In the rearview, he saw that the creatures had gained ground; a few had managed to grip the trunk, their fingernails sliding across the metal. Dan accelerated and swerved around an abandoned vehicle, effectively throwing them off, and proceeded up the road.
The streets had come alive.
Creatures sprang from the windows, emerged through alleyways, and crashed through doors. It was as if the Buick had become a signal, emitting an invisible beacon to the world around it. The clutter on the road thickened, and without warning, Dan’s speed fell to a crawl.
The things poured from all sides now, converging on the vehicle. One of them flung itself into the open passenger’s side window, dangling halfway over the sill.
Dan hit the automatic window lever, lifting the pane on its midsection. The window gears ground as they strained against the weight of the creature.
“Dad!”
Hands pounded the Buick on all sides, and despite his efforts, Dan struggled to keep his focus on driving. In spite of that, he knew he couldn’t give up. The girls in the backseat were depending on him.
The creature in the window snapped its jaws, trying to reach Dan. Raising the window had only trapped it; now it was stuck between the window and the doorframe.
“Is there anything you can use back there to hit it?” he shouted.
The girls dug under the seats behind him. Dan reached for the pistol tucked in his pants, but the creature had begun to swat at him, as if sensing what he had in store.
“I’ve got something!” Sandy yelled.
Dan’s eyes flicked to the rearview; the girl had found a crowbar. He watched as she leaned over the seat and started clubbing the thing. The creature spit and flailed.
“I’m going to roll down the window! When I do, hit it as hard as you can!”
“OK!” the girl cried.
He jabbed the button, lowering the window, and watched as Sandy swung at the thing’s skull. The crowbar connected with its forehead, and it fell limp into the passenger’s seat, resting on top of the dead woman.
Dan swerved left and then right, shaking it loose, and it toppled backward and fell out into the street. He rolled up the window, just in time to avoid another pair of lunging hands.
The creatures in the street had thickened—there were now several hordes approaching from the front. So far Dan had been able to drive unimpeded, but the road was getting worse. Up ahead, a minivan and a dump truck barred the majority of the street, and the sidewalk wasn’t looking much better.
Despite his practiced driving skills, there was only so much Dan could do.
He withdrew his gun and set it on his lap. If he’d counted correctly, there were five bullets left. The rest of their weapons had been stolen with the station wagon.
He glared at the grim path ahead of them, looking for options.
The sidewalk was covered in restaurant furniture, trees, and newspaper boxes. Even if he were to veer onto it, they wouldn’t make it more than a few feet. At the same time, the road ahead was completely blocked off.
He had to do something. The creatures had them surrounded.
“Hang on!” he shouted.
Eyeing the two tear-stained faces in the backseat, Dan swerved off the road, heading straight for the nearest building.
10
Meredith bit back the tears. She clenched the phone in her hand, dialing John’s number over and over, but it was useless. There was no answer. After the fourth try she let the receiver drop and grabbed her rifle.
She needed to get to him. Fast.
She darted back out the door, feet pounding the grass, and jumped inside her pickup. The engine growled. She revved the gas and spun the tires, doing a U-turn on the field, then roared down the driveway.
When she reached the end, she barreled onto the main road without stopping.
She thought back to what she’d heard. There had been noises; of that she was certain. Someone or something had been in John’s store, or trying to break in. That alone had her panicked. But even more troubling was the single gunshot. That was enough to make her stomach feel queasy, hollow inside.
She just hoped to God he was all right.
In spite of John had done to her, she couldn’t deny what they’d once had. She’d repressed her feelings for months, trying to forget this man, but now that he was in danger her emotions had come back stronger than ever.
Before the phone disconnected, John had said that he loved her. And try as she might, Meredith couldn’t deny the fact that she loved him, too.
Meredith had first met John on a trip to town about a year ago.
She’d been driving to the market, intent on getting the week’s groceries, when she saw a sign on the side of the road that she’d never seen before.
“Furniture Shop.”
The sign was simple and plain, propped against a wooden barrel in the parking lot of a small log-cabin storefront. Formerly the building had been used to house one of the local farmer’s vegetables, but it hadn’t been occupied in years. For as long as she could remember, it’d been boarded up and closed down.
Driving by that day, she’d been surprised to find the building open, the doors ajar and the lights on inside. A blue pickup had been sitting in the gravel parking lot, a Michigan license plate on the back.
After driving several miles past the store, Meredith’s curiosity had gotten the better of her, and she’d driven back and pulled in. Then she’d cut the engine and stepped out into the parking lot.
Aside from her car and the blue pickup, the place had been deserted. She’d walked in with a furrowed brow, unsure of what she’d find inside.
True to the sign out front, the store had been filled with furniture: chairs, tables, dressers, and bureaus. Many were plain wood, unstained, and several were still in progress. It appeared all the furniture had been built by hand.
