Behold Darkness (Wolves of the Apocalypse Book 1)

by LC Champlin

  Figures moved at the front of the ambulance in the flashing lights and single functional headlamp.

  Albin tapped a finger on the B-embossed stick, foot still on the brake. “It is not optimal, but—”

  “The paramedics can help her. They can radio for another rig, too.”

  “Precisely.”

  Mr. Serebus reached for the door handle, then stopped, at the end of his self-imposed leash.

  “Allow me, sir. Remain with your concern,” Albin ordered before his employer could demand they reverse positions.

  “Fine. Two minutes. If they won’t help in two minutes, we go to Union.”

  Chapter 18

  Rescue the Rescuers

  I Am a Rock – Simon and Garfunkel

  Albin swung the Bentley onto the brick sidewalk opposite the collision and stepped out, the 1911’s weight at his side a talisman against the dark. His torch cut a swath through the murk as he circled to the front of the scene.

  A paramedic crouched beside a prone body, the sedan’s remaining headlamp silhouetting them. Another first-responder checked the condition of the car’s occupants on the passenger side.

  Despite the situation’s urgency, Albin hesitated. It seemed like a puzzle where a piece fit but not exactly. The torch’s beam scanned the surrounding buildings, cars, trees. There, three figures staggered along behind One Bush Plaza’s wall.

  The nape of his neck crawled with the sensation of surveillance. Spinning, he slashed the light over the wall on the opposite side of Market Street. Four faces ducked behind the concrete blocks. Only looters or other filth would act so under these circumstances.

  Never let the enemy flank your position. How many times had Grandfather repeated the maxim?

  Then the earth rumbled, forcing him to his hands and knees. Concrete fell from façades, windows cracked, and car alarms blared. Why did California claim so many abnormal occurrences? The ground didn’t attempt to throw one off its back in England or New England.

  The tremor ceased, but Albin waited another ten seconds before standing.

  Keep your head. Yes, the looters and cannibals. The medics should know the danger nearby. “Watch out—” The words died as the first medic’s patient reared, grabbed the man’s neck, and heaved upward to sink teeth into the victim’s throat. “Gaaaah!” The medic’s cry ended with a gurgle.

  Crimson flowed over white, blistered skin. The .45’s sights hovered over the scene now. Images of the things tearing into the terrorists’ throats and bringing them down like lions on gazelle flickered at the edges of Albin’s mind. His grip on the Springfield tightened, the crosshatching rough on his skin, banishing the memories.

  “Kevin!” The medic at the sedan leapt toward his colleague, only to stop short as the monster dropped its prey and turned rust eyes on him. Kevin spasmed on the ground.

  The front sight snapped into focus, targeting the cannibal’s skull. As Albin squeezed the trigger, the killer lunged at its prey. The weapon’s thunder resounded through the street. The bullet caught its target in the thigh and threw the attacker off balance, halting its advance.

  For a moment the target remained prone. Then with a sssssaaaahhh it struggled to right itself.

  Sssssaaaahhhhh. More hisses emanated from behind the ambulance, above the whir of the truck’s generators. More cannibals, just as he’d always hoped to encounter in the middle of a war-zone city at night, alone, with only a handgun and limited ammunition.

  He advanced, knees bent, center of gravity low, weapon covering the scene. Another report issued from the .45. The cannibal collapsed as the lead punched through its skull to liquefy brain tissue.

  “What the—What the fuck!” The remaining medic staggered backward toward the car, mouth open and eyes bulging.

  This little adventure had cost two rounds thus far. The expense begged services be provided. Albin skirted the growing pool of blood, halting before the terrified medic. “It is a shame about your friend, but you can still be of use. Your radio.” He gestured to the young man’s harness-mounted radio and mic.

  “Wha—Why?” The poor fellow probably ranked as a rookie who’d seen only two or three real trauma runs.

  Ssssssaaaaahhhh.

  “Now.” Albin pinned him with a glacier-ice glare. “Remember your training. Control yourself. I need you to stabilize a gunshot victim and call for a second unit.”

  “I-I—Kevin—”

  “Is dead.”

