Hanging out the windows were several men in dirt-stained fatigues. They whooped into the air as the vehicle advanced, their eyes roving the littered highway.
At present they were about a half-mile away, but soon they’d be upon the station wagon that Dan had left parked in the desert. He grimaced and shook his head. Although he wasn’t certain who they were, it was clear that they were up to no good.
He’d seen their type before, but usually on the other end of a pair of handcuffs.
He looked over at the man next to him.
“Ken, I need you to go in back with the girls.”
The man took his instruction without argument, clambering into the back of the van. Dan inched backward, positioning himself behind the passenger’s seat, and kept his gun at chest level. If they were lucky, the men in fatigues would pass by without detecting them.
At the same time, he knew better than to expect it.
The roar of the engine grew louder, as did the cries. In another situation, the men might have been a group of friends on a road trip, a circle of comrades out for a night on the town.
Not now.
Dan watched them with growing dread. If they were to be discovered, they’d be outmatched. By the looks of it, there were four men in the vehicle, and not one of them appeared friendly.
He cast a quick look behind him. The others were huddled on the floor. The mini-van contained several windows, but all of them had curtains and shades, and all of them were covered. He noticed the sleeping bag and clothes on the floor, and he motioned toward them.
“Hide underneath,” he hissed to his companions.
The three people behind him scurried underneath the belongings. Even with the garments over them, they were hardly concealed—anyone who happened upon them would surely inspect the van further.
He turned his attention back out the front window. The SUV had stopped beside a pickup truck. The two men in back jumped out, jeering into the air. He saw that they carried assault rifles in their hands. Both had unkempt beards and baseball caps; one of them was wearing a stained white jacket rather than fatigues.
Although they didn’t appear to be agents, they carried both the armament and the clothing of those responsible for the infection. Apparently these men had overpowered some of the agents; by the looks of it, they’d taken their vehicle and their gear.
The two men approached the pickup and tore open the doors. A dead body spilled out from inside and onto the highway, collapsing in a pile of limbs. The man in the white jacket—the pseudo agent—fired at the corpse with his rifle, his laughter spilling into the air. The other man hopped into the driver’s seat and threw a handful of loose objects out the side, scattering coins, papers, and clothing across the pavement.
Apparently finding nothing of interest, the men moved on to the bed of the truck. They peered into the cab, dragging the tips of their rifles along the edge.
There were three vehicles in between the pickup and the minivan—a Jeep, a sedan, and a sports car. Before long, the men would reach the vehicle Dan and his companions were hiding in and they’d be exposed. He watched in silence, mind racing.
He had six bullets in the gun he was holding. In order to use it, he’d need to get a drop on the men outside. If he started a firefight from within the vehicle, Ken, Roberta, and Quinn were likely to get hit in the crossfire.
He couldn’t allow that to happen.
Outside, the two men on foot had moved on to the Jeep. The one in fatigues busted out the window with the end of his rifle and stared inside. The sound of glass shattering sent a ripple of fear through Dan’s body.
He had to take action. If he didn’t, he might not get another chance.
He climbed into the passenger’s seat, then he cracked the door and jumped out onto the interstate.
22
Meredith and John held hands as they traveled I-40. They were going the wrong way—eastbound in a westbound lane—but that was the least of their worries. Given the events they’d just lived through, they were lucky to be alive.
“How’re you feeling, John?”
He shrugged and looked down at his wounded leg.
“I think I ripped a stitch. I might need your help again.”
She smiled and squeezed his hand. Her fingers shook in his.
“No problem.”
“I think we can rule out finding any help at the border.”
“I just can’t believe it. None of it makes any sense. Why would they shoot at us? You did everything they asked.”
“They’re probably scared, Meredith, the same as us.”
The two rode in silence for several minutes. The wind gusted in through the shattered windshield, making it difficult to talk, and the open air made Meredith feel vulnerable and exposed.
Since leaving the border, the sun had crept above the distant plains, ushering in a brand new day. Meredith surveyed the road ahead, doing her best to lose herself in the landscape.
Along the edge of the highway she noticed several broken-down vehicles, doors hanging ajar, passengers missing. She wondered where the occupants had gone and whether they’d been infected. The roadside contained an endless maze of cornfields, and she could imagine the creatures roaming between the stalks in search of victims.
The image made her shudder.
“What should we do, John?” she asked.
“I think we should find a good place to lock down for a while.”
“That’s easier said than done. With the town in the state that it is, I can’t think of a single place that might be safe.”
“How about your house?”
Meredith paused. “You know, that might not be a bad idea. At least it’s in a secluded area. That way if someone approaches we’ll be able to see them.”
“You said there was no one there when you left, right?”
“No. Everything was normal until I got to Sheila’s house.”
“If something looks amiss, we can always leave. But I think we need time to regroup.”
