Contamination Box Set [Books 0-7]

by Piperbrook, T. W.

  Once a day she’d been trading calls with her neighbors, Sheila Guthright—an elderly woman who owned a property to the north, and Ben and Marcy Sanders, a middle-aged couple that owned the property next door. Even though they were all neighbors, their houses were spread far apart: each owned about ten acres of land.

  But she’d already spoken to all of them today.

  Maybe it’s news about Julie.

  By the time Meredith got to the kitchen, she was out of breath. Ernie circled her heels. She looked down at him, and he barked, as if he sensed her nervousness.

  “Quiet, boy,” she said to the dog. She picked up the phone. “Hello?”

  “M-Meredith?”

  The voice on the other end was cracked and distorted, and she pressed the phone tight to her head, doing her best to hear it.

  “Sheila? That you?”

  “Yes. Something’s wrong with Ben.”

  “What do you mean? Is he there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is Marcy with him?”

  “No, dear, she’s not. And he’s acting strange. I told him I’m not going to open the door.”

  “Does he look sick?”

  “He doesn’t look well.”

  “Oh God. Listen, Sheila—”

  “He keeps banging, and he won’t stop.”

  “Whatever you do, don’t let him in! He might be infected, Sheila!”

  Before Meredith could protest further, the phone disconnected. She tapped the lever and frantically dialed back the woman’s number, but there was no answer.

  She called back a second time, a third. The phone rang and rang.

  In a panic now, Meredith hung up and raced for the door.

  It was possible that Sheila had been overreacting; that Ben had simply come to visit her. After all, the woman was almost ninety-years-old, and she’d suffered a few bouts of confusion in the past few months. But even still, Meredith couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that the woman was in trouble.

  She just hoped to God she was wrong.

  Meredith flew from the house and into her pickup truck, the keys jangling in her hand. She threw them in the ignition and fired up the vehicle.

  The quickest way to Sheila Guthright’s house was to take the road. Even though they were technically neighbors, their properties were enormous—it would take Meredith almost ten minutes by foot.

  The way it sounded, ten minutes might be too late.

  She backed down the fifty-foot driveway to the road, the truck tires crunching gravel, and swerved out onto the pavement. She’d just started driving when she had a sudden thought.

  She had no weapons on her.

  She glanced back at the property, contemplating going back, but dismissed the idea. She’d already lost enough time as it was, and Sheila needed her help.

  From the little footage that the news had been able to gather—footage that had been looped over and over—she knew that things were looking grim. Still, she couldn’t imagine it happening here: not in Settler’s Creek, and certainly not to people she knew.

  Her best bet now was to hightail it to Sheila’s house. In the event something was happening, she’d figure it out when she got there. Chances are that Ben had run into some medical emergency; maybe his wife was sick and needed help.

  Sheila must’ve gotten it all wrong.

  Meredith continued to convince herself of these things as she drove the rural road to the woman’s house. In just a few minutes, she’d driven by the wooden fence that marked the edge of her property. In a few more she’d hit the driveway leading to Sheila’s house.

  She turned in faster than she should and gunned the accelerator. Sheila’s driveway was as long as Meredith’s, about fifty feet or so, and she could already make out Sheila’s Buick Regal parked at the top.

  To her surprise, there was no sign of Ben’s pickup truck.

  Ben and Marcy lived on the other side of the property, to the south, and were also a considerable distance away. Unless Ben was looking for exercise, he normally would’ve driven, especially if there was an emergency.

  Meredith swallowed the lump in her throat. She climbed the remainder of the driveway in her pickup, and when she’d reached the top, she killed the engine and stared at the house.

  Sheila lived in a modest white Victorian, with a railed front porch and several front steps leading up to it. The house contained two floors, an upstairs and a downstairs. Meredith was consistently surprised that the ninety-year-old woman was able to navigate her way between both.

  Almost all of the shades of the house were open. That made sense, because Sheila was an early riser.

  What didn’t make sense was that the front door was open as well.

  Meredith leapt from the truck and walked the yard, then peered inside from the foot of the porch stairs. Inside, she could see the staircase leading to the second floor and segments of the living room and kitchen.

  In none of those places did she see Sheila or Ben.

  The house was silent, vacant, as if the occupants had left in a hurry.

  Had Sheila gotten into Ben’s car to go somewhere? Had they gone for help? But if that were the case, wouldn’t they have called her back? And why had Sheila disconnected so fast?

  Nothing about the situation made sense.

  Meredith crept up the stairs, the wood creaking under weight, and peered through the front door. She could now see into the living room, the dining room, and the kitchen. Empty.

  It wasn’t until she caught sight of the doorframe that she gave pause.

  The wood had been splintered and cracked, and it looked like the hinges had been damaged. As if someone—Ben—had kicked it in.

  Her heart rate increasing, Meredith tried to envision a scenario where breaking down the door would make sense, but came up with nothing. If Ben were inside, he hadn’t been invited.