The shop was comprised of one large room, with several support beams in the center to solidify the structure. There was a door in back, but it was closed, and as far as she knew there were no other buildings behind it.
After perusing the contents of the shop for a few minutes with no sign of the owner, she’d forced a cough, hoping to announce her presence. It was then that she’d heard the noise coming from out back—a slow, rhythmic scraping coming from behind the shop.
Meredith had walked out of the store and made her way around back. The area around the furniture shop was covered in field grass, with no other buildings in sight. If it weren’t for the several stores that she knew were about a mile down the road, it would almost feel like the building had been transplanted from somewhere else, thrust into nature without forethought.
When she reached the back of the store, she saw a figure in the distance—a man bent over a piece of wood, his arms moving in a repeated pattern. As she walked closer, she could see that he was using a hand plane.
She was ten feet away before he noticed her. When he did, he jumped.
“Hi,” Meredith said sheepishly. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
The man set down the plane and smiled.
“That’s OK. I needed a break anyway.”
He rose to his feet to greet her, dusting his palms on his jeans.
Meredith noticed several things at the same time: he was a lot taller than her, he was in great shape, and he was handsome. Before she knew it she was blushing, and she took a few awkward steps forward to meet his hand.
“I’m Meredith Tilly.”
“John Parish,” he said.
With the introductions over with, she shoved her hands in her jeans pockets, hoping he wouldn’t see her shaking. Normally Meredith was outgoing and relaxed, but something about him had her off her game.
“I love the store. When did you open?”
“Today, actually.”
“Really?”
“Yep. You’re my first customer.” This time it was his turn to blush.
“Hopefully I’ll be the first of many.”
John s
miled.
“Where’d you move from?” she asked, recalling the Michigan license plate.
“Detroit.”
“That’s a long ways from Settler’s Creek, Oklahoma. How’d you end up here?”
John shrugged.
“This place isn’t exactly a commercial hotbed,” she said.
She immediately clasped her hand over her mouth.
“I’m sorry. That might have come out wrong. I guess I’m just surprised that you’d choose our little town.”
John laughed. “I know. I just wanted a change of pace. This is actually a lifelong dream of mine, believe it or not. I’ve been building kitchens and wall units for years, but I’ve always wanted to run my own furniture shop. I passed through here on a road trip a while back and I fell in love.”
“I’m sure you’ll do great here.” She smiled.
“Thanks. My plan is to manufacture most of my furniture here and then sell it at local shows and conventions.”
“I assume everything here is handmade?” she asked.
“Yep. And if you don’t see something here that you’d like, I’d be happy to build it for you.”
“I might take you up on that. I’m actually in the market for a new kitchen table and chairs.”
Meredith flashed a smile. In truth, she didn’t need a kitchen set, because she rarely had visitors. The furniture she had was in decent enough shape, and besides, she didn’t have the extra money to be spending on something like that.
After a few more minutes of small talk, she’d shaken his hand and parted ways with the shop owner.
A week later she’d gone back and placed an order.
Things with John had heated up quickly. Before Meredith knew it, she’d been at his shop almost every day with a new question about her kitchen set. He’d always done his best to answer her, offering suggestions about the wood and the stains, explaining the process as he built it.
After discussing her order, they would go on to talk about a host of other things: news about town, Meredith’s farm, or books and movies they’d enjoyed. Like her, John was an avid reader, and they soon discovered that they liked many of the same novels.
John also told her about life in Detroit. He’d said that he’d lived there his whole life, but he’d always hated the city. When he was twenty-two, he’d taken a bicycle across the country by himself, taking in the sights and sounds of all the states he’d never seen. And though he’d appreciated the coasts, he’d always had a soft spot for the Midwest.
Meredith had told him all about her childhood on the farm—how she’d inherited it from her parents when they passed away, how she’d been working there ever since. She’d always wanted to travel, she’d said, but she hadn’t had the chance.
“Maybe we could travel together someday,” John had said.
The two had laughed at the thought. A few moments later they’d kissed.
They’d been inseparable after that. When she wasn’t running the farm, Meredith would visit John at the furniture shop, and when he wasn’t building furniture, John was helping Meredith in the fields.
Despite their budding relationship, there’d been no talk of anything further. Each remained in their respective homes, living in tandem, enjoying the time they were spending together.
The people in town had been happy for them. Meredith’s friends had only kind words to say about John, and she’d found herself happier than she’d been in a while.
Until six months ago when everything changed.
Meredith had been visiting John at the furniture shop when it happened. Per her usual routine, she’d brought him a late breakfast of fresh-cooked eggs and toast. She’d always enjoyed seeing him in the late morning—Meredith was an early riser. After taking care of her harvesting before sunrise, by eleven o’clock she was ready for a break. And though the meals she brought John were often cold, he’d never complained.
On that day, John had been working on a custom rocking chair for Mrs. Ashby, one of the elder residents of the town. Upon seeing Meredith, he’d stopped what he was doing and joined her in the shop, happily devouring his breakfast.
