Behold Darkness (Wolves of the Apocalypse Book 1)

by LC Champlin

  At the van’s rear, Albin climbed in, then raised a brow at his employer, who hesitated. “It’s not a significant departure from the personnel carrier, Mr. Serebus.”

  Steel glinted inside the cage. Seating ran along either side, with powder-coated mesh over the windows. If the cannibals or terrorists attacked, the cell would act as a shark cage. If the vehicle wrecked, however . . . Trapped.

  “Get in!” Rodriguez reached for his arm, but he twisted out of range and ducked into the box.

  Heart thudding against his ribs, electric tingles arcing along his nerves, he clicked the four-point harness around himself with numb fingers. One, two, three, four. He tried to swallow, almost choked instead. Only total-body tension and laser focus on a divot in the mesh stopped him from flinching as Rodriguez slammed the doors. Thankfully the overhead light remained on.

  The vehicle jerked into motion.

  Josephine snorted. “They certainly know how to evacuate people in style.”

  One, two, three, four. Hold. One, two, three, four. Exhale. Damnit, he needed to get a grip on this fear of small, locked prison environments. During a terrorist attack. And earthquake. And cannibalism epidemic.

  “The fire department is nearby, I take it, not in LA or Portland?” he asked after a full thirty seconds of combat breathing.

  “We should be there in ten,” one of the new government employees supplied.

  Only ten minutes. Focus on something else. The new passengers would do. The route-calculator fellow first: Caucasian, brown hair, late twenties. White, pressed dress shirt; forty pounds overweight; clean shaven. A desk jockey who hadn’t seen combat tonight. He smiled at Nathan. “Hi. I’m Cory.”

  On his right sat the FEMA woman who’d accompanied them in the MRAP. Her partner, the Asian, occupied the bench opposite her.

  Beside him slouched a blonde female, mid-twenties. She hunched in her FEMA windbreaker, her blank stare on the non-slip steel floor. Was she shivering, or were the vehicle’s vibrations giving the appearance of chills?

  “Are you feeling all right?” Nathan asked her.

  Cough, slight nod in reply. Pale skin, which may come from the lights . . . No, Albin looked his usual Brit-pale.

  “Are you sure?” The hair on the back of Nathan’s neck prickled.

  Sniff. Nod.

  By now, the other passengers were also eyeing her. Hopefully the worst they needed to worry about was getting a cold.

  “Are you a member of the DHS?” Albin asked of the pudgy DHS fellow.

  “If you want to be general about it. I’m more of an adviser—”

  A fit of coughing from the woman across from him interrupted. She wiped her mouth. Dark liquid stained her hand.

  Ever the Good Samaritan, Cory the DHS Adviser shoved farther back on the bench. “I think you should get checked out when we get to the fire department, Emme. You might have caught something from that guy you helped. I told you to let the medics do it.”

  She looked like she wanted to reply, but she could only manage a rattling breath. Twitch. Her shoulders spasmed, then her hands. She jerked backward hard enough to bounce her head off the steel grating.

  Chapter 40

  Locked and Loaded

  Living Dead Girl – Rob Zombie

  “Stop the van!” Nathan roared at the driver through the Plexiglas.

  Cory banged a fist on the mesh. “Stop! We got a problem!”

  The FEMA agent next to the seizure victim made a vague attempt to put a hand on her shoulder, but devoted the rest of his efforts to putting as much distance between himself and her as possible without actually leaving his seat.

  Albin held the VTAC in front of himself like a shield, while Josephine filmed. Rodriguez’s hand rested on her Taser as she leaned out against the harness for a clearer view of the situation.

  The van slowed. Thud! G forces locked harnesses as the vehicle swerved, fishtailing right. The tires screeched as the back end whipped the opposite direction, the driver overcorrecting. What had he fucking said! Oh shit, not—

  “Rolling,” he managed through clenched teeth, chin tucked, hands locked on harness straps.

  The wheels on his side left the ground and he hung from the harness. Heaven and earth merged for a stomach-numbing moment. Yelling muffled the crunch of metal and glass. Roll bars supported the ceiling as momentum carried the vehicle over. Slam!

