Jameson had been eating quietly, eyes averted as normal. He had taken a pause to stretch, leaving a few bites of pork chop on his plate.
One of the other recruits had made a comment about the uneaten food—about how it would be a shame to let it go to waste. Jameson had given him a sideways glance, dabbing at his lips with his napkin. The other soldier had then leaned in with his fork to retrieve the last few bites.
Jameson had responded by sticking a butter knife into his neck.
The soldier had fallen back in his chair, blood spurting from a hole under his chin. The other recruits had sprung to his aid, frantically trying to stop the bleeding, their eyes wide with fear.
Unfazed, Jameson had finished his meal and excused himself from the table.
8
Dan turned around slowly in the RV. Bubba lowered the shotgun in disbelief, and then scratched his head with his free hand.
“Man, is it good to see you. I was sure everybody was dead.”
For a second, it felt like the salvage yard owner was about to embrace him, but the man hung back when he saw Dan glancing back at the pile of bodies in the RV.
“You wouldn’t believe what I’ve been through,” Bubba said, as if trying to explain the grisly scene.
“I can only imagine.”
“Come with me, man. I’ll get you some food, a beer—whatever you need.”
Bubba hoisted the shotgun over his shoulder and whistled as he lumbered toward the shack at the other end of the yard. Dan retrieved his pistol and moved toward the stairs, then glanced back at the carnage in the RV. There were at least a half-dozen bodies, if he had to guess. Most had been hacked to pieces. Loose chunks of flesh were strewn about the floor and over the seats. Dan could understand survival, but it looked like these creatures had been killed with excessive force. He shuddered and descended the steps.
By the time Dan reached the outside, the salvage owner had crossed half the distance to the shack.
“I’m not alone, Bubba,” Dan yelled. “I have others with me.”
“I know,” the fat man called behind him. “Tell them to get inside. And make sure you lock the gate behind you.”
Bubba entered the shack. The metal door slammed shut behind him.
Dan jogged toward the Outback, his gun in hand. He saw his companions leaning forward in their seats to get a better look, and he gave them a quick wave to signal that everything was ok. Even so, he felt uneasy. As he reached the vehicle, he had the sudden urge to jump in and peel out of the salvage yard.
Something felt off about Bubba—about the bodies in the RV. The man had seemed eerily calm about the whole situation. In fact, if Dan hadn’t known better, it almost seemed like the salvage owner was ready to carry on about the latest town gossip, or recount the latest accident on Route 191.
Stop being paranoid, Dan, he told himself. People dealt with horrific situations in different ways—he knew that from his days on the force.
Yet he couldn’t shake his police instincts that something else was going on in the salvage yard. Something more than Bubba was letting on.
Ray.
The man’s name hit him in a flash. Bubba hadn’t mentioned his friend, the co-owner of the facility. Had he survived the infection? Perhaps Bubba had been put into a situation where he’d had to defend himself against his best friend.
Perhaps Ray’s body was one of those stashed in the RV.
If that was the case, it was no wonder that Bubba was acting strange. Hell, it was a wonder any of them had a shred of sanity left.
Dan leaned into the car and addressed his companions.
“The owner is still inside. He told us to head in and lock the gates behind us.”
“We saw him. I was afraid he was going to shoot you, Daddy,” Quinn said.
“Should we pull the car in?” Sam asked.
Dan looked behind him. The door to the shack was still closed and Bubba was nowhere in sight.
“Yes. Back it in, though, in case we have to leave in a hurry.”
Bubba’s shack was smaller than Dan remembered. The walls were plastered with posters and sticky-notes, the desk covered in loose paperwork. Two flat-screen monitors were mounted on the wall. Normally, they would display images of the salvage yard, but today they cast only a dull gray reflection. The fat man sat at his post in the middle of the room. As the group entered, he slid his chair underneath the desk to give them more room.
“Sorry it’s so tight in here,” he said.
When the last person had entered, Dan shut the door behind them. Bubba surveyed his guests and then offered his hand to each of them in turn.
“I’m Bill,” he said. “But everyone calls me Bubba.”
The salvage owner pointed to a cooler in the corner of the room.
“I have drinks in there, if anyone is thirsty,” he said. “It ain’t much, but I didn’t have time to go shopping.”
The group exchanged worried looks. Dan explained their theory to Bubba: that the food and water had been contaminated—that it may have caused whatever had happened to the townsfolk. Bubba listened intently, and then waved his hand.
“Well—shit! I haven’t missed a meal, and I’m just fine!”
The salvage owner let out a hearty laugh, patting his stomach, and then seemed to reconsider.
“Of course, something must be causing all this craziness, I suppose.”
Dan elaborated further, sharing the group’s experiences in both St. Matthews and New Mexico. He told Bubba of the men in white who had been chasing them. Bubba tensed up as he listened, and he perspired. His eyes fell to the floor.
