Contain, page 1
CONTENTS
CONTAIN
BUNKER 12 Series, Book 1
Excerpt
THE FLENSE
Companion series to BUNKER 12
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Copyright Notice
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Tanpepper Tidings Newsletter
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Contain (Bunker 12, Book 1)
by Saul Tanpepper
Copyright © 2015 by Saul Tanpepper
All rights reserved.
May 4, 2015 by Brinestone Press, San Martin, CA 95046
Cover credit K.J. Howe Copyright © 2015
Photo licensed from Depositphoto.com
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
LICENSE NOTES
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
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Tanpepper, Saul (2015-05-04). Contain (Bunker 12, Book 1)
Brinestone Press Digital Edition (rv150423)
For more information about this and other titles by this author:
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CONTAIN
a BUNKER 12 novel
by Saul Tanpepper
© 2015
All rights reserved (full notice)
authorsaultanpepper@gmail.com
(rv.150423)
wraith /rāTH/ (n)
1. a ghost or ghostlike image of someone, especially one seen shortly before or after death.
2. an individual infected with, or carrying, the Flense.
flense /flens/
(v) to slice or strip away the skin and fat from a carcass.
(n) a highly contagious disease, spread by touch, capable of stripping away an individual's life essence.
The scream builds in my chest, threatens to erupt out of me.
Harper, run! Get the hell out of there!
And my mind does that thing where the scene warps: the background shrinks away while the terrified looks on my brother's and sister's faces zoom in. They fill my vision, my mind, permeating me with such horror that I'm unable to move.
Harper, please, run. Leah, run.
The words never make it past my throat. My jaw clamps shut. I don't dare make a sound. To do so would be suicide.
Someone behind me whimpers— one of the children with us on the bus. There's movement, and the vehicle rocks the tiniest bit. The shocks let out a soft, rubbery squeak, and someone hisses in distress. Too loud. It’s all much too loud.
The whimper comes again, is abruptly stifled.
Don't make a sound.
Don't draw any attention.
Don't let them know we're alive.
Dad edges closer to me. I'm aware of the smell of sweat on his skin, the musty tang of three days without benefit of a shower or air conditioning or change of clothing. He slowly slips his hand onto my shoulder so I won't be startled. He whispers into my ear to be still and urges me not to look.
“You don't want to see this,” he whispers.
But I have to. I have to know the manner of their death, even though it’s always the same.
I pray they die quickly.
I also watch because I'm transfixed by those things, the way they move, like smoke. Like phantoms, but with physical form, silent deliverers of death.
They emerge from the trees, slither down the mountainside, drift along the curves of the road as they draw near, drawn by the flames spouting from the van blocking our path.
My plea changes: Don't run, guys. Please don't run.
It’ll only be worse if they do.
Some of the creatures are still on two legs, but most are on all fours. Hunting. Pack hunting. Getting ready to circle Harper and Leah, stalking them like prey. Moving to block their escape, blocking any path to us and safety.
Harper guides Leah behind his back as they slowly edge their way toward us. His eyes are locked onto the closest ones directly in front of them, some forty-odd feet away now. Trying to judge what their next move might be. He doesn't see the ones closing in on either side.
The bus engine keeps chugging, a low rhythmic thing, like the growl of a half-rabid dog, waiting . . . waiting. Steady now steady now steady . . . steady . . . steady.
The creatures act as if they don't know we're here.
The stink of burning flesh pinches my nose. Their hands sear and blister on the sun-baked pavement. Why don't they feel it? How can they not cry out with pain, or when the broken glass from the shattered windshields slices open their palms?
Because they're gone, Finn, the ghost of my father's voice whispers in my head. Words uttered just seventy-two hours before, words I'd refused to believe until the scene before us resurrects them. Whatever made them human is gone, stripped away by whatever disease now courses through their veins. They're nothing but empty shells now.
Filled with a sickness that seeks only to spread itself. And when challenged, to utterly destroy.
A single touch, that's all it takes. Skin to skin contact. So easy to execute, seemingly so simple to prevent, yet almost impossible to avoid.
I have seen it happen now a dozen times. And each time it's the same: You can see the life leaching out of the victim, whatever force made them human. You can see them become like the ghouls that made them.
Soul-suckers.
That's what one man called them, back at the evac center.
I’ve watched how, within minutes of being touched, their faces go slack. The light leaves their eyes, turns them black. Their skin loses pigment, assumes a pearly white hue. Then gray. They remain cognizant for several more minutes. Then the insanity of what is happening to them sets in. Finally, they're completely gone.
Soul-stealers. Soul-eaters.
Soul-destroyers.
