Contamination Box Set [Books 0-7]

by Piperbrook, T. W.

  He was wasting time. He needed to get out of here and get help.

  Sam scrambled to his feet, making a sweep of the store with the rifle. He carefully stepped over the debris around him, intending to make as little noise as possible. The screen door creaked back and forth at the entrance, hanging sideways on one hinge. He hugged the wall next to it, looking for any signs of activity outside.

  As far as he could tell, the parking lot was empty except for the lone tractor-trailer and the body of the trucker. In fact, the area seemed surprisingly undisturbed. To his left, he could see his trailer home. The windows were intact, and the door appeared to be closed.

  His truck should have been parked behind the building, out of view. He held out the hope that it, too, was untouched.

  The screen door swung inwards at him, blowing with the wind. He gagged at a trickle of blood that ran down the meshing. In just a few minutes, it had created a small puddle in the dirt below.

  The trucker with the baseball hat lay just beyond it. He wasn’t moving. His face was obscured with blood, almost unrecognizable from even a few feet away.

  Sam drew a breath and stepped sideways through the doorway. The gravel crunched softly underneath his boots. As he approached the fallen man, he resisted the urge to vomit.

  The trucker’s throat had been sliced open.

  Sam held his hand over his mouth and sprinted toward the trailer, swallowing back the acidic taste in his throat. He tried to focus on moving forward. He didn’t dare glance behind him.

  There was another issue at hand. The rifle he held was a single shot. Having expended the round in the store, he was nearly defenseless.

  He had a box of shells inside his bedroom closet, but in order to use them, he’d have to get to them. Sam cursed himself for not keeping them with the gun. In his three years of store ownership, he’d never felt unsafe in White Mist. In fact, a few times he’d contemplated moving the rifle itself into storage.

  He’d read a statistic somewhere about homeowners who had guns in the house. Although he couldn’t recall the figures, the result was that in most cases, the weapons ended up being used on the very people they were supposed to protect.

  Now, he swore at himself. Trust had always been his downfall. He’d always trusted that humanity held certain goodness, certain decency; that by treating others fairly, the same fairness would be bestowed upon him. Over the past few years, this notion had done nothing but betray him.

  He felt his right pocket. The familiar lump of his keys gave him a quick dose of relief. If he could make it to the truck, he might have a chance at escaping. But he still needed protection.

  He needed those shells.

  He leapt onto the single step that led into his trailer and tried the door. It was locked. He dug for his keys.

  Before opening it, he did a quick survey of the area. The lot was empty.

  He unlocked the door and swung it shut behind him, sliding the deadbolt into place. He reached for the light, but quickly retracted his hand. If he hadn’t been seen, he didn’t want to announce his whereabouts.

  He tripped over a box in the entrance—a package he’d received earlier in the day. The brief thought occurred to him that he might never get to open it. He swallowed hard and continued inside.

  Sam had transformed the trailer home into a comfortable abode. Clever partitioning allowed for two separate bedrooms, along with a large living area and kitchen space. His furnishings were simple but adequate: a brown fabric sofa and television stand in the middle of the main room, and a few carefully placed pictures of the New Mexico desert on the wall.

  The window blinds were closed. This was normally the best way to keep the heat out. He had an old air conditioner that he used while he slept, but he kept it off during the day to keep down the expense. Both helped him keep his cover.

  He made his way to the main bedroom, where an open closet contained the shells he was looking for. He quickly loaded one into the rifle, and stuffed as many as he could carry in his left pocket.

  Something wet slid down from his nose. He wiped his sleeve across his face and looked down at it. A splotch of red now stained the arm of his white t-shirt. He must have been injured in the attack. He moved towards the bathroom.

  With the adrenaline pumping, he hadn’t felt any pain or indication that he might have been hurt. He needed to be sure that he hadn’t broken his nose or sustained other serious injuries. Luckily, the bathroom contained no windows. He shut the door and flipped on the light.

  Sam almost didn’t recognize his reflection. The man looking back at him had a smear of blood beneath his nose. Streaks of dirt lined his forehead, deepening his tan complexion. His light brown hair was matted down with sweat, and his normally soft brown eyes looked frantic. The few wrinkles he had seemed deeper than he remembered, betraying his age. Although only fifty-two, he felt much older at that moment.

  Thankfully, he didn’t appear to be seriously hurt. Not yet, at least.

  Two women smiled at him from a yellowed newspaper clipping that he had taped to the mirror. The older one had long, dark hair, and green eyes. The younger looked upwards, her face creased in laughter.

  Beneath them, a second picture showed an older man with crooked teeth, rabid eyes, and disheveled hair. The man seemed to leer at the camera. He, too, was smiling.

  New Mexico Mother & Daughter Killed In Motel Fire; Arsonist Arrested.

  The date at the top was one that Sam would never forget.

  June 22, 2008. The day his whole life had changed.

  It sickened Sam that the three people shared the same spot on the page. He often resisted the urge to tear the man’s face from the clipping, to burn the picture or rip it into tiny fragments and scatter it in the desert. But he would not give the killer that satisfaction. And he never wanted to forget.

