Contamination Box Set [Books 0-7]

by Piperbrook, T. W.

  “I’m ok,” she mouthed. She pointed to the center dash. A quarter-sized hole had appeared in the console. Delta sighed with relief.

  Dan regained control of the vehicle, increased speed, and turned the wheel.

  “We’re going to cut some corners here!” he shouted. “Hang on!”

  The Outback skidded sideways, brakes screeching, and Dan pulled onto a dirt road between two buildings. The car kicked up dust as they raced down the narrow alleyway.

  The sound of gunfire continued behind them, but Dan’s maneuver appeared to have been effective. Delta turned her head, daring to glance behind them, and noticed that both SUVs had missed the turn.

  After a few seconds, the Outback emerged onto a main road. Dan yanked the wheel and took a hard left onto another unpaved street—one that had been invisible just seconds before.

  “I think we lost them,” he said. “But stay down, just in case.”

  Delta looked to her left, checking on her companions. Sam was leaning forward, straining against the straps of the seatbelt, hands clutching the kitchen knife he had found in Dr. Fullman’s office. Noah’s head was still down.

  Outside, a swarm of the creatures emerged from the surrounding buildings. She watched them gravitate to the vehicle, arms raking the air, eyes black. Their clothes had been torn, and the creatures oozed a black substance where their flesh had been ripped open. Delta had only seen a few up close before. Seeing so many at once was jarring.

  She focused her attention on one of the creatures, which had once been a middle-aged woman. Her hair was in a bun on top of her head, and gashes lined her cheeks. The creature stumbled toward the vehicle as they passed by, arms extended. For a second, Delta had a thought that the woman could possibly be alive inside of the gruesome exterior; that her reaching out was a plea for help rather than an attempt to attack.

  But she knew that couldn’t be the case. Even Kendall, their former friend and companion, had become violent and uncontrollable once the infection had set in. The woman-thing hissed as the Outback drove out of reach, as if to solidify her vicious intent. Delta let out another breath, this one filled with sadness. It was awful what these townspeople had become.

  She swallowed, wondering if she would share their fate.

  The town center soon gave way to barren desert roads. A few abandoned cars lined the roadway, but far fewer than they had seen before. Delta saw movement in the sky and looked up, noticing a cluster of birds circling overhead. Probably following the food, she thought with a shudder.

  A sign appeared in the distance, and the station wagon slowed down. After a few seconds, she read the words.

  “Salvage Yard – 2 Miles.”

  A lone figure stood next to it.

  “Look, Dad!” Quinn yelled.

  The man had his back turned to them, and he appeared to be limping. A tattered jacket clung to his hunched shoulders, as if waiting for the right moment to fall off, and his jeans were ripped, revealing a pair of gaunt legs beneath.

  Dan slowed the vehicle to a crawl.

  “Be careful,” Delta cautioned, biting her lower lip.

  The Outback rolled to a stop behind the man. Dan reached for his pistol. The figure stopped in the road, but didn’t turn to face them. Delta noticed the man’s hair was matted with blood, his jacket stained with dirt and grime.

  The car idled as its passengers waited for a reaction.

  None came.

  The wind blew, a subtle gust that lifted the bottom of the man’s coat in the air. Still the man did not move.

  “What should we do?” Delta whispered. “Maybe he doesn’t hear us.”

  “He knows we’re here,” Sam said. He turned his knife in his hands. “I think we should get moving.”

  “Let’s give it a minute,” Dan said.

  The birds swirled in clusters overhead, diving and ascending, tracking invisible objects below. One of them cawed, as if sensing the uncomfortable silence. The man’s shoulders heaved, rising and falling, but he remained in place.

  Dan tapped the car horn.

  The sound echoed throughout the road and into mountains that surrounded them. The birds scattered. The man on the road flinched slightly, but kept his position.

  Dan rolled the window down a crack, put his lips next to the glass.

  “It’s ok—I’m a police officer!” he yelled. “We’re here to help!”

  The man stirred at the words. He took a step forward, and his arms disappeared from view in front of him.

  Dan gripped his pistol and pivoted his foot from the brake to the gas.

  The man turned his head, then his body. His eyes were bloodshot and dilated, his lips cracked and bleeding. He looked at them with a vacant stare, as if barely recognizing their presence.

  Delta almost didn’t notice the gun in his hands.

  When she did, she jumped up in her seat.

  “Look out!” she screamed.

  The man raised the weapon. To her shock, he didn’t point it at the station wagon, but tucked it underneath his chin.

  “No!” she yelled.

  Before anyone could react, the man fired, sending a bullet through his neck and out the back of his head. He collapsed on the road in front of them, a pile of clothes and skin.

  Dan shielded his daughter’s eyes, but the damage had been done. She whimpered in the seat next to him, sucking in shallow breaths. He heard the back door open. Sam exited the vehicle, walking over to examine the man’s body.

  “Stay here, Quinn,” Dan said, and then stepped out himself.