We've been calling them Wraiths. It’s as apt a name as any, even if it’s not very accurate. They're not dead, not ghosts. They still have corporeal form; their bodies are still intact. They can be killed. Not easily, but still possible.
As long as you can avoid being touched.
Harper and Leah are less than twenty feet away now, still slowly edging toward us. More Wraiths are emerging out of the woods, but they're not attacking. Not yet. They're circling. Drawn to my brother and sister as if their absence of infection is a scent on their skin. Hunting them.
But there are too many, and we're too far away to help them. And now I begin to hear a whisper from the people behind me, fear that the Wraiths will overwhelm the bus once they've finished outside. Then they'll figure out we're in here, and when they realize they can't get in to steal our souls—
Then they'll stop being ghosts and start being Death.
I've seen this terrible side of them, as well. A hundred times. A thousand. Fleeing through town I saw them ravage those victims who fought back or ran. The blood isn't the worst part. Or the sound of flesh being torn from bone. Or the smell of them eating.
It's the howls. The howls steal into your mind, settle in, take root.
“Go!” someone hisses behind us, ordering the driver. “Knock the van out of the way. Get us the hell out of here!”
The engine revs. The tires begin to move, crunching over the broken glass.
No! I want to shout. My father holds me tighter. I wrestle with him.
But it's already too late. I can see that. Harper and Leah are surrounded. The Wraiths are twelve feet away from them now. Ten. Eight.
Don't run. Please don't run.
It's my last prayer.
But Harper is a hero. he's always the hero, right to the very end. He turns around to face the ones behind them. He presses his back against Leah's and raises the tire iron in his hand. He swings it and roars.
And the change comes over the Wraiths. They swarm. Their movements are a blur.
A fine red mist begins to lift into the air, and, finally, I cannot hold back my scream as it explodes from my throat.
I lurch upright and gasp for air. My skin's covered in sweat, but the wetness on my cheeks is from tears.
Dad stirs on his bedroll, just a few feet away. “Finn?” he asks.
I turn away, embarrassed, and don't answer. Eighteen-year-olds aren't supposed to cry in front of their fathers, not in this world. Not in any world.
I reach for my threadbare jeans and tee shirt in the darkness, blindly patting the floor next to me until I find them. Blinded more by the vision still fresh in my head, than by the inadequate band of light slipping in under the door. The clothes are well worn and dingy. The shirt, an evacuation center stock white tee, is a size too small and strains at the seams as I pull it on. Used to be too big, but I've grown. The jeans are donations. I'm lucky to have them.
“Nightmare?” he asks. His words are drunk with sleep. “Same one?”
“I'm going out.” I don't bother with shoes or socks. I only wear them when I absolutely have to.
“It's . . . .” He squints at the clock on the wall. “It's not even four o'clock, Finn. Go back to sleep.”
“Food needs to be inventoried. I'll get an early start.”
He grunts and settles back onto his mat and murmurs something about it being too warm. He doesn't force me to talk to him about my problems, for which I am currently grateful, though there are times when I wish he would put forth a little more effort, make it seem like he's interested in my life. In me. Sometimes, he makes me feel more like of a nuisance than a son.
I head down the empty hallway to the stairs. I need to be alone to clear my head, and the mindless task of inventorying helps. Plus, there's the solitude.
There are those who find the isolation here hard to bear. Bix, for example. He thrives on social interaction. For me, solitude has always been an elusive thing, constantly sought, fragile when captured, easily lost. In the crowded world that existed before the Flense, I was lucky to get it whenever I could. Back then, I was the kind of kid who functioned better on my own, away from others. I craved isolation. I needed it.
Now the world is a much emptier place, yet solitude seems even harder to find.
It's not that I'm antisocial. It's just that before coming here I found dealing with people difficult. The connections inside of my head weren't made properly. That's what people said. Whatever. Now I have little choice in the matter.
Of course, I take meals with others, sit with Bix and Bren whenever I can. Bix'd be offended if I didn't, though he's like the Energizer Bunny sometimes and keeps going. It can get obnoxious at times, so I find myself zoning him out a lot. He does make me laugh, though. I give him that. Laughter's a rare thing to hear in this world.
Then there's Bren. I'd be lying if I said I didn't treasure the few moments each day I get to spend with her.
As I pass her door, I hear her father's voice on the other side of it, so I know he's up. I wonder if he pulled the overnight duty watching the security monitors. I don't bother knocking.
Meals are pretty much the extent of my routine social interactions these days. There are the usual hellos in the hallway, of course, which are unavoidable. I try not to be rude. Must be a functioning member of this community, even if that community consists only of some thirty-odd individuals. The last people left alive on the planet, infected or otherwise, at least if some people are to be believed.