  Sam flicked off the light and closed the door. Back in the living area, he moved toward one of the back windows and peered through the blinds. His green Ford Ranger was parked in its usual spot. There was no sign that it had been tampered with.

  He exhaled and moved towards the front door, stopping at the first set of windows. He would do one last check out front, and then he’d make his exit.

  He parted the blinds and jumped slightly at what he saw. The assailant was nowhere in sight. However, a van and trailer now sat quietly at one of the pumps.

  4

  “Do you think anyone’s here? This place looks deserted.” Noah’s brow creased.

  “It doesn’t matter to me,” Kendall shrugged. “As long as the pumps are turned on, we’re good to go.”

  Kendall surveyed the parking lot. A lone tractor-trailer was parked off to the side, on their left. The faded decal on the side read ‘All-American Beef’. The side of the truck bore a thin layer of New Mexico dirt, providing a nice canvas for a would-be artist. He envisioned a few slogans he could add to its exterior, and smiled slightly at the notion.

  “I’ll pump,” he offered, gripping the door handle to open it. He paused suddenly and sucked in a breath.

  A figure lay in the dust, just feet away from the store’s entrance. Next to it was a red baseball cap.

  “Holy shit!”

  “What is it?” Noah peered over his shoulder.

  “I’m not sure yet,” he said. “Stay still.”

  A slight wind arose from somewhere behind the van, kicking up a cloud of dirt from the parking lot. The brim of the hat lifted slightly, and then collapsed back onto the dirt. Its owner made no attempt to claim it.

  Past the body, the screen door to the store hung off one of its hinges, creaking with the breeze. The place was too quiet. Whatever had happened—was happening—had just begun recently.

  And now they were in the midst of it.

  A flash of movement drew Kendall’s attention.
He hadn’t noticed it before, but a small trailer home sat to the right of the store. There were three windows along the front, all of them covered with white blinds.

  One of the blinds had just moved.

  Noah jumped up from the seat.

  “Stop!” he urged, slowly pointing to the blinds. “Someone’s watching us.”

  Noah’s eyes grew wide, and he reached over to lock the door. Kendall let him. A feeling of dread crept over him as he watched his companion scramble around to each of the doors, frantically securing them. The van was a base model, and didn’t have the convenience of automated locks.

  Even with the doors secured, he didn’t feel safe.

  He kept his eyes glued on the blinds, but no further movement occurred. His instincts told him they should leave right away. Hit the gas, peel out, and keep driving until they reached the most densely populated area they could find.

  But the figure on the ground needed their help.

  “Hand me the baseball bat, Noah.”

  His companion shook his head in disbelief. “Are you crazy, man? You’re gonna go out there?”

  Kendall reached past him and slid the bat out from beneath the seat. Then he unlocked the door beside him and got out.

  5

  Sam quickly dropped the blinds, realizing someone in the van had sensed his presence. Using his index finger, he lifted the bottom corner of the blinds slightly and bent down to avoid being seen.

  The van appeared to be an older model Ford, towing what looked like an 8x12 trailer behind it. A few stickers adorned the back window. Although he couldn’t make out the license plate, he guessed by the colors that its occupants weren’t New Mexico natives.

  A few shadows moved inside—probably someone trying to get a better view of him. He clutched the rifle. There was more than one of them.

  Fending off his sole attacker had proved to be a difficult task, but the prospect of fighting several more seemed daunting at best. Especially with a single-shot rifle. Regardless, he had been spotted. He needed to act.

  Sam tugged at his sleeve and closed his eyes. He pictured his wife and daughter struggling to survive in their last moments. A part of him felt like giving up; felt like running out and meeting his fate so that he could join them.

  But then his thoughts turned to the wild-eyed man in the photo next to them—the arsonist who’d killed them. He felt his fear harden into anger. There was nothing he could have done to prevent the fire, but there was something he could do now. He would not let these people win. Whether it was six foes or one.

  He had just started to let go of the blinds when the passenger door of the van swung open. A kid carrying a bat leapt out, surveying the area. He scanned back and forth from the trailer home to the dead trucker.

  He looked afraid.

  The kid appeared to be in his mid-twenties. He was dressed in black jeans and sneakers and a black and white t-shirt, and had scruffy blond hair. His arms were covered in tattoos, which gave him a subtle layer of fierceness.

  However, the look in his eyes reminded Sam of the look he had given himself in the mirror just a few minutes earlier.

  Were these just customers who had happened to stop for gas?

  If so, they had some of the worst luck imaginable. Sam watched the kid inch along the pumps and toward the dead man in the dirt. If they were innocent bystanders, he needed to warn them.

  Sam dropped the blinds and opened the trailer door into the parking lot. As he did so, another more sinister figure revealed itself.

  6

  “Hey kid! Get back in the van!” a voice cried out from Kendall’s right.

  Kendall turned in time to see a man with a rifle coming in his direction. Behind him, the trailer door stood open.

  The man from behind the blinds.

