by LC Champlin
Reaching his bunk, he flopped onto his back with a sigh.
The curtain rustled. One eye opened. Ah, Albin, sans glasses.
“A moment, sir. Sit up, please,” he ordered in a quiet but firm tone, motioning for Nathan to get off the first comfort he’d felt in days. Fine, hours, but it felt like days.
“What are you talking about?” Nathan grunted, shoving into a sitting position. It required more effort than he expected.
“Remove the vest.” Icy eyes narrowed. If you wanted to keep your face on your skull, you didn’t cross him when he channeled the angry snow leopard.
“If it makes you happy.” Velcro growled as Nathan undid the straps. Up and—Damn it! Pain lanced across his chest and back, seared along his ribcage. Teeth gritted, he maneuvered it half off before Albin lifted it the rest of the way and laid it aside. Fighting a terrorist, getting shot in the chest, rolling in a van—now dropping adrenaline levels opened the gates for their pain.
“Happy?” He started to lie back down, but Albin shook his head.
“Arms up.”
“Albin, what are you on about?” Dimly Nathan realized he’d raised his arms. “I just—Hey!” Suddenly shirtless, he stared in shock at his friend, who’d just executed the shirt disarm trick, the one Nathan and Janine used on Davie, for Pete’s sake.
“Damage assessment,” Albin hissed, staving off his employer’s reprisal. The flashlight whipped from his pocket and clicked on, full in Nathan’s face. “Stand up.”
Shielding his eyes, Nathan glared back. “This really isn’t necessary. I’m fine. Give me my shirt.” Albin jerked it out of range, making Nathan’s grab fall short. More pain seared across shoulders and back. “Ah,” he winced.
“You’re making your case quite well thus far. We should have done this earlier.” The light remained in Nathan’s eyes, transforming Albin into a faceless force. “If you expire of internal injuries, I refuse to face Janine and explain why I did not even attempt to assess your condition.”
Leave it to Albin to think proactively. When under extreme duress, the body concealed damage. “You have a point, as usual,” Nathan grunted through clenched teeth as he pushed to his feet. Where did the endorphins run off to? He still needed them, damn it.
“Ah.” Bruise-ache pain blossomed in his chest as Albin prodded the margins of the reddish-purple area. Pain tolerance declined with exhaustion.
“Hold still. You were shot in the chest; be grateful you are alive to feel pain.” Albin shifted the P2X light to his teeth, held Nathan’s shoulder with one hand to brace himself while pressing on costal cartilage and sternum. Albin removed the light from his mouth. “Nothing is seriously fractured, at least that I can determine.” He sounded satisfied, whether from inflicting pain or from finding everything intact, only he knew.
“Albin, I know I’m your employer, but I always considered myself a decent and fair one.”
“You are, sir. Arms out.” Albin flicked the light in Nathan’s eyes when he hesitated.
“Then why are you enjoying this?”
The light traced back and forth down the right side of Nathan’s ribcage. “My duty is to prevent you from making poor decisions.”
“You—erg.” The terrorists may have bruised his ribs, but in this case, you should see the other guy took a new meaning.
“I enjoy executing my duties efficiently. No ribs are fractured completely. None of your injuries appear life threatening, but I am not a trained medical professional, nor do I have CT-scan vision.”
“Your mother was a nurse—”
“Which, shockingly, does not bestow those credentials upon me.”
Turning to face his friend, Nathan eased onto the bunk. Aches in his chest and ribs overwhelmed the other soreness that flared on movement.
“Your shirt, sir.”
Nathan grinned up at Albin past the proffered top. “What’s the matter? You can undress me, but I have to dress myself? What kind of—” A wadded-up tank top launched at his face.
Chuckling, Nathan ducked back into the U of AA shirt. He sobered as he set the body armor within easy reach. “Thank you, Albin. What about you? Did you receive any injuries? When . . . the terrorist took you hostage, perhaps?”