  I should call out to Sheila. Let her know that I’m here.

  Meredith opened her mouth to speak, but before she could, a bang erupted from upstairs. She jumped back in surprise, raising her hands to defend herself, but there was nothing in front of her.

  Get ahold of yourself, Meredith.

  The bang came again.

  It was coming from one of the rooms upstairs.

  She forced herself to move forward. If someone was inside, they might need her help. She walked through the front door and inside, grabbing the rail on the stairs leading to the second floor.

  “Sheila? Ben? Everything all right?”

  There was no response, but she heard the scurrying sound of footsteps on the floor. Someone was approaching the top landing. Meredith gripped the railing and steeled herself to fight or to talk; whichever the situation called for.

  Her hands shook; her fingers were clammy on the rail.

  All at once, the footsteps stopped and a head poked around the wall.

  Meredith let out a muffled shriek.

  It was Sheila.

  The old woman lifted her hand to her lips, signaling for Meredith to be quiet, and then waved her up the stairs. Meredith let out a silent sigh of relief, her body still trembling, and then climbed up to meet her.

  Thank God she’s OK.

  When Meredith reached the landing, Sheila clutched her arm with a rigid hand. Although the old woman looked frightened, she looked uninjured: she had sustained no injuries that Meredith could see, and her clothing was intact. In her hands was a rifle.

  The old woman pointed to a closed door at the end of the hall.

  Meredith nodded and listened. Despite straining her ears, she heard no movement or sound from within. It was almost as if the occupant was listening, too. After a minute of silence, she whispered to the woman next to her.

  “Who’s in t
here? Is it Ben?”

  The old woman nodded, her lips pursed.

  “He’s sick,” she said simply.

  Meredith could make out a light scratch on the other side of the door now, almost as if Ben had heard them. She crept forward a step, then paused.

  “Ben? You in there?” she called.

  The hallway fell silent. She took another step forward, glancing at the woman next to her. Sheila shook her head, her eyes wide, imploring Meredith to stay put.

  “Ben?” she called again. No answer.

  Meredith felt her chest tighten, the breakfast she’d eaten that morning starting to travel up her windpipe. She swallowed, forcing it down, and kept her eyes glued to the door.

  “Call the police, Sheila,” she said.

  The old woman handed Meredith the rifle, then padded away, heading down the staircase. Meredith clenched the gun with shaky hands.

  If Ben was really inside, she couldn’t shoot him, could she? If he was sick, she owed it to him to help.

  No sooner had the woman left than the banging erupted again.

  Thud-thud-thud.

  Meredith watched as the door buckled against its hinges. She stepped back, tripping over a piece of loose carpet, and groped for the wall.

  She was still fighting for balance when the door swung open. The wood crashed against the wall, cracking the plaster, and she screamed.

  Standing in front of her, eyes blazing, was Ben Sanders.

  4

  Things were even worse than Dan remembered.

  As they drove back into St. Matthews—the town that had once been their home—he found that it was barely recognizable. Several days prior, it’d been bad, but nothing like what he saw before him now.

  Every window was shattered, every door cracked, and the streets were littered with abandoned vehicles. It was almost as if the town had been hit by a bomb, one that detonated daily and built on the destruction of the day before it. Everywhere Dan looked was a body; everywhere he turned was an obstacle.

  He’d given up on asking Quinn to look away. Each time he’d given the warning, her head would swivel as if she had radar, taking in the exact sight he didn’t want her to see. It was human nature to be curious, sure, but he couldn’t help but think of the mental damage it might be causing her.

  No eleven-year-old should have to deal with this.

  As he passed through the center of town, he was hit by a wave of memories.

  He recognized the turn he’d taken when fleeing the Agents just days earlier. A sandwich shop he’d frequented. The pizza place he took Julie to on their nights out.

  He bit his lip.

  Although the scenery was worse than before, he was grateful of the knowledge they’d gained since last traveling it. They now knew the root cause of the infection, the perpetrators, and the ways to avoid it.

  They’d learned that the virus was ingested, and that it could be avoided by eating the food they’d taken from the agents.

  They had a trunk full of safe food, and a destination in mind.

  Dan just had to figure a way to get them there.

  Without the assistance of GPS or a phone, he’d have to rely on memory alone to take them to Settler’s Creek.

  As he approached the center of town, the rubble and wreckage began to overtake the road; a few minutes later, he was forced to stop the vehicle. In front of them were two sideways cars, a television set, and a downed street sign.

  They were at an impasse.

  Dan put the car in reverse, looking for another way around. But when he backed up, he saw that the roads on either side were equally blocked; in some cases, worse than the one he was on.

  “Dammit,” he said.

  Quinn looked over at him.

  “Sorry, honey. We’ll figure out a way around.”