“Well, I knew it was bad, but I didn’t want to believe it,” he said. “Those things started climbing over the fence last night. Ray and I used up most of our ammo fighting them off. I hoped we had seen the last of them, but Ray didn’t seem to think so.”
The fat man averted his eyes and wiped his nose. He looked visibly upset.
“Is Ray—?“
The salvage owner nodded.
“I’m sorry, Bubba,” Dan said.
“When this first started happening, I tried to call everyone I knew, but couldn’t get ahold of anyone. And then the power went out. The last person I spoke to was Bernie, and even he had his hands full, last I knew.”
“Who’s Bernie?” Dan asked.
“He owns the salvage yard down in Tucson. We talk pretty regularly. I had called him to say hello yesterday afternoon. He said there were a few suspicious people around his lot. Said he was going to threaten them if they didn’t leave. I realized later that they were probably the same…things. By that time, all the phones had stopped working. I haven’t talked to him since.”
Dan and Sam exchanged looks.
“So that means that it’s not much better to the south, either,” Dan said.
Bubba looked at him quizzically.
“We were originally planning to head to Tucson, hoping things might be normal there. It sounds like that’s out of the question.”
“You’re welcome to stay here as long as you’d like. From the sound of it, I don’t think any of us have much choice.” Bubba shrugged.
“When’s the last time you saw one of the creatures?” Dan asked.
“A few hours ago. The fucker was climbing right over the fence and got stuck on the goddamn barbs. Made it a hell of a lot easier to get rid of him since he wasn’t able to move. Those things are quick.”
Bubba reached down and traced his finger over the barrel of the shotgun.
“Not many people come out this way—hell, I’ve seen more of these things on the property in the last twenty-four hours than I’ve seen people in weeks. It’s like they’re headed somewhere. Like they’re looking for something.”
Dan looked over at
his companions, who were staring out the window across the yard. They all looked exhausted, as if they hadn’t slept in days.
“Do you have a place we can rest, Bubba? We can help keep watch,” he said. “I’ll volunteer to take the first shift.”
“A few of these RVs aren’t in bad shape. I can set you guys up in one of ‘em.”
Dan thanked him, and then remembered the grisly scene he had witnessed earlier. He tried to suppress the image of the brown RV—of the bodies scattered across the floor inside. Even now, he could still smell the stench of rotting flesh in his nostrils.
“I have a nice white 35-footer in the far corner of the lot,” Bubba said. “C’mon, I’ll take you folks over there.”
9
Brown’s head flew forward and hit the dash as the vehicle came to a stop. Jameson had pulled the other SUV up next to them and was yelling out the window.
“Over there! I saw something!” he shouted, pointing to a brick building.
It looked like a pharmacy. Winters threw the vehicle into park and grabbed his rifle.
“Look alive, Brown.” He smirked.
The two left the SUV. Jameson was already heading toward the front of the pharmacy. His rifle was on his shoulder, and he was taking aim at something through the glass storefront.
“Spread out,” he said.
Brown moved forward until could read the sign on the door, confirming his initial guess at the building’s identity.
“Ryan’s Pharmacy.”
Unlike most of the stores in town, the glass window was intact. However, the entrance door had been left ajar; it appeared to have been propped open by something. Brown looked to the ground and noticed a bottle of soda wedged in the doorframe.
Jameson opened the door and stepped past the object, revealing more of the pharmacy’s interior. The inside was dark, but Brown could make out a few shelves full of products. He gripped his gun and fell in line behind the other soldier.
Movement out of the corner of his eye drew his attention. He looked to his left, at the building next door. Something flashed by a broken window.
“I’ll check the other building,” Winters said from behind him.
Brown watched his companion break their formation and head next door. For the first time in two days, he felt a small sense of relief wash over him, grateful to have a moment’s freedom from the man.
“Hurry the fuck up, Brown,” Jameson chided, cutting the moment short.
Brown stepped sideways through the entrance and glanced down at the bottle of soda. It wasn’t likely that one of the creatures would have placed it there. The gesture seemed too calculated—too human. He surmised that someone had propped the door open in order to make a quick exit.
A survivor. Someone they would need to kill.
He felt the acidic taste of adrenaline pool in his mouth, and he swallowed several times. He hoped he was wrong. If someone were inside—someone who hadn’t been infected—it was his job to exterminate the person. Those were his orders. As sick as it made him, he knew he had to comply. His life depended on it.
His family’s lives depended on it.
The only other option was to let Jameson do the shooting, but even still, Brown would be an accomplice to murder. Any way you sliced it, he was fucked.
Brown stepped through the doorway and into the darkness of the pharmacy. Even though it was light outside, only a faint light filtered in through the front window. Brown realized he couldn’t see past the first few rows of shelves. Jameson had disappeared in front of him. He paused for a second, listening, but all he could hear was the sound of his own ragged breathing.
Footsteps. Something falling off a shelf in the back of the store.
Brown’s heart skipped a beat. Was it Jameson? Or was someone else in the pharmacy with them?