I'm not sure I do. There are nine other bunkers like this one. There have to be other survivors in them.
As for my nightly interrogation by Dad, well, that could never be misconstrued for social interaction. He rarely ever asks how I'm doing, rarely asks anything personal about me. I think he's afraid I might actually answer him.
Medication used to help me cope with my fear of crowds, but it's been years since I've been able to take anything. That's one of the many things they forgot to stock in this place, before they sealed the doors shut behind us, a good pharmacy. That and decent food, as Bix is constantly reminding us. “I miss my peanut butter and amotta.”
“What’s amotta?” one of the Rollins twins obliges.
“I don’t know,” Bix responds, not skipping a beat. “What’s amotta with you?”
He also misses his entertainment.
“People'd be a heckuva lot more pleasant if we just had something fun to do. Just give me a decent video library, that’s all I ask. And something modest to watch them on. An eighty-inch hi-def screen.”
“Video library?” Bren teases. “You mean porn.”
“Hey, I gots my needs. They must be satisfied.”
“Satisfied how?” she challenges. Then almost immediately regrets doing so. “Ewww! Gross! Don't answer that!”
He doesn't deny what she's implying. “Can I help it if I'm a hot-blooded teen-aged Lothario with a lot of pent up—?”
“Hormones?”
“I was going to say frustration.”
“Just as bad,” she quips.
“Lothario my ass!” I snort. “You're a horny perv.”
“With a bad haircut,” Bren adds, piling on.
“Guilty as charged.”
“And a terrible complexion,” she continues, and they both laugh.
It makes me uncomfortable that she can joke around with my best friend like that.
“That's cold, dude,” he tells her, when he sobers up. He turns to me. “You gonna let your girl diss your homie like that?”
I roll my eyes.
“Anyway, it's not my fault. It's the constant darkness in here. Zits flourish in artificial light.”
“Then why don't we all have zits?” Bren challenges.
“Because you and the Finn-meister are freaks of nature.”
It's true— the part about us being acne-free, I mean. Mine cleared up sometime after I turned sixteen. And Bren has never had a pimple as long as I've known her.
“Must be another side effect of your, ahem, frustration release,” I say.
Bren nearly spits out her condensed milk.
Usually, by this point, Bix'll leave the conversation in mock disgust or change the subject. Or he'll threaten to deny us access to the only music in this place, which is his father's guitar. Unless you count his singing in the shower.
Yeah, we've got a guitar. Go figure. But practically no meds except for the emergency ones Doc Cavanaugh has in the supplied med kit downstairs on Level Five. The organizers really could've done a much better job planning for our needs. No antibiotics or videos. No internet or computers. No peanut butter or takeout pizza.
All the things we took for granted before the outbreak.
Before the Flense.
Just food with a fifty-year shelf-life, water, and power. Plus the gift of each others' company and all the time in the world.
And that's why I value my solitude.
I descend to Level Six, exit the stairwell, and slip silently over the metal grating. Levels Five through Seven share a three-story open bay, so noises have a tendency to carry between floors in a way that has always made me feel exposed, like I'm never alone.
I punch in the code on the keypad for the food storage room and the locking mechanism clicks as it releases, granting me access. The clipboard hangs just inside. Counting cans and bags and boxes is mind-numbing work, but it quiets my thoughts, which keeps the bad memories at bay. And the terrifying images they invariably resurrect.
I'm only a few minutes into the count when a bead of sweat drips from my forehead and splatters onto the paper. The pencil lead smears when I wipe it away. A second bead tickles my cheek, pulling me out of my zone.
It troubles me that I'm warm. It's supposed to be cool down here, to help keep the stores from going bad. My first thought is that I'm running a slight fever. So, of course, my natural inclination is to deny it.
Doc says we're to report any illnesses immediately, not that there have been any. We've all been lucky, being as healthy as we have been. Early on, we all agreed that anyone who starts to show any symptoms of illness, no matter how minor, is supposed to place themselves into quarantine, away from anyone else, just in case it's the Flense.
But at this point, after three years of total isolation and absolutely no contact with the outside world, how could it be possible to contract the deadly disease?
I push the thought away. I'm just tired. Or anxious. I wipe away another line of sweat on my neck and resume the inventorying.
Canned soups and vegetables. Canned meats and stews and soups. Dehydrated meats. Nuts. Dried berries. Tasteless protein bars. All stacked neatly from one end of the room to the next.
I tick each item off on my list. As they should, the numbers exactly mirror what they were last week, since Hannah hasn't been down to request that I transfer anything up into the working larder on Level One.