  Breathe, couldn’t breathe! Finally his lungs responded after having their residual volume knocked out.

  “Oh God, what’s wrong with her? What the fuck!”

  Splat.

  Down the row, Cory shielded his face from the sick FEMA agent above him. Black liquid dripped from her mouth, formed a puddle just above his head. Pale, blistered hands reached for his throat, but the harness held her at bay.

  Shit. Shitshit! Wrecked. Trapped. A damned fucking cannibal locked in with them. Bile burned in Nathan’s throat. His heart bashed itself against his ribs like a maddened bird.

  Harness straps slackened as he hit the release. He scrambled to a crouch.

  “What the hell happened!” Above him hung Rodriguez.

  Albin, out of his harness, rolled to one knee.

  “Look out!” Josephine landed beside him.

  Door. Locked. Damn locked!

  Thud. Less graceful, but free nonetheless, Rodriguez pulled her Taser.

  “Somebody do something!”

  “Get her away!”

  The cries and curses faded to snow as the cold settled in Nathan’s nervous system. Hunter instincts awoke with golden eyes in the back of his mind.

  “Tase her,” he ordered Rodriguez.

  “I don’t take orders from you.”

  Beside the cannibal-infected woman hung the stunned male FEMA agent. Ducking under Rodriguez’s line of fire, Nathan hit the agent’s harness release. Thunk. A half catch beat none at all, right?

  As the man dropped, the cannibal jerked an arm toward him but missed.

  Albin had already freed the other female FEMA agent and moved on to the squalling Cory. “Now, officer!” the blond urged.

  “Gah! What the hell, man!” Cory scrambled across the floor—wall?—away from the oil and flailing agent.

  The Taser hissed. Prongs embedded themselves in the cannibal’s thigh. More spasms with the crackle of electricity, but when the charge ceased, she resumed struggling as if it only tickled.

  Sssssaaaaahhhh!

  Josephine grabbed the FEMA agents and dragged them backward. “Everybody get against the door!”

  “The Taser isn’t stopping it,” Nathan snarled to Rodriguez, “but it might buy enough time for them to get us out.”

  Right hand holding the Taser, left keying her shoulder mic, Rodriguez relayed their situation to any units in the vicinity.

  Another Taser jolt paralyzed the cannibal for the charge’s duration. At least the harness held. While a head shot from the MP-5 would eliminate the immediate threat, a bullet glancing off bone in the metal box could do more damage than the restrained oil-mouth. The splatter didn’t offer a pleasant picture either.

  Click! Slam! Bottom door open.

  “Thank God!”

  “Finally!”

  “Everybody out, but be careful.” Nathan spared a glance over his shoulder at the clot of passengers.

  Albin took charge of herding them out while his employer guarded the rear with Rodriguez.

  Sssssaaaaahhhh!

  “Go, Ms. Behrmann,” Albin snapped, relieving her of the phone as he shoved her down and through the exit. He followed her.

  Get out. Drop, roll.

  Merciful fresh air washed over Nathan as he escaped the cage. On his feet, he helped Rodriguez scramble from the van. Then he and Albin heaved the door closed.

  No sign of what they hit. Behind Nathan, a battered sheriff’s deputy radioed for assistance. Their driver, evidently. The man’s right hand fingered his side arm.

  Now what? The
van’s dome light glowed through the metal grates to turn the assembled jaundiced. Reinforcements would arrive in moments, if for no other reason than the vehicles passed here to reach the fire department.

  Rodriguez. Bloody hell, their fate depended on her.

  Chapter 41

  Panic

  Something’s Gotta Give – All Time Low

  Sirens. ETA thirty seconds, max.

  “Officer Rodriguez, we have two options: kill that thing, or let some poor medic lose his throat. I’ve seen that enough today.”

  “Are you deaf, Hotshot?” Rodriguez returned, MP-5 half raised toward the van. “I said I don’t take orders from you.” She hunched her shoulders in an attempt to look more intimidating.

  Their driver released his radio and turned toward the PTV. Not good. When the deputy saw the “victim” in the vehicle’s bay, he’d demand everyone stay put until backup arrived to figure out what the fuck happened.

  “Albin.” A nod toward the officer initiated the blond’s mission to delay the deputy’s investigation of the van.

