Contamination Box Set [Books 0-7]

by Piperbrook, T. W.

  She wasn’t sure which was worse.

  The creatures increased their violent banging, as if they knew what was on the other side of the glass. Had they seen Hector or Simon? Sandy didn’t know. It certainly felt as if the creatures knew exactly where they were. She looked across the room at the door, trying to recreate the layout of the school in her mind, planning an escape route.

  A loud slap on the window made her jump. The others stiffened. Sandy peered up slowly, watching one of the creatures tap the glass. The fear in the room was a tangible, living being, hovering over them, waiting to strike. Sandy gripped her knife, waiting for the sound of shattering glass that would signal her to move, to fight, to run.

  All at once, hands slid off the glass and the noises subsided. The groans moved farther away. Sandy heard footsteps as the creatures changed direction.

  “They’re passing through,” Simon whispered, just loud enough that they could hear him. “I don’t think they saw us.”

  Sandy swallowed as the creatures moved farther down the building, testing more windows. She recalled the broken pane in the classroom that Simon had barricaded the night before, having the sudden fear that one of the creatures would find it, knock it open, and lead the others inside.

  They waited in the same position for what felt like forever, until Sandy’s legs were cramped and her hands lost circulation from holding the knife so tightly. And then the noises were far enough away that she could barely hear them, blending with the sounds of night insects and the subtle gusts of the wind.

  Simon sat up and blew a relieved breath.

  “Hector and I saw them coming a few minutes ago,” he explained, a little more loudly now that the creatures were gone. “We woke everyone up in case we needed to fight or run.”

  Sandy nodded. She got up slowly, peering over the couch. The grass and the parking lot were vacant. She scurried over to the windows, keeping a few feet away from the glass, as if they might explode inwards and admit the creatures. Her fear was that one of them was hovering quietly outside, waiting to signal the others. But she knew they weren’t that intelligent or coordinated. At least, not that she’d encountered so far. The night was quiet and still. Deep in the distance, she saw a few shapes stalking down the road.

  “They’re leaving,” she affirmed. “Do you want me to take a shift?”

  “You only slept an hour,” Hector said. “Why don’t you get some more rest?”

  Sandy started to argue, but Hector insisted. Marcia and Anabel settled back into the couch, relieved, but shaken. Sandy reclaimed her spot on the floor, wondering how she’d fall back to sleep with the adrenaline still coursing through her. She closed her eyes. After a long while of thinking and listening, she drifted.

  This time, she didn’t dream.

  17

  When Sandy opened her eyes, Simon was stationed at the window, shielding his face from the morning sun. Hector was searching the drawers and cabinets in the break room. Sandy felt a wave of guilt as she realized that neither had woken her up to take a shift.

  “You let me sleep,” she told them.

  “We figured you could use the rest.” Hector smiled and turned from sifting through one of the drawers. He held up a kitchen knife, tucking it into his waistband along with his other knife.

  Sandy blinked and sat up. Most of her nights lately were spent battling nightmares, or expecting to be stirred. She was surprised to find that she was more rested than usual. She glanced over to find Anabel quietly eating some crackers with her mother. Marcia sat behind her, untangling knots from her daughter’s hair.

  “How’d you sleep?” Sandy asked them.

  “Not great, but a little,” Marcia said, as she put the package of crackers back in one of the bags.

  Sandy turned to Hector, who was sliding one of the drawers shut. “Did you find anything else?”

  Hector shook his head. “No. An elementary school isn’t exactly a storehouse for weapons.” He smiled grimly. “We checked the rest of the rooms while you were sleeping. We were able to see a little better in the daylight.”

  Sandy stood and walked over to where Simon was standing at the windows. He pointed at several smudged, dirty handprints on the panes.

  “We got lucky last night,” he said.

  “Thank God they didn’t see us,” Sandy agreed.

