Behold Darkness (Wolves of the Apocalypse Book 1)

by LC Champlin

  Albin gave her a look of skepticism.

  The chopper maneuvered to hover over the bridge. A member of the Black Hawk crew in the forward seats stood and clipped a second harness to the carabiner. The cross on his uniform marked him as a combat medic. His comrade, another medic, watched from behind his helmet’s mirrored visor.

  Rodriguez stepped into the air as the winch played out line.

  ++++++++++++

  Downwash blasted Nathan, almost dislodged his grip as it tore at his clothes.

  The damn chopper wouldn’t do anything but make things worse. Get ready for the pain, now go. Light exploded across his vision while darkness lapped at the edges. A whole six inches headway. Impressive.

  “Damn it, Serebus!” A woman’s voice from behind him. The Valkyries? No, sounded like Rodriguez. The harpies. Auditory hallucinations, wonderful. Couldn’t his brain at least have the decency to conjure something pleasurable in his last moments? “Hold on, you dumbass!”

  Arms slid around his chest, snapping a harness in place. Wait. Real? Fucking Rodriguez. Her presence made him do something he didn’t think it ever could: grin with relief.

  He should say something witty. Something like, Come to arrest me? Or, Didn’t know you cared so much. Or—

  “Erm!” he grunted as the harness tightened around his ribcage. Fire blazed around his chest when he tried to breathe. Night clouded his vision, smoke from the flames.

  Rodriguez slapped him on the shoulder. “Okay, let go.”

  “Can’t.” Locked from prolonged contraction.

  “Always gotta be difficult, don’t you? Always gotta give me shit.” She reached around and pried his thumbs loose. Well, that helped. “Going up.”

  “Shh!” Hot knives stabbing his chest, convinced his arms to cooperate enough to loop wrists in the harness handles overhead. Stars exploded. Constellations wheeled in his vision against the pulsing abyss.

  Dimly, through the Star Trek opening theme, rose a column of dust in the south. Two black MRAPs rumbled down the road. Cavalry, always bloody late . . .

  The line jerked as it reached the end of its travel, forcing Nathan’s eyes to try to focus. Still blurry. The roar in his ears drowned everything.

  Roddy and a few others—too fuzzy to tell who—hauled him into a seat.

  “Serebus! How you doing? Hang in there, you son of a bitch.” The woman police . . . Rod . . . something.

  “Pretty tired,” he winced as someone unsnapped the harness. “Think I’ll . . . go home now.”

  The galaxy swallowed him.

  Chapter 96

  To the Sky

  Fix You – Coldplay

  Mr. Serebus’s head fell back as he began gasping.

  “Get him on the floor,” Albin ordered the crew member at his elbow. “Chest trauma.” The other medic had already moved to retrieve the backboard from the wall. Turning to his charge, Albin tore open the fasteners on the man’s vest and removed it. Next the shirt, which fell away under Albin’s combat knife.

  They eased Mr. Serebus onto the backboard. Contusions formed a patchwork over his upper body. The medics leapt into action with practiced skill, taking vitals, applying heart monitor leads, securing backboard belts around their patient.

  With his employer in good hands, Albin settled a headset over his ears and dropped into the seat nearest the action.

  The first medic whipped out a stethoscope and checked for breath sounds. “Unequal chest excursion, breath sounds diminished in the left. Possible pneumothorax.”

  A possible collapsed lung? Albin’s own lungs tightened.

  Far in the distance, the other passengers spoke in a drone that blended with the aircraft’s rotors.

  “What’s his name?” the nearest medic asked.

  “Nathan Serebus. No drug allergies, medications, or medical problems. Non smoker, no alcohol use. No surgical history, as far as I’m aware.”

  The medic facing him looked up from the heart monitor to nod in acknowledgment. “What happened down there?”

  “Gunshots to the chest, but he was wearing body armor. He was in an altercation with two men, exposed to an explosion, and fell at least four meters.”

  “Getting IV access,” first medic reported.

  Half conscious again, Mr. Serebus struggled, spine arching against the restraints as he fought for breath despite the full oxygen facemask in place. “Take it easy, sir.” The medic braced the arm as he found a vein. His patient ignored the advice; he apparently felt only the restraints, and pain.

  Bolting from his seat, Albin grabbed him by the shoulders. “Mr. Serebus. Nathan. Stop.” The supine man paused in his struggles, then grimaced and resumed fighting. “Nathan, look at me. Look.” Dark, wild eyes locked on Albin’s face. “Just breathe. You are making it worse, as usual.” A spark of reason returned to the gaze, then Mr. Serebus closed his eyes and went still save for his labored breathing.