  He braced his hands on the wheel and surveyed the damaged street in front of him. Any time the car wasn’t moving, they were in danger of being swarmed by the things.

  He’d learned that from experience.

  At the same time, there were only a few ways out of town, and if he wanted to get to Oklahoma—and to Meredith’s—he’d need to clear the road.

  Quinn eyed him nervously from the passenger’s seat.

  “I don’t want you to go out there, Daddy.”

  “I’m sorry, honey, but I don’t have a choice. The street is blocked and I need to clear it.”

  “Can’t we take another road?”

  “I don’t see any other way around. Don’t worry. I’ll be quick.” He pointed ahead of them to the television and the sign. “If I can move those few things, we can squeeze by on the sidewalk.”

  Quinn nodded.

  “Same drill as before. Keep the windows and doors locked. And take this.”

  He retrieved the pistol from his holster and placed it on her lap. She held it in her hands nervously. The sight of her holding the loaded weapon still didn’t sit well with him, but the prospect of her being defenseless was even worse.

  “What about you, Daddy?”

  “I’ll grab another gun from back,” he said. He noticed her face was still filled with doubt. “Don’t worry, I’ll be careful.”

  “You promise?”

  “I promise.”

  He managed a smile, hoping to assure her. But the truth was, he was worried. The streets were quiet. Too quiet. He left the keys in the ignition and exited the vehicle, then made his way around to the trunk.

  He lifted the hatch, perused the station wagon’s contents, and selected a pistol, a Glock 9mm.

  After he’d retrieved it, he shut the trunk and signaled for Quinn to lock the doors. The ensuing click gave him goose bumps.

  If he needed to get back inside, it would take a precious second for his daughter to unlock the doors, and that second could mean the difference between life and death.

  He just hoped he didn’t have to test the scenario.

  Dan tucked the pistol into his holster and walked to the front of the car. The flat-screen television was easy enough to remove. He wrapped his hands around the base, hefted it upwards and out of the vehicle’s path, and set it down on the sidewalk.

  The sign proved more difficult. The metal was rusted and worn, the pole long and unwieldy. After picking it up, Dan fought for balance; several times he almost dropped it.

  He finally managed to carry it onto the sidewalk. He set it on the ground and stepped back to the station wagon.

  Before he could get inside, a voice pierced the air.

  “Help!”

  Dan instinctively reached for his pistol and swiveled to find the source. Was someone still alive out here?

  He’d been expecting to encounter one of the creatures while out in the open, maybe even one of the agents. The last thing he’d expected was a survivor.

  The cry came again. It sounded like a young female.

  It took him a few seconds to pinpoint the person’s location. The call of distress was coming from a rooftop across the street. A girl with blonde hair was leaning over the edge, waving both arms in tandem. Her face was fraught with fear, and when she caught Dan’s attention, she burst into tears.

  “Please don’t leave!”

  “I won’t!” he called up to her.

  He found himself slipping into police mode; in seconds, he was running surveillance on the surrounding area, determining the path of least resistance to get to her. There were a few obstacles in his way, but there was no barricade to get to the building she was in; at least none that he could see.

  At the same time, there was a good chance that something might be waiting inside.

  His eyes darted back to the interior of the station wagon, where Quinn was waiting. She’d spotted the girl, too, and she waved her fath
er onward.

  The prospect of leaving his daughter alone made Dan sick to his stomach. At the same time, he knew he couldn’t abandon the other survivor. To do that would be to abandon his own humanity, and he wasn’t ready to do that.

  Not yet.

  “Don’t move an inch, Quinn! Keep the doors locked!”

  She nodded that she understood. Dan drew a breath and then headed across the street to the building.

  The building had once been a bank. The exterior was made of brown brick and cement; the roof was square and flat. A covered entrance led to a single door in front. To his surprise, the windows remained intact and the door was shut. It appeared the blonde girl had made the right move in coming inside.

  At the same time, he had no idea what might be lurking within.

  He made his way across the street, gun drawn, ready to fire at the slightest hint of trouble. The neighboring buildings—a funeral home and a sandwich shop—were dark and demolished, harboring a wealth of shadows. He peered through the broken windows, but could only make out the front half of their interiors.

  Where had everyone gone?

  Dan found it odd that in just one week, the town could transform from a place of life and color to a place of isolation and emptiness. It was as if the townsfolk had picked up and migrated, tearing the city down behind them.

  But somewhere, they had to be here. Even if they’d all been infected, the people of St. Matthews couldn’t have just disappeared.

  As he approached the door of the bank, he envisioned the things watching his every move, waiting for the chance to pounce. Since leaving the car, he’d felt like there was an invisible spotlight on him, and the feeling gave him chills.

  When he reached the bank’s entrance, he gave one final glance at the street behind him, then lowered his gun and yanked the handle. The door swung open soundlessly.

  He stepped inside.

  The world immediately grew a shade darker, and he raised his arms in front of him, training his pistol on the interior.