“I assessed myself already,” Albin replied as he settled onto his cot. “I was not involved in hand-to-hand combat. They overpowered me, and I chose to bide my time rather than challenge more than five armed mercenaries.”
A chill prickled down Nathan’s spine as images from the attack invaded his mind’s eye: explosions, gunmen, arterial spray. “As long as you’re sure. I don’t want to explain to Janine why her third cousin died on my watch.”
“I am not her third cousin,” Albin sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He hated having to clarify his relational status, which made the exercise of pretending ignorance worthwhile for Nathan. “My father’s brother married Janine’s second cousin once removed. We do not share any blood.”
“In any case, you’re her only relative in the state—”
“Her father lives in New York City, sir.” Albin propped himself on an elbow to squint at his relative.
“Let me finish.” Nathan waved him silent. “I was about to say, ‘who doesn’t hate me.’”
“Ah.”
“The last time I had the pleasure of his company he called me a villainous viper. It has a nice ring to it.”
“He is a true wordsmith. I rather liked ‘unscrupulous fiend,’ though it lacks alliterative force.”
“Unscrupulous fiend. You have to say it with feeling.” Nathan chuckled. The old man’s face had contorted like a demon’s when he bestowed the appellation. “Spawned from darkest night, yes. Imagine, becoming so upset simply because one of our subsidiaries may or may not have caused his company’s stocks to crash.”
“Understandable. The decline cost him the contract bid. It was an effective maneuver.”
“I couldn’t let the Doorway Pharma contract slip away. That deal paid off in spades.” Had it ever. With it, intel that would bring a high payoff had landed in his lap. “He takes business much too personally. It’s just a game.”
“His moves are dwindling.”
Amusement turned to a rock in Nathan’s chest, dragging his grin into a frown. “Janine claims his seizure was nothing to worry about, but . . . I overheard her telling her mother that the doctors aren’t giving a ‘favorable prognosis.’” It almost made Nathan regret sending the old man’s stocks into the toilet. Almost.
“Death visits us all.”
“Mm.” Exhaustion tugged at Nathan’s mind. With a sigh, he muttered, “Wake me if anything happens.”
Chapter 43
Way of the Wolf
The One You Feed – Crown the Empire
A moment—or so it seemed—later, Nathan jolted back to consciousness with salivary glands pouring and stomach churning.
Nightlights illuminated his path as he staggered to the men’s room. The world spun, but a convenient wall saved him from knocking his teeth out on the tile. Squinting in the fluorescent lighting, he kicked into the nearest stall.
An irresistible wave of nausea roiled up from his guts. Damn it, again? Another wave. More gagging.
Snarling, sucking back saliva, he leaned against the stall wall with eyes closed. Blood misting, brain matter spraying, body jerking in death.
A fit of dry heaves doubled him over.
The Red Hand. Blood, intestines.
Retching grabbed him.
Gunshots. So many gunshots.
Gun smoke, iron, copper—damn it, why did he still smell them thick in the air?
Shot to the groin. Gasoline, flames.
His chest ached, but he surrendered to the spasms.
Oil drool. White, blistered flesh.
Cannibals. Infection. He had sat next to a cannibal that coughed and vomited. Chills rippled over him. He grabbed the top of the stall wall as his knees began to buckle. H
is ears rang. Darkness edged his vision. Pain seared over his chest as panic gripped his heart in its spiked gauntlet. One, two, three, four.
Focus! The symptoms: his skin kept its genetic tan; no blisters; he wiped his mouth but no oil drool was present; deep breath, no rattling. A shaky sigh escaped him as he rested his head against his forearm.
The nausea passed, leaving the taste of burning bile in its wake. After a moment of panting, he recovered enough strength to stumble out to the sinks. Avoiding the mirrors, he stared at the water that hissed down the drain.
Images of carnage flickered across the back of his mind like dim home movies. As they played, he mentally gathered them into a stream, sent them to join the water.
