roswell!”

  He was greeted by silence. A dark figure had emerged from behind the shelf.

  The man had a pale, lifeless expression. His mouth was clamped shut, and his face looked as if it had aged unnaturally, sucking his dark facial hair into the folds of his cheeks. A scar ran sideways across his throat. The skin around it appeared jagged and flaky, as if it had been picked at during the healing process.

  His black eyes seemed to pierce through the storeowner.

  The figure was not amused.

  Sam attempted to stand, tripping over the now-empty case of noodles beside him.

  The man with the scar didn’t move. His eyes flitted wildly around the store, as if someone had scooped them out of his head and had replaced them with two black marbles.

  “Can I help you?” Sam attempted. His own voice sounded foreign, as if someone else had spoken the words.

  The man’s eyes stopped roaming. Instead of answering, he moved towards Sam, his hands raised in what appeared to be attack mode.

  Sam wasn’t sure of what the man’s intentions were, but he wasn’t going to wait around to find out.

  Six or seven steps. That’s what I need to reach the rifle.

  Sam ran. Before he knew it, he’d travelled half the distance to the counter, and he dove to the floor and tore at the underside of the shelf, removing the rifle from its perch. His pulse thudded in his ears; his heart pounded in his chest.

  A loud crash rang out from behind him, but Sam stayed low, remaining on the ground until the noise had subsided.

  When it was quiet, Sam rose to his haunches and leveled the rifle over the counter, aiming at where his attacker had been.

  Only the man was gone.

  Two of the store’s shelves had toppled completely over, spilling their contents onto the floor, and several cans and containers spun where they had landed.

  The man with the scar was not among the debris.

  “Jesus.” Sam felt the air escape his lungs.

  Was he imagining things? Losing his mind?

  Either Sam was going insane—dreaming up the horrific figure and the ensuing chase—or somewhere his unknown assailant was plotting his next move.

  Although a part of him preferred insanity, he was cautious enough to believe what his eyes had told him. There had definitely been another customer in the store—there had to have been. Sam pictured the man now lurking in one of the store’s corners, black eyes darting wildly around the store, and shuddered. The rifle shook in his hands.

  “Hey mister!” A somewhat familiar voice rang from outside. “You all right?”

  Sam jumped at the sound. It took him a second to recognize the jovial tone of the previous customer. The trucker with the baseball hat, he thought. Through the screen of the front door, he could still make out the ‘All-American Beef’ logo in the parking lot. Had the trucker seen the assailant enter the store?

  Sam held his breath, resisting the urge to cry out. Although his attacker must surely know where he was, he didn’t want to betray his position. Just in case.

  The trucker pressed his nose up to the screen and peered inside. A look of concern crossed his face as he surveyed the scene.

  “You still in there, mister?”

  Get out of here! Sam wanted to scream.

  The man continued to peer inside. He raised his hand above his eyes to get a better look, tilting his baseball cap upward. Sam watched in slow motion, praying he would leave.

  Regardless of what was happening, one thing was clear: they were both in danger.

  Before Sam could warn the man, a shadow rose up from the interior of the store, and a fist swung up and shattered the trucker’s nose through the screen. Blood spurted through the meshing, spraying a red mist into the store. The customer flew backwards and landed in the dirt outside, shrieking in pain.

 
“Holy Jesus!” Sam cried out. His palms were soaking wet now, and his hands slipped across the rifle. He aimed towards the entrance, his hands wobbly, but the shadow moved out of view.

  Sam ducked down, scanning the store for signs of activity.

  The attacker was here somewhere. He must be. He felt the man’s presence, could sense him watching. Sam’s eyes roved the store, flitting from wall to wall. Eventually he focused on a nearby shelf unit. He heard a scraping noise from behind it, and he stared intently, waiting for a figure to pop into view.

  Without warning, the shelf unit slid across the floor toward the counter. It was filled with products, and must have weighed at least a hundred pounds. From behind it, Sam could hear the jagged breathing of the assailant.