  Kendall didn’t hesitate. He leapt backwards, keeping the bat in front of him to fend off his attackers. The door behind him swung open, and he fell backwards into the vehicle. His cell phone bounced off of the running board and shattered in the dirt.

  The man with the rifle had stopped to aim.

  “Oh my God,” Noah whispered from behind him.

  Kendall felt his jaw drop involuntarily. He followed the path of the gun to its target, and blinked twice to ensure that his vision was not distorted.

  A figure in a dark t-shirt hovered by the gas pumps—only about fifteen feet away. Dusk had set in, and the bright lights had kicked in underneath the canopy. Even still, the figure seemed to blend into the darkness. The full nature of his presence was obscured.

  Kendall strained to get a better view, his heart pounding in his chest. The man’s eyes were glazed over with a black film. Although probably only in his mid-thirties, his face was creased with wrinkles, as if someone had squeezed the flesh together and marred his countenance permanently. His teeth were clenched together with such force that Kendall was surprised they could withstand the pressure. A scar across his throat seemed to gleam underneath the lights. Apparently the man had faced death before. And somehow survived.

  The man with the rifle held his position.

  “Stay back!” he yelled to the figure.

  The scarred man clung to the pump. He slid his fingernails along the edge, as if to taunt them. At any moment, Kendall expected him to puncture a hole in the metal and tear it open.

  “Get out of here, already!” the man with the rifle cried out.

  Noah turned the key in the ignition, and the radio sprang to life. A 70s rock song blared from the speakers.

  The scarred man cocked his head toward the van, fingers straying from the gas pump. His eye sockets seemed to have turned gray, but he appeared to have no trouble seeing with them. Instead, it appeared that his senses were heightened. Kendall watched the attacker turn his nose in the air, appearing to suck in the fear that permeated the station.

  The van roared to life. Kendall smelled a plume of exhaust as his companion pumped the gas pedal to the floor. They needed to leave—now. But what about the man with the rifle?

  Before Kendall could react, his roommate swung the van into drive and pulled out from the pumps. The scarred man—creature—careened towards them, crashing sideways into the rear passenger door side of the van.

  Kendall watched the door cave inward under the pressure.

  What the fuck was this thing?

  The man with the rifle was on the move, as well. In just seconds, he closed the gap between the trailer home and the attacker. He swung the butt-end of his rifle at the thing’s head. The gun connected, sending the thing reeling onto the pavement.

  Kendall reached out to let their rescuer inside, but the back door would not budge. The dent in the side had rendered it inoperable—at least for now. He watched the man jump onto the running board and cling to the lip of the van’s roof.

  “Noah, keep going!”

  The thing rolled several times on the ground, and then disappeared from view as the van drove away.

  Kendall looked through the window. The man had a trickle of blood running down his chin. It appeared he had lost his gun.

  7

  Sam clung on to the van as it accelerated. His fingers were getting stiff. The lip at the top of the van provided no more than a few centimeters for him to hold, and the running board provided little support underneath him.

  He hoped he didn’t fall.

  He watched his store and trailer home disappear behind him. The lights from the gas station became specks in the distance, narrowing into nothing. He found himself wondering if he would ever return.

  Would it matter?

  Sam had already started fresh once. Maybe it was time to do it again.

  The events of the evening replayed in his mind. He pictured the man with the baseball cap covered in blood, imagined pieces of bone fragment from the man�
��s nose stuck between the mesh of the screen door. He shuddered thinking of the poor man’s final moments, which were probably filled with terror and confusion.

  And what of the attacker? The man with the scar had seemed inhuman. It would be almost impossible to explain the situation to the police. He would try, sure. But no description seemed like it would suffice for what they were up against.

  Through the window, one of his new companions motioned for him to hold on. The driver applied the brakes, and the van pulled off of the highway. Sam’s knuckles were white with strain as he struggled to maintain his grip.

  Finally, the vehicle came to a halt. He let go and opened the front passenger side door. The tattooed kid had jumped into the backseat.

  “Get in, mister!” The driver was shaking.

  Sam slammed the door shut and locked it. He snapped his seatbelt into place and felt the van kick into gear.

  The tattooed kid in the back leaned between the seats, surveying his new passenger. The look in his eyes suggested he did not quite trust their new guest. After what they had just seen, it was a wonder they’d let him in the van.

  “I’m Kendall, and this is Noah,” the kid finally confided.

  “I’m Sam,” he returned, trying his best to sound sincere. “What a heck of a way to meet each other.”

  The three smiled nervously in unison. Ahead of them, the pavement seemed to unfold with each passing mile, creating a path for them to follow.

  “Was that your store back there?” Kendall inquired.

  “Yep—that was my place,” he said, glancing behind them. “I’ve owned it for three years. The town’s always been pretty quiet. At least until now.”

  The two nodded.

  “Do either of you have a phone?” he asked.

  “We had one, but it was smashed back at the store,” Kendall said.

  Sam cupped his hands together. His gun had slipped when he climbed aboard the van. Although the rifle had only provided minor comfort, he felt defenseless without it.