Elbows on the sink rim, he massaged his temples as he squeezed his eyes shut. One, two, three, four. Hold. Cold. Dark. Howls in the distance. Deep breathing with his own.
He and Albin still breathed because he had done what he needed to.
And what if he did enjoy the thrill, as Albin suggested? Warriors throughout history gloried in the rush of battle, not the least of which his Berserker forefathers. Know thyself. Evolve, attack, dominate.
Cold water washed away the cold sweat and bile. Looking up, he met the eyes of a predator: victorious and dark with the glint of gold. Now that he hunted with the wolves, they wanted him stronger. They would make him stronger by whatever means necessary. The gold disappeared as he leaned back.
After shoving his fingers through his wet hair to spike it, he followed the wall to the door. Even psychological fortitude only went so far after vomiting had drained the body of electrolytes.
Back in the dorm, he hesitated a moment, hand on the door frame. Thirty-five feet back to the bunk looked like thirty-five miles.
A hand on his right shoulder, a familiar weight.
“Adrenaline is a godsend until it wears off, sir. Come.” Businesslike as ever, Albin shouldered under Nathan’s right arm, wrapped his left around his employer’s waist, then straightened.
Thirty-five miles returned to thirty-five feet as Albin half carried, half led him back to their bunks. After easing him off into a sitting position on the bed, Albin snagged the water bottle from the VTAC and twisted off the lid. “Drink.” He held the container a foot from the other man’s face. “Not too quickly.”
Nathan obeyed. When the bottle emptied, he met the attorney’s blue gaze. “I’ll be fine. It’s nothing a week’s sleep won’t cure.”
“We will be fortunate to achieve three hours.”
“At least one of us was able to sleep,” Nathan sighed.
The adviser’s shoulders rose in a shrug. He’d shed his tie and jacket, and undone the first three buttons of his dress shirt. “I was spared the need for your level of adrenaline.”
“Do you remember any more about being taken—”
“Only what I have already said, sir.” The blond looked away.
Nod. Be glad you’re not heaving up flashbacks. Nathan felt his eyes glaze and forced them back into focus. “I need some air,” he grunted as he levered onto his feet. Albin stood with him, ready to step in. “Thank you, but I can handle five feet.”
He trudged to the nearest window and jacked the awning panes out, then propped himself against the frame. Cool night air stroked his face and fought the lingering nausea.
Hands behind his back, Albin gazed out. “This is merely the beginning, isn’t it, Mr. Serebus.”
Chapter 44
Hope and Change
This is the House that Doubt Built – A Day to Remember
“The beginning of what, is the question.” Nathan kept his voice low to avoid waking the others.
“If the terrorist attack on the World Trade Center changed our lives,” Albin matched Nathan’s tone, “how much more will this attack affect us? If the rumor is true and there was also an attack on New York City, the nation will be seriously destabilized.”
The end of America in two sentences. “We’ve been through worse, like the World Wars, but this is a different time. It’s the legendary Perfect Storm condition.”
“With the current administration at the helm and an apathetic populace on the rigging, I hold little hope for the ship of state weathering the storm.”
“Mm.” Nathan’s jaw worked. Below, emergency vehicles patrolled. Above, distant chopper lights glittered. He stood straighter. “We rise up and take the power back. Never let a crisis go to waste.”
Albin leaned an elbow against the window frame, watching the chaos outside. “Natural disasters, terrorism, and . . . cannibals will make this crisis one for the record books.”
“Which brings us,” Nathan sighed, “to everyone’s favorite topic: the not-zombie cannibals.” At this rate the apocalypse may as well break loose. Did Fenrir begin to slip his fetters?
“We know little, but we do possess some data.”
The calm of systems building relaxed Nathan’s shoulders. They could figure this out. Arete had built a reputation for creative problem solving in many fields: microprocessors, data security, even the occasional server wipe when a public figure hit Send on the wrong emails. Or the right emails, depending on your perspective.
“First,” Albin began, “the cannibals are violent and unable to see reason. Even DHS officers will attack their own when, for lack of a better word, they are infected.”