  Chapter 97

  Wakeup Call

  Raised by Wolves – Falling in Reverse

  Morning already? Just a few more minutes . . . hours . . . days. So relaxed. Like . . . like little fingers massaging his muscles from the inside. Yes, slide back into the warm depths of dreamless sleep . . .

  Wait.

  Yes. Everything could wait until he felt 100% ready to get up next week.

  Ah, too late. Too much thinking brought him closer to full consciousness. His eyes opened a slit. Daylight blazed in. Squinching them closed again, he took a deep, resigned breath. Aching in his rib cage on both sides, worse on the left. Something about his left side felt . . . weird, like something rubbed inside.

  Eyes opened for real. Fluorescent lighting, white tile ceiling. Interesting. White curtains on the left and right. Interesting. Down, through the gap in the curtains . . . a man in scrubs strode past. Then a woman in camo fatigues hurried by the other way. Interesting. Further down, his own feet under a thin, white blanket.

  His gaze wandered left. From an IV pole hung a bag of clear fluid. The tubing snaked down to his forearm. Interesting.

  Oh, yeah, his side. He wore a loose, white shirt. Too hard to get it off, so he pulled it up. Well, whaddya know! Shifting the blanket down with his elbow, he squinted at the . . . tube, big around as his little finger, that emerged from a patch of bandages on his flank. It ran through a valve, then connected to a clear plastic bag. Interesting.

  Now that he had everything scoped out, he could . . . chill out. He closed his eyes to slits.

  Then the curtain slid aside. A blond man stepped inside and shut them behind. He moved to the right, passed from sight. From the shifting sound, he sat down. Interesting—

  Wake up, stupid!

  Nope.

  Remember.

  Images flashed: blood, terrorists, explosions, cannibals, helicopters—and Albin Conrad. Alive. Alive and safe.

  “Mmph,” Nathan grunted, wincing as he shifted his shoulders.

  To his right, Albin adjusted his position. “Sir?”

  “Mm.” Nathan pushed himself farther up the head of the bed with his feet.

  The blond leaned into his employer’s field of view. Glasses flashed as he assessed the situation. The tension in his posture and the tenor of his voice betrayed his concern, and his relief.

  “Al . . . bin.” Nathan’s voice cracked as he squinted at his friend. “Come . . . closer.”

  Albin moved in six inches. Come on.

  “Yes?” The poor fellow looked uncomfortable, understandable under the circumstances.

  “Closer,” Nathan hissed.

  A foot and a half.

  Nathan raised his left hand, which bore a bandage, and made a feeble come closer gesture.

  Finally Albin leaned in, still cautious but at last in range. Nathan offered his hand in hand-shake form. Albin’s brow furrowed as he took the hand in a gentle grip.

  Ha! Nathan squeezed while pulling down. Off guard, Albin dropped another foot. Sitting forw
ard and throwing his right arm over his comrade’s shoulder, Nathan abandoned the handshake for a bear hug. Albin tensed under the show of affection.

  “Thank God you’re alive.” Nathan tightened his grip until his chest ached and his ribs burned. It felt good, a catharsis. Anxiety, anger, aggression—all washed away under the flood of relief. “Thank you, Albin Conrad,” he said through clenched teeth, jaw resting on his friend’s shoulder. “Full marks, my friend.”

  Bunched muscles relaxed as Albin returned the embrace. “You are most welcome, Mr. Serebus.”

  Another heartbeat, then release. Albin stood back, head cocked, expression contemplative. “I am pleased to see you are awake.”

  Nathan gave a wincing smile. “What’s the damage?” He motioned toward himself. There, now Albin could return to Professional Mode.

  He did, even adjusting his glasses in his thumb-and-ring-finger way. “First and foremost, a complete pneumothorax was sustained on the left side.”

  “That’s why I have a garden hose sticking out of me.”

  “Yes.” Paler than usual, Albin glanced at the drain, then back to Nathan.

  “I don’t remember anything about it.” Only darkness, fever-dream images, and garbled sounds filled that section of his memory.

  “That would be the Versed’s effect.”

  “It’s very effective. What else is going to be on the bill?”

  “Dehydration and a mild concussion were found. Non-displaced fractures of the fourth and fifth ribs on the left side, and the fifth rib on the right, were present.”

  “That explains the pain.” Nathan ran a hand over his right flank.