“Psst,” Jameson hissed from up ahead. “There’s someone behind the counter.”
Brown crept forward past a string of shelves. The back of the store was empty and open; he saw a metal sign, a rope, and a counter—presumably where customers could wait in line with their purchases. An array of prescription bottles and goods were arranged on a long shelf in front. Jameson aimed his rifle over the top.
“Don’t fucking move!” he screamed.
Brown tensed. Another voice broke the silence: this one was from behind the counter.
“Don’t shoot! I’m not one of them—I’m still alive!”
It sounded like a man’s voice.
“You think I give a shit? Get out from behind there!” Jameson barked.
Brown watched a figure rise into view, hands in the air. From the shape and demeanor, the person appeared to be an older gentleman. He could see the man’s arms shaking, even in the dark, and the figure bumped into a bottle on the floor, sending it skittering off into some unseen corner. Jameson shook his rifle impatiently and waved the man out.
Then Brown heard something else: a thin scrape from behind him.
He turned toward the entrance of the pharmacy. A shape darted through the front entrance. The door swung closed without a sound.
Someone—or something—had bumped into the soda bottle.
Brown looked back to the counter: Jameson hadn’t noticed. The nervous old man still trudged toward his captor, arms held high.
Brown stepped backwards and ducked into one of the aisles. He contemplated running, but decided against it. His visibility was limited, and the last thing he needed was to bump into one of those things. Besides, if he left Jameson in the pharmacy, he was sure Winters would seek retribution. His only hope was to stay silent and wait.
Footsteps echoed through the pharmacy. From his position in the aisle, Brown had lost sight of Jameson and the old man, but he could tell there were others in the store.
Brown heard breathing. Jagged, short gasps. He saw something at the end of the aisle, and held his breath. A foul stench permeated the store—the smell of flesh rotting from the inside. The smell of the creatures.
The shadow advanced, shoulders heaving. Its head swiveled around the store, as if looking for a basket of lost goods. Brown crouched on the floor and lined up his rifle in case he had to take a shot.
“Brown, where the fuck are you?”
The creature turned at the sound of Jameson’s voice, leaving the aisle and heading toward the back of the pharmacy. Brown exhaled, heart still pounding. Before he could move, he saw two more shadows run past the end of the aisle, in the direction of Jameson and the old man.
Brown waited a few more seconds and then stood on the balls of his feet, looking over the shelves. He raised his rifle, but it was too late.
Jameson let out a muffled cry. Gunshots riddled the air—flashes of light exploding throughout the store. Brown shielded his face. Bottles erupted in all directions around him, products spilling off of the shelves. He watched the old man fall next to Jameson and then saw three shadows descend on both of them and tear into their flesh.
Brown ran out of the aisle and through the front door.
He didn’t look back, not even when he heard Jameson let out one last blood-curdling scream.
PART THREE – DIVIDE & CONQUER
10
Delta awoke in a cold sweat. She fought the urge to scream and struggled to sit upright. Her heart pounded against her tank top, and she fought to calm herself.
She must have had a nightmare, though she couldn’t recall any of the details. Several of her companions slept around her on the floor of the RV. Sam. Quinn.
Noah was missing.
She looked over at a pile of blankets—where she had last seen him—but he was nowhere to be found. He’s probably having trouble sleeping, she thought. She couldn’t blame him. She was surprised she had slept herself.
The shades had been drawn across the RV windo
ws, but she could still see hints of daylight through the cracks. She figured she couldn’t have been out long, but without a clock, it was impossible to tell.
Sam stirred next to her. His eyes opened.
“Sorry to wake you,” she whispered.
He nodded, and then rolled over. She was concerned about him. He hadn’t been himself since their run-in with the men at the gas station.
Delta lay back down, trying not to let her anxiety overtake her. She tried to think of happier times: before her Dad had gone to prison; before he had been diagnosed with cancer; when everything in her life had seemed to be falling into place. Before all of this.
At one time, she had been taking night classes at a local college, working days at a record shop. Although she hadn’t yet decided on a major, she had been content to be working toward a degree. Most of her friends had gone away to school, but she hadn’t been ready yet. Instead, she had focused on paying her rent, building her bank account. She wanted to travel, but she also felt the need to stay close to her father—the one person who had been a constant in her life.
Delta’s job at the record store made her feel organized and responsible, like she had things together. The owner, Chuck, had been a hard-ass, always insisting that everything be returned to its exact place. But he had meant well, and he was flexible with her hours, letting her work around her school schedule if needed.
She pictured the record store in her head, could still picture Chuck sliding records into plastic sheaths and filing them away in cabinets. Was he dead too? Was all of it gone?
She blinked hard, fighting back the tears, and stood up. She obviously wouldn’t be getting to sleep anytime soon.
Delta tiptoed around Sam and Quinn and headed for the exit of the RV. She opened the door—gently, so as not to disturb them—and then descended the steps into the salvage yard to look for Noah.
Contamination Box Set [Books 0-7] Page 23