  “Are we in danger?” Josephine asked, suddenly two feet from Nathan.

  “Only from terrorists, earthquakes—”

  “Of being infected, I mean.”

  Infection. He licked his lips, mouth dry. “Officer Rodriguez, if your bosses look at that . . . woman”—glance at the van—“and think the cannibal state is transmissible by contact with the victim, even your agency affiliation won’t save you from quarantine.”

  She glared at him, then at the PTV, shifting her stance in indecision.

  He turned on his heel and strode toward Albin and the deputy. Coming abreast of his friend, Nathan interrupted: “What happened? Why did we roll?”

  Red, white, and blue strobed through the night. Those colors never meant independence when they flashed from a vehicle. Three cruisers rolled up to wall off the scene from the avenue.

  “That’s our transport, correct?” Nathan demanded of the deputy, who stopped mid explanation.

  Josephine growled in frustration. “This is going to take forever.”

  “Officer Rodriguez may—”

  “Oh my God, oh my God!” Josephine’s panicked cry cut off Albin. She began hyperventilating, fist balled over her heart. “This is crazy. What’s going on? I can’t breathe! My chest—We’re gonna die here!”

  Nathan and Albin stared at the hysterical woman. A panic attack from the newshound? Surely not. Unless . . . the infection! No, the symptoms differed.

  Never let a crisis go to waste. “Josephine, what’s the matter? Focus!” he yelled, grabbing her by the shoulders.

  “Officers!” Albin waved for attention. “She requires assistance.” He trotted off to drag over the nearest unfortunate uniform.

  Meanwhile: “I can’t do this anymore!” Josephine struggled to free herself. “I can’t! That woman just turned into a monster.”

  “Easy now, ma’am.” The officer Albin had commandeered put his hands up in a calming fashion. “We’re here to help.”

  “You can’t help!”

  Nathan barely managed to retain his grip on her wrists as she fought. Wait, her struggles used more movement than strength.

  “What’s the problem?” Rodriguez to the rescue. She halted at Nathan’s left, MP-5 ready.

  “She’s having a panic attack,” Albin hazarded, a safe four yards from Josephine’s meltdown.

  Rodriguez rounded on the deputy. “What’s the holdup, Officer Warren? Get this woman and her friends out of here.”

  The local law enforcement hesitated for a moment.

  “Are you helping or not?” Nathan snapped.

  Federal government authority won out: he waved for them to follow. “Let’s go.”

  “Come on.” Josephine between them, Nathan and Albin guided her toward the vehicles.

  The deputy opened the nearest cruiser’s rear door and motioned them in as they trudged up. Another locked, confined space. Sweat trickled down the side of Nathan’s nose. Five minutes to the station. He could do five minutes.

  Warren put a hand on the back of Nathan’s head as he ducked in. Nathan’s hand shot backward to grab the cop’s wrist. Arms wrapped around Nathan’s neck and chest, dragged him into the car. Panting, blinking, he struggled to right himself. What just happened?

  “The fuck!” The cop reached for his Taser.

  “I’m sorry!” Nathan held up his hands, chest heaving. “You surprised me. I didn’t mean—”

  “He has PTSD,” Josephine supplied.

  “He is also claustrophobic, Officer.” His hand still on Nathan’s shoulder, Albin dug his thumb into the pressure point on his prisoner’s right trap.

  With a growl, Warren stepped back. “Watch yourself, buddy.”

  Slam. The seatbelt slid into place automatically.

  “What did you just do?” Josephine whispered, regarding him in confusion and disbelief.

  “I’m not claustrophobic.” Leg bouncing, Nathan pressed himself against the door, the exit. “I just don’t enjoy confinement.”

  “Mm.” The reporter pursed her lips and nodded. “That sounds like claustrophobia.”

  “No.” Suffocation, pain, restraints. He rubbed his throat with his thumb. Then he inhaled as deeply as he could to push the memories into the dark. His knuckles whitened around his shoulder strap as the cruiser lurched into motion. The sirens seemed to come from the shadows that paced the edges of his vision.

  “We will arrive in a few minutes, Mr. Serebus,” Albin reassured.