  The sun beat down from overhead, casting rays of warmth onto the road. The fallen man lay at the base of the street sign, his legs twisted unnaturally beneath him. Sam was already standing over him. Sam’s hands were stuffed deep in the pockets of his jeans, and he inspected the body with a solemn stare. Dan joined him.

  The man’s face was obscured with blood. His mouth was agape, and his eyes had rolled back in his head, his stare aimed at the distant skyline.

  “Where do you think he was headed?” Sam asked.

  Dan looked up at the sign.

  “He could have been going for the salvage yard. But I don’t think he planned on making it. I think he’d already decided he’d had enough.”

  Sam nodded, and then reached in his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief. He bent down next to the figure and retrieved the pistol, cleaned the blood off, and tucked it into his waistband.

  “I can’t say I blame him,” he muttered.

  Dan looked back at the vehicle, where three pairs of eyes watched expectantly. He gave a half-hearted wave, as if to assure them everything was all right, but deep down, he had a pit in his stomach. Of all those that had been infected, why had they been spared? Had some higher power chosen them to survive?

  He looked up at the sky for an answer, but was greeted with only a few passing clouds and the bright bulb of the sun. In any other circumstance, today would have been a typical day in the Arizona desert. He would have been driving these roads, patrolling the area, making his rounds. Rarely would anyone wind up in these parts, other than the occasional tow-truck. The road wasn’t a main thoroughfare. In fact, there wasn’t anything beyond it other than the salvage yard at the end.

  Dan wiped a trickle of sweat from his forehead and headed for the car, wondering if the world would ever make sense again.

  7

  The St. Matthews Salvage Yard had been in business for as long as Dan could remember. Seated at the southwest corner of town, it was effectively secluded from the majority of the townsfolk, and therefore had few visitors. On any given day, the lot would be filled with junked vehicles, motorcycles, or broken-down RVs that had met their demise in the White Mountains. After a bad accident, Dan would inspect the cars that had been towed there,
and then write up his reports. Because of the frequency of his trips, he had become quite familiar with both the layout of the property and the men who ran it.

  Its owners—a fat man named Bubba and a tall, wiry man named Ray—were the town’s answer to Laurel and Hardy. Both men were in their mid-thirties, and had been best friends since childhood. On a typical day, the two could be seen moving cars around the lot, tinkering with engines and mufflers, or enjoying a beer in the main office. Neither was married, at least to Dan’s knowledge, and both seemed content to remain in the salvage yard. If he hadn’t known better, he might have taken them for a couple, but an office filled with pictures of scantily clad women told a different tale.

  As Dan drove up the dusty road leading to the salvage yard, he wondered if either man had survived. Both had an apartment in town—it was possible that they had remained there. But for all he knew, they could be inside the salvage yard, trolling the grounds for victims. Infected like the rest of the townsfolk.

  Dan let his foot off the gas, slowing the Outback to a crawl as they approached the main entrance.

  The salvage yard was surrounded on all sides by a ten-foot-high barbed wire fence. Though Bubba and Ray had never had any trouble with break-ins, they had gone to great lengths to protect the property. The front gate was wrapped in chains, and security cameras were mounted above the entrance. Motion sensor lights had been placed at various intervals around the fence—enough to ward off any would-be thieves who might try to enter uninvited.

  Because of his job on the force, Dan had been provided a spare key to the salvage yard. He would have come here earlier, but amid the chaos of the infection, his only thought had been to escape.

  “Do you think anyone’s inside?” Sam asked from behind him.

  “I know the owners pretty well; I’m pretty sure they would have been in town when the infection hit—not here. But I’ll check it out just in case.”

  Dan threw the vehicle into park and opened the door. He unhooked the key to the salvage yard from his keychain and stepped out, leaving the car running.

  “Be careful, Daddy,” Quinn whispered.

  He felt for his pistol as he approached the front gate. A rusted yellow sign warned that a dog was inside, but he knew better. Bubba and Ray’s dog had died over a year ago. He remembered how upset the two owners had been when it happened, and while they had talked about getting a new one, he was pretty sure it hadn’t happened yet.

  And now it probably never would.

  Dan put his face to the gate, peering into the yard. A plethora of rusted vehicles were parked inside, some piled on top of others, and a row of RVs lined the back fence. A large wooden shack sat just past the gate, an exhaust pipe jutting from the roof. Dan had been in there plenty of times, too: the shack served as both a welcome center to the yard and a second home for Bubba and Ray.

  Now, the place seemed uninhabited.

  Dan looked down at the chains on the gate. To his relief, they were securely fastened, indicating that the owners had probably locked up and returned home before the infection had started to spread.

  He unlocked the front entrance, removed the chains, and pushed open the gates. The metal groaned, and he looked behind him just to make sure he hadn’t alerted any unseen attackers. The desert was quiet. His companions looked at him from the car. He gave them a thumbs-up to indicate all was well. So far, so good, he thought.

  Dan stepped into the yard. He felt a little more relaxed, but didn’t want to let his guard down. He studied the cars in the lot for movement or signs of life, but was greeted with silence. He looked over at the RVs on the far side of the lot. A few seemed to be in decent shape—they could probably provide a comfortable place to hole up in, at least temporarily.