“Infected may be an accurate term. That fellow in the PTV mentioned the sick woman had helped a man who—”
“The medics should have addressed, in his opinion. There is still no evidence that her respiratory symptoms were related to the cannibal state.”
“Could it be a virus like Ebola or Marburg?” Nathan took a breath. “The victims on the documentaries didn’t attack people, though.”
“The viruses do cause changes in behavior due to cascading infarctions and multi-organ collapse. The changes are usually limited to a decrease in mentation and activity.”
“Except for the final phase, when the virus makes a last-ditch effort to spread.” Reenactments from the documentaries portrayed the victims flailing in their own bodily fluids after the virus crashed their systems.
Ebola. No cure. And a horrifying death. His skin crawled. Did the fire station have decon showers? Maybe they should all—
“Ebola is a beautifully efficient contagion.” Albin’s lip curled slightly in disgust.
“It’s also a beautifully efficient weapon.” Dread settled like ash over Nathan’s heart.
“Biological warfare.” Albin’s brow furrowed.
“That could be bad and good.” Nathan drummed his fingers on the window frame. “If it is germ warfare, then someone intentionally is creating a denial-of-service attack, so to speak, with humans. It also means that someone has data on the . . . contagion and how to manage it.”
They locked gazes. “The remote,” they said in unison.
“As a theory,” Albin began with devil’s-advocate skepticism, “it is passable. However, if the terrorists initiated the cannibal threat, why—”
“Would they need to secure something to manage the cannibals. According to Red Chief”—nausea grew at the name—“things didn’t go to plan.”
Memories of the cannibal in the van and those in the police station hall scrolled through Nathan’s mind. “One of the most fascinating and dangerous aspects of the infections is the incubation period.”
“The time varies, as we witnessed in the transport van.” Albin let out a breath. He looked exhausted. “That incident also proved the pathogen is not airborne, as we were not affected.”
“As far as we know.” Nathan’s chest still ached from the vomiting. “Worst-case scenario, it’s airborne but in such small quantities that the incubation period is extended. That could explain why the DHS agents were affected so quickly: they were bitten or otherwise exposed to a larger dose. We could all wake up tomorrow morning drooling oil and wanting to bite people. Then again, other than the oil, I wake up like th
at from time to time.” He forced a laugh.
“True, but you cannot withstand center-of-mass shots from a large-caliber firearm. Only head shots are effective, presumably because they annihilate the brainstem.”
“Kill the brain, kill the ghoul?”
Albin frowned. Ah, right; he didn’t watch horror movies, not even the classics. “There are far too many variables to make precise conclusions. Controlled experiments need to be conducted to analyze the condition’s characteristics.”
“Excellent idea.” Nathan grinned. A market for information emerged, and Arete Technologies was open for business. “The spoils go to the company with initiative. I’ll contact some of our friends when we get firmer footing. In the meantime, let’s hope the cannibals, whatever they are, don’t worsen”—pause—“or improve their efficiency.”
Expression blank, Albin continued to stare out the window.
“Tomorrow perhaps the government will know more and we can piggyback on their intel.” Nathan pushed from his position against the wall to clap his friend on the shoulder. “Let’s get some sleep. We’re going to need it.”
Chapter 45
Speak No Evil
One Step Closer – Linkin Park
“Mr. Serebus.”
No. Still dark and no alarm means morning hasn’t arrived, Albin. This came out as, “Fffff,” through the sleep-haze. Wait, why was Albin waking him?
Nathan jolted upright. “Aaah,” he breathed as pain seared through his body. He froze to stop the ache, then stared about the gloom in confusion. Oh shit, the fire department after the clusterfuck extraordinaire.
“Good morning, sir.”
“It would be if I could take an Aleve, or possibly a Percocet,” Nathan returned through clenched teeth.
Albin stood beside his bunk, VTAC straps over one shoulder. No tie or jacket. The apocalypse had indeed begun.