  The shelf was being pushed right at him.

  Sam pulled the trigger on the rifle, firing off a round.

  A can of vegetables exploded from the shelf’s middle, sending pieces of wood throughout the store, but the shelf kept moving and collided with the counter.

  Sam ducked, shielding his face from the debris. Merchandise toppled to the floor, rattling and spinning. The shrieking outside had stopped. He imagined the man with the baseball cap must have passed out from the pain—or worse.

  Silence wove its way through the store once again.

  Sam opened his eyes, rose from behind the counter. The screen door was swinging back and forth, broken off of one of its hinges. It looked like the attacker had departed through it.

  Once again his assailant was a step ahead of him.

  2

  Kendall Rawson had exactly three hundred dollars to his name. He patted his front pocket to ensure that the wad of crisp twenty-dollar bills was still there. Even though he had a wallet, he didn’t trust the money to be anywhere but the snug pockets of his jeans. If he could avoid spending it on the trip home, he’d have just enough to cover his half of the rent.

  Noah Chambers, his roommate, manned the driver’s seat next to him. Together, they’d driven over six hundred miles in one day. Noah was sitting upright in the seat, occasionally sticking his head out the window to stay alert. He’d insisted on being the designated driver. Noah had rented the vehicle in his name, and the agreement had specified that he would be the sole operator.

  Kendall would have rented it himself, but he didn’t have a credit card.

  The van swerved to avoid a pothole, and the passenger side mirror shook with it.

  Kendall caught a glimpse of himself. He needed a shave. A few days worth of stubble seemed to have sprouted overnight, as if trying to match his shaggy blond hair. His right arm was covered in tattoos from forearm to wrist. In fact, both of his arms were—he’d always had an intense appreciation for art. To him, permanent ink was one of the strongest forms of expression. He took pride in knowing he had designed all of his tattoos himself.

  He grinned at himself in the mirror, wondering what he must look like to the average passerby. A few of his teeth on the bottom were sideways, and he had a small gap between his two front incisors, giving him a permanent look of mischievousness. He’d definitely received some guarded looks while on the road.

  “I need to wake up!” he yelled out loudly. Noah laughed at him.

  In many ways, his friend was his polar opposite. Pale and wire-thin, Noah sported khaki shorts, a purple t-shirt, and straight brown hair that fell evenly down the front of his forehead. A pair of black-framed glasses offset his simple style with a hint of modernity. They hadn’t known each other before becoming roommates, but they’d become fast friends.

  The two leaned their heads out the window in tandem, taking in the subtle breeze created by the vehicle. It was six o’clock in the evening, and they were just leaving Albuquerque. The move had taken longer than expected.

  Kendall thought back to the ad he had seen online, and shook his head in disgust.

  Vegas couple seeking driver for one-way moving trip to Albuquerque NM. Box truck or trailer needed. Good pay, minimal lifting required.

  In the initial phone conversation, the couple indicated that they were leaving the bulk of their furniture behind. According to the man, they’d be bringing mostly boxes, suitcases, and a few other odds and ends. When Kendall and Noah had arrived, they’d been informed that all of the furniture would need to be packed.

  “We decided to bring it,” the woman said sheepishly. “Sorry.”

  The couple had also failed to mention that the apartment in Albuquerque had doorframes that were barely wide enough to fit people, let alone bulky objects. Through some clever maneuvering, Kendall and Noah had finally been able to empty the van and trailer.

  Except the couch. The woman had decided against keeping it at the last minute.

  “We should probably buy a new one, don’t you think, honey?”

  Her husband had nodded, probably too tired to argue.

  Kendall had agreed to take it back and sell it. That would be their compensation for the added trouble. He still wasn’t convinced it’d been a fair trade.

  “It’ll be good to get home, at least,” Noah sighed.

  “Yeah, that’s for sure. At least it’s a straight shot back to Vegas. Then we’ll have to unload that couch.”