Meredith agreed.
Having formulated a plan, the two fell into silence once again. The scent of the surrounding fields filtered into the vehicle—a combination of grass, hay, and dirt—and Meredith huffed in a breath, doing her best to focus on getting home.
A few miles later they approached the exit for Coventry, and she took the turn, glad to rejoin the flow of traffic. The off-ramp was deserted, but she could see lights in the distance; a subtle reminder of what was waiting for them. Hours earlier, both Coventry and Settler’s Creek had been brimming with creatures; she could only assume that things had gotten worse.
“You wouldn’t happen to know any shortcuts, would you?” John asked her.
Meredith furrowed her brow. When they’d crossed town before, they’d at least had the protection of the front windshield, as well as several rifles. Now they had nothing.
Getting through town would be even more dangerous.
“I know an alternate route, but it hasn’t been used in years.”
“What is it?”
“State Route 63. It used to be a shortcut connecting Coventry to Settler’s Creek, but I don’t even think it’s functional anymore. Last time I checked it was blocked off.”
“Well, I’d say it’s worth a try. The less of those things we see, the better.”
“Agreed.”
A few minutes down the road, prior to the town limits, Meredith swung the pickup onto a hidden road in between two patches of field grass. It’d been years since she’d taken the route, but her memory served her well; before long, the truck tires were bouncing over the rugged asphalt. She clenched the wheel with both hands, staring at the forsaken road in front of them.
Weeds sprang from every crack, and yellowed grass marked its bor
ders. It was as if nature had sensed a weakness and was intent on swallowing the pavement whole.
“You weren’t kidding about this road,” John mused.
“I told you it was a little rough around the edges.”
“Didn’t you say it was blocked off?”
“I thought so.”
As if in response, a gated barrier became visible in the distance. A minute later, Meredith tapped the brake and the pickup ground to a halt.
On either side of the road were cement blocks; between them was a large metal pole. On foot, the barrier would be no obstacle—they’d simply duck underneath. In a car they’d have to drive around.
“Time for a little off-roading,” Meredith said.
She yanked the steering wheel to the left and pulled into the overgrowth, field grass whipping at the vehicle’s exterior. Once they’d gained clearance, she started swerving toward the road.
She was so preoccupied that she didn’t notice the upcoming car until John warned her.
“Look out!” he yelled.
She mashed the brake, stopping just inches shy of a Camaro parked in the middle of the field. Her body jolted back and forth against the seatbelt.
“What the hell?”
Both John and Meredith stared out the broken windshield at the phantom vehicle. Because of its low height and the length of the weeds, she’d failed to notice it.
Although the vehicle was white, the paint job had faded. The exterior was chipped and cracked, and there was a dent on the bumper. The rear window was dark and tinted, and although Meredith did her best to see through it, she was unable to make out anything inside. The trunk was slightly ajar, and it shifted up and down with the gust of a distant breeze.
John shifted uncomfortably.
“We should back up and go around it, get the hell out of here.”
“I’m not sure I can do that, John.”
“What do you mean? Why not?”
“I know who this car belongs to.”
Meredith stared at the back of the Camaro for a solid minute before deciding to get out. Between the make, model, and the license plate, she’d instantly recognized the vehicle as belonging to one of the shop owners in Settler’s Creek.
The owner’s name was Mark Robins.
If Mark had somehow survived the infection, it would make sense that he would have driven outside of town for help. What didn’t make sense was why he’d chosen to stop here.
She studied the vehicle warily, expecting the man to emerge, but the car remained silent. Undeterred, she reached for the door handle, intending to seek the man out. If he was in trouble, she needed to help.
“Meredith, please stay here,” John said.
“I know the owner. This is Mark Robins’ car. I need to make sure he’s OK.”
Ignoring the warning of her companion, she lifted the handle and jumped out into the grass. From the other side of the vehicle, she heard John follow suit. His feet crunched through the grass, and he met her at the Camaro’s trunk.
She gave him a worried look.
“Mark? Are you in there?” she called.
She paused for a response, but heard only the wind whipping through the tall grass around her. From somewhere overhead, a bird emitted a single cry.
“Mark?”
She spun in a circle and scanned the fields around them, but saw no one approaching. She took a step toward the driver’s side of the Camaro. Although it was possible the man had wandered off into the grass, she had the instinctive feeling that he was inside.
John tailed close behind. She took another step.
When she got to the driver’s side window, her mouth hung open. Mark was hunched over the steering wheel, unmoving. It looked like he was dead. She cried out and reached for the door handle.
“Mark! Oh my God!”
John lunged to stop her, but before he had a chance, she’d whipped open the door. The man inside was lifeless, still.
And then, without warning, he wasn’t.