  “What was that thing!”

  Albin caught the medic by the radio strap across his chest. “Do it.”

  “I don’t do zombies, man!” The coward tried to back up farther, forgetting the car behind him.

  Enough waiting. Albin pulled the radio strap up over the medic’s head and unclipped it from his belt loop before the fellow could resist. An EMS radio connected its operator to the dispatcher, who could advise of closed roads, danger points, and safe zones.

  Time constrained Albin to leave the scene in the hands of the rookie. After ducking into the harness, Albin trotted around the sedan. The driver, a female, sat shell-shocked or perhaps deceased. He needed to pass the ambulance rear to reach the Bentley. Speed and stealth should carry him past the cannibals.

  The rig rocked under its occupants’ machinations. Another step left brought the interior into view. Ah, not good. Two monsters rode a struggling medic, while another crouched atop a patient on the Stryker stretcher. A fourth gnawed the throat of a first responder. Blood sloshed on the floor, streamed out the back and onto the asphalt.

  Saliva turned to sand in Albin’s mouth, nearly choked him as he tried to swallow. Sweaty palms forced him to adjust his grip on the 1911.

  Four. Four monsters thrashed inside the ambulance while two .45 rounds remained in the Springfield. The 9 mm and extra magazine occupied the Bentley’s center console, the home of many a firearm in time of need.

  If Albin ran, the motion might attract the cannibals’ attention. In the ambulance, two green cylinders sat in a rack against the driver’s side. Oxygen tanks. Albin smiled, mirthless. He backed up, opening range on the ambulance and its invaders. The .45’s sight locked over the nearest cylinder.

  Ssssssaaaaahhh.

  On the left? Albin turned—

  Two gunshots rang, blending to roar like a single, prolonged report. Then a third cracked. Ten meters away, a figure collapsed onto the pavement.

  “Time’s up,” Mr. Serebus announced as he emerged from between two parked cars, his pistol covering the site of the corpse.

  “Everyone’s.” Albin’s attention flicked back to the ambulance. “Get down, sir.” A steady trigger squeeze and the weapon kicked against his grip.

  Of course he couldn’t drop before the bullet impacted, but he made the attempt. As he ducked behind a parked car, magnesium-white sparks erupted in an explosion that triggered a second blast. Shrapnel sprayed through the ambulance and out the rear.

  Fire licked the interior, then climbed up the ruined cannibals. Their prey wouldn’t have survived, even if the Springfield had contained a full magazine and Albin had picked off the attackers. Carotid arteries and jugular veins made for quick deaths when jaws severed them.

  Albin turned and sprinted toward the Bentley.

  Chapter 19

  Z-Word

  Never Back Down – Nine Lashes

  Nathan whipped the Bentley door open and slid inside. The engine fired to life. His shoulders flexed as he gripped the wheel in blood-sticky hands. Control again.

  Albin buckled in beside him and glanced into the backseat. “Your charge is stabilized, I see.” Whether this rated as good or bad news, he gave no clue.

  “—go to the Union Square Red Cross safe zone for medical help—” The reporter relayed official orders.

  “Extra tourniquet.” He backed into the street and headed southwest down Market.

  Albin reached for the EMS radio mic. “Shall I radio for another unit, sir? It’s doubtful
their response time will be less than thirty minutes.”

  “Since there aren’t any medics to help, I’m not wasting time waiting.”

  Dark streetlamps and deserted vehicles flashed past. Images of the cannibal he’d stopped flickered with them, his mind superimposing them on reality. “I shot that thing twice in the chest with .45s. I might have hit it with two Airsoft BBs for all the good they did.”

  “Only head shots seem to be effective.”

  “SAS tactics. Your grandpa would be right at home. Equally effective for stopping humans and zombies.” Zombies? Silence fell, thick with denial, heavy with rational explanations. No. Speculation about the cannibals—cannibals, not zombies—could come later, along with the nightmares.

  “Zombies?” Albin went corpse pale.

  “I’m not calling them that,” Nathan covered, “even though they can shrug off gunshots that should turn their chest cavities into Jell-O salad.”