  She looked out the window, imagining a plague of creatures storming up the road, intent on breaking into the school, but the road was empty. The mountains stood like distant sentinels, providing a comforting landmark. For a moment, she was almost able to pretend that they were a group of travelers on a trip, heading out to go camping. But she knew better.

  “I was thinking we could check the utility shed, like you suggested,” Simon said. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and find some oil for the truck, and something to patch it.”

  “Maybe it’ll have some tools,” Sandy added.

  “What if we don’t find anything?” Marcia asked from behind them. “Will we still be able to drive the truck?”

  “It’ll probably overheat quickly. We can take our chances, if we have to. Hopefully we can find another vehicle in the mountains before that happens. I don’t think traveling on foot is the smartest move. Especially after what we saw last night.”

  Sandy nodded. She looked at the others, then at the walls around them. After the visit from the creatures the night before, the school felt safer than going outside. For a moment, she considered the possibility of staying. But she knew that would only be a temporary solution. Looking at the worried faces of the others, she wondered if they were mulling over the same things.

  “Does everyone agree we should leave?” she asked, posing the question to the group.

  Hector looked at his family and nodded. “We understood the risks when we left. We need to find help. The supplies we have will only last so long.”

  “I agree,” Marcia added.

  “Are you feeling any better today, Hector?” Sandy asked.

  “Much,” Hector said, touching his forehead. Sandy noticed most of the blood had been cleaned off. At the same time, his eyes had the puffy appearance of someone who hadn’t slept.

  “You still look tired, though,” Sandy observed.

  “Why don’t Sandy and I check the utility shed, while you and your family rest a bit more?” Simon suggested. “We’ll make sure no creatures are in the area. Then we’ll come back and get you.”

  Hector opened and closed his mouth as if he were about to argue. Finally, he said, “Okay, but if you run into any trouble, please let us know. We’ll keep watch out the front window. If we see anything, we’ll alert you.”

  “Sounds good,” Simon said.

  18

  Sandy and Simon walked down the empty hall of the school and toward the back of the building. The sound of their footsteps reinforced the feeling that they were the only survivors left in the world. Sandy looked around at the walls. They were filled with drawings and projects made by the students. She admired paper plates turned into human faces, Styrofoam cups turned into insects, and superhero finger paintings with various colors. She prayed the children who made them were somehow alive and safe.

  That sentiment led to anger. The agents—the men in white coats—were callous and uncaring. She’d seen enough of their destruction to know that. In the time she’d been in St. Matthews, she’d watched children and adults infected, their bodies and minds warped by the contamination.

  The same thing could’ve happened to Anabel. It could happen to any of them.

  Sandy prayed that they were immune, as Dan had theorized. She followed Simon out the back door as they walked into the parking lot. The sun was warm and misleading, promising normalcy, as if today might be any other day, and she might be enjoying a coveted day off instead of fighting for survival. Sandy couldn’t envisi
on things ever returning to normal. Not now, and certainly not soon.

  They moved in the direction of the utility shed, which was located at the rear south corner of the schoolyard, a few hundred yards from the main building. Sandy swallowed the pit in her stomach as they passed the half-eaten man in the car. He’d fallen forward and hung over the steering wheel, as if he’d finally given up. Or maybe more scavengers had found him. Sandy shuddered.

  Simon’s shoulders heaved as he kept a brisk pace. His t-shirt was stained with blood and sweat. He kept silent, holding his gun, intent on his mission rather than making comfortable conversation. Sandy found herself more at ease with him after his confessions the previous night. Although she still had a degree of wariness, she trusted him as much as she trusted anyone else in this new world.

  Simon was helping them, and for now, that was enough.

  They kept to the parking lot’s edge, looking over their shoulders, keeping an eye on the desert. Unlike at night, they had a clear view of their surroundings.

  When they reached the utility shed, Simon located the key on the maintenance worker’s keychain. He unlocked the door, taking a stance as he pushed it open with his foot. Junked-out lawn mowers, weed whackers, and garden tools greeted them. He and Sandy stepped in.