The man turned his head to face them, his cheek still pressed against the steering wheel. His eyes were red and glossy, his cheeks filled with veins. He opened his mouth to speak, and to Meredith’s surprise, a set of words escaped.
“Help me,” he muttered.
His voice was cracked, barely audible. At the sound of his words, Meredith dropped to her knees and leaned into the Camaro.
“Mark? What happened to you?” she whispered.
Tears slid from her eyes. She’d known Mark for years. As the sole proprietor of the town’s convenience store, she’d always known him to be boisterous and larger than life. Even in the hardest times, he was the first one to crack a joke, the first one to make the townsfolk smile. To see him in this condition—weak and in the throes of death—was more than she could handle.
The man attempted to respond, but his words were dull and muted. Meredith scoured his body for injuries. Other than his appearance, he seemed untouched.
“Stay back, Meredith. He’s infected.”
Although she heard John’s words, she was unable to heed them. She’d already seen too many of the townsfolk die—she couldn’t give up on Mark like all the others. Clearly he needed help. If she could just get him to a doctor, a hospital…
“Meredith!”
John tugged on her shoulder, pulling her away from the seemingly infected man. She covered her face with her hands and sobbed. Since speaking last, Mark had closed his eyes, and his head had slid down the steering wheel, sinking into his chest.
“I know how hard this is, but you have to step back.”
John reached out and took her in his embrace. She rocked silently with him for several seconds, finding comfort in his arms, and tried to pretend that she was anywhere but here. When she closed her eyes, the world was normal, and everyone she knew was safe.
Sheila, Ben and Marcy, Mark, Julie…
Her illusion shattered with a scream. When she opened her eyes, Mark had shifted in his seat and was staring at them again. This time he was awake and alert, and his eyes blazed with violence.
“Watch out!”
John threw Meredith behind him just as the man leapt from the Camaro. In less than a minute, Mark had been overtaken by infection, and he tackled John to the ground in a tangle of arms and legs.
Meredith screamed, but with little effect.
The friendly shop owner she’d known before was gone. In his place was a creature bent on their demise.
23
Dan’s pulse climbed as his feet hit the pavement. The men in fatigues were only two car-lengths away. The SUV had stopped in the desert, and the driver watched his comrades intently, blowing a whiff of smoke in the air from a cigarette in his hand. The man in the passenger’s seat stared in the other direction.
Dan was completely in the open, but he hadn’t been seen.
Once the men noticed him they’d open fire. Of that he was certain. In order to protect his daughter and their two companions, he needed to lead the attackers away from the minivan.
Adjacent to the vehicle was another car, and he scurried across the pavement toward it. While he was running, he heard the two men on foot smash the remaining windows of the Jeep. His heart buckled.
Focus, Dan, focus.
If he were to have any chance at overtaking the men, he’d have to keep his calm and rely on his police training. Several lives depended on it. He made it to the back of the car, crouched next to the trunk, and held his gun ready.
After waiting several seconds, he poked his head over the vehicle. The two men on foot had opened the doors of the Jeep and were rifling through the interior.
He needed to get farther away.
Behind him were several other vehicles. He scampered to the next one rig
ht as one of the men began to yell.
“Over there! I saw someone!”
“Now we’re talking!” one of the men screamed. “And I was just getting bored.”
Dan heard the patter of approaching feet, and he ducked behind the trunk, hunkering down as low as his body would allow.
“There he is!”
“I see him!”
A volley of bullets sprayed into the car behind him—a red station wagon—and Dan covered his head as the windshield shattered. When the noise stopped, he stood and fired a round at the two oncoming men. The bullet ricocheted off a nearby vehicle.
“He’s armed!” one of the men screamed.
The two men ducked out of sight, using the cover of a blue hatchback. The SUV was at a dead stop, and the men inside were poking their guns out the window.
“There’s only one of them!” the driver called.
That’s right, Dan thought. Come on.
He crept on all fours to the back of the red station wagon, then darted to the next vehicle, making his way farther from the mini-van. Shouts and footfalls echoed from behind him; the men were in hot pursuit.
If he were lucky, maybe they’d run out of ammunition. Then he’d have a better chance at taking them down. As if in response, a burst of gunfire followed in his wake. He kept low to the ground, his breath heaving.
He had five shots of his own. Not nearly enough. He’d have to shoot for accuracy, and given that his targets were moving, that could prove difficult.
At the same time, Dan had been the best shot on the force. Back when Sheriff Turner had been alive, he’d often commended Dan on his accuracy at the shooting range, and the other officers had admired his skill.
He thought of his fallen comrades and felt his body flood with anger.
Clearly the men pursuing him had survived the infection, but rather than being grateful, they’d chosen to do others harm. The thought made him sick, and he clenched his teeth.
Contamination Box Set [Books 0-7] Page 54