  Satisfied for the moment, he turned towards the shack.

  The building was small, and provided just enough room for the owners to mill about and watch over the yard from the security monitors inside. He had been in there several times, usually just to chat with Bubba and Ray. The metal door that led inside was shut. Dan tried the handle. It was locked. He rapped gently on the door and put his ear against it, but heard nothing.

  He turned back to the car, started walking, and then stopped. The wind blew, wafting a familiar odor across the salvage yard. It was a smell he knew all too well. The smell of something rotting—the smell of something dead. It seemed to be coming from one of the RVs across the lot.

  Dan swiveled and began moving in the direction of the odor. He withdrew his gun, aiming it in front of him. His feet crunched on the gravel underfoot, echoing across the yard, and he grimaced at the sound. He put one foot in front of the other, treading lightly, now just ten feet away from the nearest RV. The smell had increased in pungency, filling his nostrils, and he covered his mouth and nose with one of his hands.

  The closest vehicle was a brown 35-footer. The front windshield had been smashed inwards, leaving triangles of glass along the frame. It looked empty, but the main living area was bathed in shadow—he was unable to get a clear view inside.

  He reached the RV, moved toward the passenger’s side door, and held his breath. The smell was emanating from somewhere inside. He swallowed and opened the door, aimed his gun, and stepped up the single stair.

  The stench was overwhelming. Dan felt his eyes tearing up. As he mounted the last step, he turned his head, fighting the urge to vomit. In the center of the floor was a pile of bodies—heads and limbs severed from torsos, dried blood and bile staining the floor. He coughed and gagged, backing up, feeling for the stair behind him. He began to turn.

  A familiar sound stopped him in his tracks.

  Click-click.

  “Stay where you are. Drop your weapon and put your hands on your head.”

  Dan felt icicles chill his veins, wondering how he had been taken by surprise. There had been no indication of forced entry into the salvage yard, and certainly no sign that anyone had been inside—at least not recently. He bent down slowly and placed his pistol on the floor.

  “Wait a minute,” the person said.

  After the second set of instructions, Dan realized he recognized the voice.

  Before he could respond, the man spoke again.

  “Holy shit—Dan Lowery? Is that you?”

  After losing the station wagon in the streets of St. Matthews, Brown tried his best to remain quiet. He knew his partner was fuming mad, and the last thing he wanted was to piss him off further.

  The SUVs navigated the streets for close to an hour with no sign of their quarry. Winters alternated between hitting his palms on the steering wheel, cursing, and fiddling with the windows. Brown began to think the man was bi-polar, perhaps even certifiably insane.

  Brown’s right calf ached. He realized he had shifted to the edge of his seat, providing the most distance between him and the enraged man. He rested his elbow on the window, watching a string of houses pass by, and tried to forget where he was and what he was doing.

  Jameson had fallen behind them. Brown could see him in the passenger’s side mirror, scouring the streets with his gaze.

  He thought back to his time in Salt Lake City.

  Brown had been transported there in a twelve-passenger van along with several other Agent recruits. Jameson had been one of them.

  The van—a well-worn Ford with a faded decal on the side—had been parked out in front of the dorms. Brown remembered trying to make out the letters on the side, concluding that the van had once been used for a church. The name of the congregation was unreadable. The van had most likely been repurposed by its owners, the sticker left on the side to make the vehicle appear less suspicious.

  Brown had taken an open seat in the back. A few of the men had glanced at him when he’d entered, but only for a second. During the twenty-hour ride, the van had stopped several times, but none
of the men uttered a word. Brown wondered if their families had been kidnapped or killed, as well.

  The training had lasted several months. Brown’s living area was the size of a small closet; it contained only a small cot to sleep on, a nightstand, and a lamp. The walls were bone white, the floors spotless.

  During the day, he had engaged in intense physical training with the other recruits, each grueling day worse than the last. Brown had developed sores on his feet, his body had ached, and he had longed for a good night’s sleep. His nights consisted of lying awake on his cot, staring at the ceiling and thinking of his sister and his parents until his mind finally shut itself off from the day’s physical exertion.

  After a few weeks, the other recruits loosened up. Though talking was forbidden during physical training, conversation was allowed during meals. The men were informed that they should speak only of their training; that no personal information should be revealed. As routine set in, the men joked about the food, or bragged about workouts they had done prior to the training.

  Brown realized that the others were excited to be in Salt Lake. They seemed honored to be included, rather than coerced, as he had been.

  Around that time, he noticed Jameson. Unlike the others, Jameson always ate his meals in silence. He rarely spoke unless a question was directed at him, and even then his response was limited. He seemed to excel in his training, often completing the timed exercises more quickly than the others. Brown had ended up next to him a few times in the mess hall, and he’d felt a silent kinship to the man. He had begun to wonder if Jameson were in a situation similar to his own.

  Brown had tried to engage the man in conversation a few times, but had gotten nowhere. Jameson always seemed quiet and disinterested, his head bowed over his plate, focused on his food. It wasn’t until weeks later that Brown was given any insight into the man.