  “It doesn’t look like anyone’s been in here in a while,” Simon observed as he looked at the neat, organized shelves on the walls. He pointed at two shovels hung on hooks. “We might be able to use those if we take them.”

  “For sure,” Sandy agreed as she looked around further, noticing a garden rake on the wall and a box cutter on a small table. None of the weapons were ideal, but they were better than fighting with bare hands, and a welcome addition to the knives they carried. They’d take them.

  “The true question now is whether we can find some tools and oil,” Simon said, pursing his lips and looking around.

  They perused the shelves and racks for something that might get the truck going, but didn’t find much. Bags of fertilizer, topsoil, and mulch were stacked in a corner. Simon knelt next to a cardboard box and rifled through it. Sandy watched him take out a dusty baseball glove. He stopped to examine it. An expression of sadness crossed his face as he turned it over in his hands.

  “Were you a baseball player?” Sandy asked.

  Simon slowly exhaled. “No. My sister played. Softball.”

  Simon blinked hard and set the glove on the ground.

  “I’m sorry,” Sandy said. “I know you were close.”

  “We were,” Simon agreed. “I used to go to all her games. Growing up, our parents worked a lot, and we always supported each other. In many ways, it felt like we raised each other.”

  “Are your parents still alive?” Sandy asked, realizing Simon had never elaborated on the rest of his family.

  “I haven’t spoken to them in years,” Simon said. “They live in Denver. But my sister was always there to support me.”

  For the second time since they’d left, she saw a crack in Simon’s exterior. He wiped his face, but didn’t say anything further.

  Speaking of Simon’s family hit Sandy with a memory of her own. She blew a breath. “Ben used to play baseball. We’ve talked about him several times, but I never told you that I killed him.”

  Simon looked up at her. His normally hard expression remained soft. “You don’t have to tell me anything,” he said.

  “I’m not sure why, but I want to.”

  Whether it was the nightmare of Ben flooding back to her, or the kinship of the moment, she wasn’t sure, but she started talking. Simon watched her while she spoke. He didn’t comment or interrupt. He didn’t judge. Sandy relayed the details about her parents’ car accident when she was twelve, then she spoke about Ben, and how he was the only one to push her along when all she wanted was to give up.

  “We didn’t have any close relatives. For a while, we lived with a distant aunt, but after a while, her sympathy ran out and we became a burden. As soon as we were old enough to live on our own, we moved out and got an apartment. Eventually we moved to St. Matthews. All Ben and I had was each other. When people in town started becoming infected, my first thought was to get back to him. I went back to our apartment complex, and that’s when I found him in the hallway, eating someone.”

  “He turned,” Simon surmised.

  “Yes.” Sandy swallowed the lump in her throat. “He was on top of Mrs. Lindblad, one of our neighbors. He’d already killed her. He was…chewing on her neck.”

  “What’d you do?”

  Sandy told how she’d been forced to kill him. Then she relayed how she’d been forced to flee. “I never got a chance to bury him. I wanted to, but those things were everywhere. I had to get out. Just like we had to do with Finn.”

  Sandy didn’t realize she was crying until the tears were streaming down her face and she could no longer speak. She turned to face the wall, unsure why she’d trusted this man over the others, especially after Simon’s questionable actions. But she’d already told her story. There was no taking it back. She blinked, surprised when Simon got to his feet and gave her a hug.

  The gesture was brief, but consoling.

  “I’m sorry about your brother,” he said, letting go.

  “I had a dream about him last night. Maybe that’s why I can’t get him out of my head.”

  “The dreams are the worst part,” Simon agreed. “When we wake up, we have to accept reality all over again.”

  They hung in silence for a moment, watching each other. Finally, Simon packed the baseball glove silently into the box, his eyes roaming to the wall. Sandy bit back memories of her own. Breaking free of her bad memories, she knelt down and searched through a box next to him. They found no oil, but they did locate a few tools for the truck.