They’d been talking about a movie when someone walked in behind them. Meredith had been facing the back wall; John had been facing the entrance. Although Meredith hadn’t seen the woman at first, she’d seen the expression change on John’s face.
His mouth had hung open and he’d dropped his plate on the floor.
“Hello, Eve,” he’d said.
Meredith had swiveled in her chair, suddenly facing a woman with straight, dark hair and pursed lips. The woman was wearing a stylish black blouse, a gray skirt, and carried a designer purse. She didn’t look like anyone Meredith recognized.
“Who’s this?” Meredith had asked.
Both John and the woman had stared at her. After a few seconds, John had answered, his face beet red.
“This is my wife.”
11
After storming out of the furniture shop, Meredith had jumped into her pickup and peeled out of the parking lot. Tears had been streaming down her face; a pit had taken root in her stomach.
John had lied to her. In the months she’d known him, he’d never mentioned having a wife. Even when he talked about Detroit, he’d never alluded to the fact that he was married, or even that he’d been dating.
It was as if he’d carefully omitted that detail, hoping that Meredith would never find out. The thought had made her sick. What else had he lied about? Was John even his real name?
Regardless of who John was or what else he’d lied about, Meredith had vowed one thing: she’d never talk to John Parish again.
Over the next few weeks John had called her repeatedly, even stopping by her house several times. Each time she’d refused to speak with him.
Eventually he’d left a letter in the mailbox.
According to the letter John had been separated from his wife for over a year, and until recently, he’d had no idea where she was or what she was doing. He said he’d wanted to tell Meredith, but was afraid of how she’d react.
Meredith didn’t know what to believe. Even if the letter was true, John had destroyed her trust, and to her, trust was everything. He should’ve told her the truth from the beginning. He shouldn’t have lied.
Weeks passed, and after a while, John stopped trying to contact her. Even still, Meredith had gone out of her way to avoid the furniture shop, taking a detour of several miles so as not to see him when she went into town.
Despite her anger, she’d never mentioned anything to her friends or neighbors. She’d always believed in privacy, and her love life was her business. Besides, Meredith was ashamed. She’d been lied to and deceived, and she was deeply hurt and embarrassed.
As the months wore on, Meredith began to move forward. She resumed her normal route to town, and though she tried not to look over, she still saw John’s blue truck in the gravel lot. Occasionally she’d even catch a glimpse of him through the open front doors, arranging his wares or working on his latest piece of furniture.
But she’d never stopped. Not even once.
Now, as she drove down the rural road, she realized all that was about to change. The world was a different place, and John was in trouble.
No matter what he had done to her, he needed help. And that took precedence over anything that might’ve happened between them.
Meredith sank the gas pedal to the floor, propelling her pickup faster than she’d driven in years. Fields whipped past her, and the road hummed beneath her tires. If she didn’t reach John soon, she might not make it in time to help him.
She might be too late already.
Back at the Sheila’s house, she’d gotten a taste of what she was up against, but that was nothing compared to what she assumed was out there. It’d been difficult enough fighting for her life against Ben and Marcy; she couldn’t imagine it getting any worse.
The furniture shop was only a few miles away. Before she knew it, she’d rounded the last c
urve that stood between her and the building. She could see the building on the horizon, now—a square, wooden structure that dotted the landscape. From here, everything looked just as she remembered it. She could even decipher the outline of John’s blue pickup in front of the store.
Please God let him be all right.
She repeated the words in her head, her stomach turned upside down with nerves.
When she got closer, her heart began to hammer. There was movement outside the building. Too much movement. She squinted her eyes and lowered the visor, hoping what she was seeing wasn’t real. At the same time, she knew that it was.
The furniture shop was surrounded by a mob of people.
About thirty people—infected people—crowded the walls, banging and kicking to get inside. Hands and limbs flailed, bodies toppled over one another. Above it all, a chorus of moans and hisses wafted into the air, sending needles of fear through Meredith’s body.
She weaved to a stop in front of the building, leaving a thirty-foot buffer zone between the vehicle and the horde, and fumbled for the rifle. When she had it in her hands, she reached for the door handle. Then she stopped short.
What was she planning to do? With that many of the infected, her weapon was as good as useless. She only had a few rounds left, at best—certainly not enough to combat all of them.
She leaned her head out the window and screamed.
“John! Are you in there? Yell back so I can hear you!”
She paused, giving him a chance to respond. The noise from the infected increased in volume, and several of them turned to face her. She saw several feet starting to trudge toward her, and she transitioned her foot from the brake to the gas.
“John!”
There was still no sign of the man, and no response.
A handful of the creatures were running in her direction now, and she stomped the gas, kicking up gravel behind her. The truck rolled across the loose stone; the infected grew closer.
Contamination (Book 4): Escape Page 6
