Contamination Prequel (Post-Apocalyptic Zombie Series) (11 page)

On the horizon, he saw what looked like a tractor-trailer barreling down the interstate. The setting sun glinted off its hood, capturing the last glimmers of daylight in its grill. Overhead, a lone hawk circled, probably already watching its unsuspecting prey.

The truck looked like it was slowing down. Sam used the top of his sleeve to wipe another bead of perspiration from his forehead, unknowingly smearing a line of dirt in a half-circle. He went inside.

He heard the driver pumping the brakes, and then the truck tires crunched to a halt. Through the screen windows of the store, he saw the words ‘All-American Beef’ emblazoned on the side. The driver’s window was rolled all the way up, and Sam was unable to see through the tinted glass.

A sudden fear coursed through his body, making him shiver slightly.

“What the hell?” he muttered to himself. “It’s gotta be like ninety-eight degrees out.”

Sam had grown accustomed to talking to himself. It felt good to keep a monologue going, especially when no one else was there to judge or listen. In this case, however, the one-sided conversation was an attempt to calm his nerves.

What was he afraid of? Trucks came through White Mist all day long, filling up on diesel gasoline, taking a break from the open road.

But this one seemed different.

Outside, the hawk swooped lazily. It had either lost sight of its target, or it was still toying with it. The truck sat in silence. There was no sign of movement from the driver.

Sam glanced over at the floor, to the box of noodles. For some reason, he felt like he should continue to unpack it—to act as natural as possible. But that would leave him unprepared. For what, he wasn’t sure.

Beneath the cash register, strapped underneath the shelf, he kept a loaded rifle. It had been there so long, he imagined it was covered with a layer of dust—hell, he wasn’t even sure it worked anymore. He mentally traced the steps from where he stood to the cash register.

Six or seven steps. That’s what he would need to reach the counter. Sam stood at six foot one inches and weighed 180 lbs. He had long strides.

“This is ridiculous.” He forced a smile. “I am being ridiculous.”

As if in response, the truck door swung open with a groan, and a short man with a baseball cap hopped out into the parking lot. Sam jumped slightly.

“Whew!” the trucker yelled to no one in particular. “It is damn hot out today!”

Sam breathed a sigh of relief. He considered going out to greet the customer. Instead, he stuck to the noodles.

The trucker bounded through the door with a flurry of conversation. Sam imagined the man had been talking the entire trip, with or without an audience.

“Howdy, sir! I need me a drink. It’s hot as blazes out there!”

“Welcome to White Mist!” Sam welcomed him. “The cooler is to the left. Before you ask, yes—I am the population of one.”

“I kinda figured that!” the guy chuckled. “But I’m sure you get that question all the time.”

“You wouldn’t believe it!” Sam pretended to groan. But he liked the casual banter, the harmless jokes. It helped him take his mind off other, more serious things.

The trucker brought his purchase to the register and paid in cash. Sam counted back the change and shut the drawer, watching him leave the store. His rifle remained untouched on its perch below the counter.

He returned to stocking the shelf, lining up the noodles next to each other. He must be getting jittery in his old age. Or maybe the isolation was starting to manifest itself as anxiety. Either way, he was looking forward to closing up shop in just a few hours and heading to his trailer home next door.

There, he knew, a small brown package awaited him. Earlier in the day, he had received a UPS parcel delivery. Unlike his usual scheduled shipments, this one did not pertain to the store. In his spare time, Sam had taken to building and collecting model cars.

The newest kit was a green 1929 Ford Model “A” Roadster. Comprised of metal and plastic, the kit was made up of 267 pieces. He enjoyed the precision required to complete the kits: gluing, painting, securing wheels to axles. Sam allowed himself this one outlet at the end of the day. His last project had taken him several months to complete. He smiled at the thought of starting another one.

He didn’t hear his next customer come through the door until the screen creaked on its hinges and slammed shut.

“Welcome to White Mist,” Sam called out. He smiled, and then decided to add: “The best thing west of Roswell!”

He was greeted by silence. A dark figure had emerged from behind the shelf. The visitor seemed to have floated across the room.

The man had a pale, lifeless expression. His mouth was clamped shut, and his face looked as if it had aged unnaturally, sucking his dark facial hair into the folds of his cheeks. A scar ran sideways across his throat. The skin around it appeared jagged and flaky, as if it had been picked at during the healing process.

His black eyes seemed to pierce through the storeowner.

The figure was not amused.