  They were just gathering things together when a car engine sounded in the distance.

  Sandy looked around. For a moment, she was convinced she was hearing things, or that her memories were causing her to create noises. But Simon was swiveling, too.

  “Is someone coming?” he asked, sneaking back to the door. He peered out, his expression changing from reflection to fear. Panic surged through Sandy as he hissed, “A minivan. It’s coming toward the school.”

  19

  Reginald squinted through an arrangement of colors as warmth hit his face. The last few syllables of some forgotten warning were on his tongue. He closed his mouth and tried clearing his throat, but couldn’t muster any saliva.

  Where am I?

  Reginald blinked as he came to consciousness. His vision cleared, revealing a spider web of crooked lines along the Buick’s windshield. He tried to sit up, but his seatbelt held him in place. He didn’t even remember putting the seatbelt on. The feeling of being trapped overtook him, but his sore muscles forced him to slow down and think.

  His lap felt warm. Years of experience with similar feelings—side effects of drugs—made him wonder if he’d let his bladder loose. He looked down, but instead of dark urine, he saw Billy lying on top of him. Blood gushed from Billy’s head onto Reginald’s pants. Billy’s face was mashed and unrecognizable. Reginald dry-heaved and tried to get away from the dead man. Before he could, Billy latched onto him.

  “Get off of me!” Reginald yelled, flailing wildly.

  It took him a second to realize it wasn’t Billy grabbing him, but that it was his seatbelt. Reginald reached around Billy’s body, frantically hitting the clasp and undoing it. When he freed himself, he noticed someone else in his peripheral vision. Reginald turned around, locating Tom. The man’s head was bent over between his legs. He wasn’t moving, either.

  “Tom?” Reginald’s voice was raspy, unsure. The man didn’t answer him.

  I’m the only one who survived.

  A momentary sense of elation hit Reginald, tempered by the r
ealization that he might be injured and not know it. He checked himself for wounds, but found only a few scrapes. Looking in the twisted rearview mirror, he saw some shallow cuts on his face. The blood on his pants seemed to be Billy’s.

  Reginald had no idea where he was. The last thing he recalled was driving up the mountains on Route 191, trying to spot Dan before heading back to the lumberyard. Even that memory was blurry and distorted, as if he couldn’t trust it. Reginald reached for the door, peering out through the cracked windshield, noticing the thick, looming tree the car had wrapped around. Brush and foliage extended as far as Reginald could see. He’d reached the bottom of an incline.

  I’m somewhere in the mountains.

  Shifting out from underneath Billy, Reginald wriggled out of the vehicle and found purchase in the dirt and grass. His legs were shaky. He held the top of the door to keep upright, peering back in at his companions, but they remained in the same positions. A glint of metal on the floor reminded him of the gun he’d been carrying. Reginald reached in and grabbed it. Another gun was on the floor underneath Billy, wedged beneath the dead man’s leg. He didn’t see Tom’s weapon. Leaving the door open, Reginald made his way around the car, gritting his teeth at a few sparks of pain in his legs. He was sore, but nothing felt broken. It seemed like the few scratches and cuts were his only injuries.

  He reached the passenger’s side door and tugged on the handle, grunting as he reached inside and claimed Billy’s gun. As he got out, he gave a cursory glance at the totaled car, wrapped so tightly around the tree that he couldn’t imagine what it had looked like when it drove. He’d never get it working.

  He had no transportation. No food. All Reginald could think about was the lumberyard.

  He needed more meth.

  20

  Simon held the pistol in his hands as he peered through the crack in the door of the utility shed, fear melting the sympathy in his expression. Sandy joined him, looking out as the sound of the car engine got closer. From their vantage point, Sandy saw only the sliver of road past the school that a few inches of the open door allowed, and the distant form of the approaching vehicle. She knew better than to open the door all the way.