  “—to extinguish a fire resulting from a gas-main rupture—”

  “Chemical enhancement is the most logical explanation.”

  The Bentley slowed at the intersection of Third and Market. A rolling stop sufficed at the dead stop lights. Right on Kearny Street. He toed the accelerator, watched the RPMs jump.

  “Sombies?” from the Kate. Danish or delirium slurred the word.

  “Never mind. We’re almost at Union.

  “Gudskelov!”

  “You’re welcome,” Nathan muttered. Thank someone, but not God.

  He took advantage of a sidewalk to skirt a car-versus-truck pile. Geary Street passed on the left, bright and crowded with traffic. Ahead, small groups of people trotted along the sidewalks and wove through the street’s mess. Some headed for Post Street, others for Geary. They moved with purpose verging on panic. No doubt they were headed for Union.

  “—leave red zones and proceed to safe zones. Do not return to hotels. Otherwise stay indoors—”

  Safe zones supposedly existed for people who couldn’t reach home, or who occupied hotels. Improvised refugee camps, in truth. They conjured images of those in hellhole Middle-Eastern and Third World countries that the UN blue helmets erected after genocides: row upon row of stark white tents. In other camps, refugees made do with cardboard shanties in the middle of wastelands. The scenes blended with those from WWII concentration camps, both Nazi and American.

  “The safe zones . . .” Albin hesitated, doubt in his tone. The introvert considered humanity a bother when it did anything other than submit to his rules, stimulate his intellect, or leave him the hell alone.

  “For Kate’s sake.” Nathan navigated around a motorcycle that lay on its side like a downed horse. “I also have to tell the police about St. Regis, and they should be made aware of Hotel Vitale.”

  “—terrorism can’t be ruled out, but authorities are urging people not to jump to conclusions—”

  “If they only knew,” Nathan muttered.

  “And after? Government management of crises is never as effective as the disaster plans claim. Training events and simulations end in confusion. Real-world examples instill one with even less faith in the authorities’ competence.”

  “Incompetence is by far the greatest killer in any disaster, I agree, but we need to test the waters.” Nathan’s grip on the wheel tightened as he glanced instinctively at the AK to Albin’s left. “If that fails, we find high ground that a chopper can land on, and get the first flight out.”

  “Let us hope the waters are warm, then, and not boiling.”

  Post Street slid past, as congested and impassable as Geary.

  The newswoman on the radio continued her commentary on the city’s wounds: “Authorities are urging people to stay off the streets—” What a field day for the media. They were probably racking up the highest ratings since 9/11.

  There, the green Sutter Street sign. Nathan banked the Flying Spur left. Headlights behind and tail lights ahead, but traffic thinned compared to Geary and Post.

  Red, white, and blue strobed ahead at the intersection of Stockton and Sutter. His pulse edged higher. Police. That meant EMS or at least someone with the authority to order a pickup.

  Albin shrugged out of his Armani jacket and draped it over the rifle in the foot well.

  Neon vests and reflective tape glowed in the headlights. The officers occupied the middle of the intersection and waved traffic sticks. Patrol cars with lights blazing squatted at the corners.

  The darkness and canyon walls above closed in as the Bentley neared the intersection. Nathan’s gaze cycled among the mirrors and windows. Damn, how was the street getting even narrower? Pedestrians everywhere. He tapped the heel of his left hand on the wheel, beat a tattoo of frustration.

  Finally they neared the four-way. The driver’s window slid down. Nathan leaned out into the noise and exhaust. “You! Officer!”

  The nearest patrolman, halfway out of his cruiser, started toward them. Still ten yards off, he held his Maglite at the driver’s window. “Can I help you, sir?”

  Nathan raised a hand to shield his eyes. “My passenger in the backseat needs an ambulance, now. She’s been shot.”

  The officer squinted at him. “I understand your concern, sir, but all available units are engaged. You’ll have to proceed to the safe zone area. There are emergency medical personnel to help you there.”

  Nathan gripped the wheel as if he could choke sense into the uniform by proxy. “Aren’t you supposed to be helping us? She’ll die if she doesn’t get an ambulance. Now.”