  Kendall flipped on the radio and encountered a wall of static. There weren’t many stations out in the desert. He turned the dial for a few minutes; finally he found one that played classic rock.

  He put his feet on the dash and rolled his head to the side, staring out the window. They’d left the city limits, and the highway was barren. Miles of desert flew by with little sign of civilization. Eventually, a boarded-up house whizzed by on their right, sectioned off by a wire fence. A few shredded rags had been tied to the wooden posts, perhaps marking something of importance to the previous owners.

  “Look at this place.” Kendall beckoned out the window. “Who the hell would want to live out here?”

  Noah laughed, shaking his head.

  Kendall held his cell phone out the window, staring at the faceplate. He raised it into the air, then lowered it. Nothing. Apparently the cell tower service was as good as the radio reception. For a second, he considered dropping the phone onto the highway and watching it splinter into pieces on the road behind them. Piece of shit.

  It’d be good to be back in Vegas, indeed.

  “I should call my dad at some point and let him know we’re headed back,” Noah suggested. “You know, whenever you get service again.”

  “Yeah, no problem,” Kendall said, placing the device in his pocket. His was the only cell phone between the two of them.

  His roommate took a hand off the steering wheel and flexed it in the air.

  “You want to take a break soon?” Kendall asked him.

  “We’ll stop in a little while. We’ve got a half tank, but I’d like to keep it topped off to save wear and tear on the engine,” his friend explained.

  “I’d take over if you’d let me,” Kendall said. He chuckled when Noah pretended not to hear him, then gave his friend a soft punch on the arm.

  The radio turned to static again. Kendall flipped the dial left and right, but found nothing. He cursed under his breath.

  “I’m starving,” Noah groaned, rubbing his stomach.

  His roommate pulled out a granola bar from a compartment in the dash and opened the wrapper. As he did so, a piece fell from his grasp and onto the floor. He tried to reach it on the way down. The van swerved slightly.

  Kendall felt something hit his feet with a thud. A baseball bat had rolled out from underneath the seat.

  “What’s this for?” he asked.

  “I figured we could play a little ball if we had some downtime,” Noah shrugged.

  “Do you even have a ball?”

  “Nah, I forgot it at the apartment.”

 
Kendall laughed and tucked the bat back under the seat. When he sat up, he saw a sign whizz by for the next exit. He hadn’t caught the name of the town, but it looked like there was a gas station there.

  “Why don’t we stop?” he suggested.

  Noah put on his turn signal, and the van coasted toward the ramp. The radio came back on, blaring a tune Kendall didn’t recognize.

  3

  Sam reached up towards the counter, keeping a wary eye on the entrance. He kept a store phone on a shelf just above the rifle. He felt for the base with his hands and worked his way up to the handset.

  The phone was a rotary—an old school model that he had owned for about thirty years. These days, he didn’t need to make too many calls. In fact, it was the only phone he had on the property.

  The only phone in all of White Mist, he thought ironically. If the situation had been different, he may have chuckled at the realization.

  He placed the phone in his lap and picked up the receiver, balancing the rifle in between his legs.

  The line was dead.

  He clicked the receiver several times, but encountered the same result. He checked the plug. Everything appeared in order. Either something had come loose during the scuffle, or somewhere the wires had been cut.

  He felt the pit in his stomach swell. If the wires had indeed been cut, his situation was far worse than he had initially thought. It meant the attacker’s motives were completely premeditated, carefully planned. He had probably already surveyed the landscape before making a move, was aware of all avenues of escape.

  But why Sam? The storeowner had barely any savings. As far as he knew, he had no enemies to speak of. He barely even had acquaintances. In fact, the gas station and trailer home were the only property he owned, other than his truck.

  Sam replaced the phone quickly. His truck.

  He pictured the green Ford Ranger behind the trailer home, sitting in its homemade parking spot in the dirt.