  Nathan forced his eyes to slide left, where the blond watched him with infuriating concern. Enough foolishness. Let go. Fingers obeyed after two heartbeats.

  “I’m aware, Albin. Thank you.” Voice calm.

  Then he gave Josephine a smile. “I’m glad Ms. Behrmann is feeling herself again.” If she ever tired of the news gig, she could transition to acting.

  She beamed. “Welcome to the express lane.”

  Chapter 42

  No Rest for the Wicked

  Throne – Bring Me to the Horizon

  A ladder truck flashed past, sirens howling, lights strobing. The cruiser slowed, banked into a parking lot bright with floods.

  Rodriguez’s door slammed. Click. Nathan’s door unlocked. Rodriguez had the good sense to stand clear as he rode the door out. Air, thick with exhaust but free, filled his lungs.

  Ahead yawned the fire-engine garage, cold in fluorescents. The station used a backup generator. Firefighter crews hurried about their duties inside while emergency vehicles rolled in and out of the lot.

  Rodriguez motioned for them to follow as she marched toward the garage. Nathan lengthened his stride to come abreast of her. No following like sheep.

  “Now what?” Josephine asked, flanking Rodriguez.

  Glare. “Now you be quiet for thirty seconds while I get you squared away.”

  The reporter opened her mouth to argue, but Albin verbally body checked her: “Very good, Officer Rodriguez.”

  The DHS officer handed them off to a young paramedic with a buzz cut and a CrossFitter build. He gave the group a reassuring nod. “We’ll find you guys a place in the bunk room with the others.”

  Rodriguez turned to Nathan. “Don’t fuck this up, Serebus.” Then she stalked back to the patrol car.

  “Be safe, Officer Rodriguez,” he called.

  “This way.” The medic headed toward the garage.

  “Tell me, what’s the situation here?” In full Reporter Mode, Josephine butted between Albin and the paramedic.

  “We’re managing.” He led them through the bustle of emergency personnel and into the station proper. Inside, concrete gave way to a tan hallway. “It’s a mass-casualty event, but that doesn’t change how we run our calls.”

  Nathan supplanted Josephine as interrogator: “Any news from New York?”

  “New York?” The medic glanced over his shoulder, confused.

  �
�More attacks?”

  “I haven’t heard.”

  They started up a flight of stairs in silence, leaving Nathan to his thoughts.

  With communications down and the ERTs occupied with their own firestorm, news from three thousand miles away would have to wait. He couldn’t help Janine and Davie anyway, as much as that rankled. His kingdom for a phone call, to hear Davie’s wolverine growl and Janine’s laugh . . . His kingdom to feel her skin under his fingers, making his heart pound. Or to see his son riding the bear of a Caucasian shepherd. At least he had Albin at his side.

  “This is the bunk area.” The paramedic opened a door marked Dorm. Five bunks ran along either wall of the long, dim room. Curtains separated them, and night-lights glowed beside some. “There are a few other people here. They’re also under law-enforcement protection. The bathrooms are to the right. If you need anything—”

  “We won’t, don’t worry.” Nathan patted him on the shoulder.

  Albin and Josephine voiced their gratitude as Nathan padded into the dorm to stake bunk claims. At the far end, passing headlights flashed through the bank of windows. Ah, two adjacent cots near the windows.

  Albin, now alongside, needed no encouragement to drop his gear on one of the beds.

  Nathan took a moment to visit the restroom to wash the gunpowder residue and remaining blood from his face. The visage in the mirror stared back with dark-rimmed eyes devoid of emotion. “I’m just tired,” he murmured. Slicking back his hair, he turned from the vision and headed to his bunk.

  “Mr. Serebus.” Josephine appeared at Nathan’s elbow. “I—”

  “Good night, Ms. Behrmann,” he cut her off, voice low. He rubbed his temples. “I’m sorry; it’s been a very long night. We’ll talk in the morning.”

  “Of course. Get some rest.” She gave a sympathetic smile that he could’ve done without, and patted him on the shoulder. Her hand slid down toward his heart as she turned away.

  He raised a brow. A little early for familiarity, and six years late for flirting, but everyone handled stress differently. He snorted in dismissal.