  “There’s nothing I can do, sir. If she’s that unstable, only EMS can help.”

  “Give me a clear path, then.” Damn idiot! “It’s what you direct traffic for.”

  “That’s not my call.”

  “Then get your supervisor to make it.”

  “Sir, just proceed with the other—”

  The window slid up as Nathan turned left on Stockton.

  “We’re on our own, as usual. All these brainless”—and fucking dicksucker—“idiots do is”—fuck—“foul things up!” No profanity around Albin; he deserved respect no matter the situation.

  “Incompetence,” the adviser agreed as he turned to assess Kate. “Perhaps to a fatal degree.”

  More cruiser lights ahead. Damn it all to Hell. Even a patrol car couldn’t get through this traffic. If Kate fucking died in his backseat because these dumbasses were dicking around, he’d personally make the so-called public servants eat their badges . . . through their tracheas.

  Too slow. Too slow. Too fucking slow! Albin grabbed for the slingshot handle as the Bentley swung left down Campton Place. Cars lined the route, but by a miracle no crashes blocked it.

  “Sir, what are you—”

  Chapter 20

  Protect and Serve

  Keep Me Breathing – Ashes Remain

  “I’m line jumping.”

  Nathan threw the vehicle in park, leapt out, and yanked the backseat door open. He tore off a strip of duct tape and taped down the shoulder mic’s PTT button. Next he draped his towel over his shoulders. No need for everyone to gawk at his armor.

  The driver’s window lowered an inch. “Radio silence?” Albin asked from the driver’s seat.

  “Partially.” Nathan hefted Kate and settled her in his arms. “I’ll resume two-way comms when I’m clear.”

  “I will rendezvous with you after I secure the vehicle, sir.”

  Nathan kicked the door shut. Starting back down Stockton with his burden, he called, “Be careful.”

  “You also, Mr. Serebus.”

  Nathan’s gut churned in dread as he neared Union Square. His heart hammered in his ears. Down Post Street, to the right, stood the Heart of San Francisco statue. People were swarming over it like maggots on a corpse. Mobile spotlights poured cold light over the area. Police wearing neon vests and carrying AR-15s tried to maintain order.

  Too many people in one area created chaos. Too many terrifie
d, confused, angry people in one area created a situation as volatile as any “red zone.”

  Ambulance, ambulance—there! Red and white blazed a beacon ahead on Geary’s side, in the bus loading area. Nathan shouldered his way through the crowd, barking warnings as he plowed ahead.

  Finally! He rounded the truck’s rear and almost collided with a medic. “She’s been shot, left thigh. Take her.”

  “How long ago?” the young medic asked as he accepted the victim.

  Nathan’s knees went weak with relief. It felt like he’d held up a collapsing mine shaft for a week. How long ago? A fucking lifetime. “Forty minutes, maybe an hour.”

  Another medic arrived to help maneuver Kate onto a stretcher. She grimaced, then opened her eyes a fraction. “Nasan?” His bloody hand print on her cheek contrasted with her pallor. The Red Hand stole meat from the wolves.

  “You’re safe now. God bedring.” Get well. “Be strong.” He clasped her hand in both of his.

  “Mm.” She smiled, then winced. “Thanks, min skat.”

  My treasure. Nathan’s throat tightened. How many times had his mother called him her treasure? He blinked to dispel the childhood memories. They blended, blurred, became a sweet pain lancing through his heart.

  “We’ll take care of her,” the first medic assured him, motioning him back.

  “You’d better.” But if the wolves took her now, they did so outside his sphere of responsibility. He could breathe again, could focus on the main objective: getting the hell out of San Francisco. His colleagues from the tech summit would be evacuating as well.

  Turning to leave, he came face to face with a cop. A cop with an AR-15 across his chest and a look of suspicion. Excellent. No need to hunt down law enforcement.

  Nathan pulled the towel farther over his plate-carrier’s holster. “Officer . . .” The man’s tag read Cpl. Bob Carp. “Officer Carp, I have to report a terrorist attack at—”