  “All things considered, you sustained only moderate injuries.”

  “I’d rather wake up with a chest tube than without my limbs.” He took a tentative breath. Not comfortable, but both lungs seemed to fill. “I think it’s working. Say, what drugs am I on?” They’re niiice.

  Albin clasped his hands behind his back. “Morphine was administered. I also took the liberty of requesting a second dose of Ativan if—”

  “If I get unruly?”

  “Nauseated, but if the shoe fits.”

  Nathan chuckled. With relief came a return of the opioid influence. Interesting.

  “Now I need you to rest and recover.” The Sit Down and Shut Up look.

  Nathan relaxed but kept grinning. “You’d make a good dad, you know that, Albin?”

  His charge secure, Albin straightened, reached up to massage his temples. He looked bone tired. Nathan’s grin faded. While his employer floated in drugged unconsciousness, the adviser kept watch.

  “Sit down, Albin,” Nathan murmured.

  The attorney gazed down at him with hollow eyes for a moment before returning to the chair.

  Nathan turned his head enough to see him. “After Roddy hauled me up . . . what happened?”

  Elbows on his knees, Albin fiddled with his glasses, which he’d removed to clean. “The DHS escorted our fellow passengers to other areas of the compound, or so I assume. The medical staff evaluated and treated you and brought you here. Before I arrived a few moments ago, I was speaking with one of the commanding officers. They will want to debrief us soon. We civilians are now in protective custody.” Ice underlay the last statement.

  “Is that so.” Nathan reached up to run his fingers along the side of his face. Steri-Strip edges and hardened skin adhesive marked the cuts. “I’ll deal with that in a bit. Speaking of our heroes, I was worried Rodriguez would call in a take-down order.”

  “Officer Rodriguez advocated for your rescue after she alerted the military that you were not one of the terrorists.”

  “I’ll have to thank her later. What about Murphy?” The last image of the harbor master, blood streaming from the bullet wound and his mouth, blazed in Nathan’s mind.

  “The second Black Hawk transported him elsewhere for medical treatment.” Albin’s shoulders twitched in a shrug of frustration. “I know nothing further.”

  “What about Birk?” Shaking his head, Nathan added, “What a waste of a perfectly good mind.”

  Albin held his glasses up to the light. “The commanders here are keeping information classified for the time being.”

  “We’ll have to see about that . . . in a few minutes.” Nathan let out a breath, and closed his eyes. He needed to think.

  Chapter 98

  Ad Quod Damnum

  Man in the Mirror – Noah Guthrie

  Blessed silence fell as Mr. Serebus closed his eyes and mouth. His breathing settled into the steady rhythm of sleep.

  Thank goodness for said sedatives, even with their side effect of behavior changes. Mr. Serebus avoided alcohol like other people avoided arsenic. Given the man’s behavior under the influence of Ativan, he was wise to avoid liquor. Then again, Mr. Serebus’s response to seeing his adviser reflected Albin’s own relief in finding his friend conscious, stable, and semi-lucid.

  Sliding down in his seat, Albin replaced his glasses and leaned his head back. How ironic that after feigning the desire to take over Arete Technologies, he might have had to do just that. He sighed in relief.

  To his left, the bed’s occupant twitched but remained unconscious. Sleep. It looked so refreshing. Albin’s eyes closed.

  “Knock-knock,” a female voice stage-whispered from outside the curtains.

  With a sigh, Albin pushed to his feet and moved to pull the curtains aside. “Ms. Josephine.” He nodded in greeting as he stood aside for her to enter.

  “How’s he doing?” she whispered, eyes on Mr. Serebus.

  Coming to stand beside her, Albin clasped his hands behind his back. “He will recover.”

  She smiled at the sleeping man. “He deserves a little peace.”

  “As do we all.” Mr. Serebus remaining unconscious offered their best chance of achieving that goal.

  “Albin, I’ve been wanting to ask: What did you mean when you said, ‘Make the world a better place to go to Hell from’?”

  Albin looked away, resting his gaze on the monitor above the bed. A dot traced along the EKG line, redrawing the mountains and valleys that represented normal cardiac function—and life. “It is a phrase that Mr. Serebus used when I made his acquaintance eight years ago. It means that . . .” He sighed. “It means sacrifice and struggle in the name of altruism are a waste of time. Hatred is gained as much by good works as by evil. One should improve one’s own lot in life alone. As King Solomon declared, ‘Vanity of vanities. All is vanity.’”

  “But it isn’t,” she whispered, her tone gentle yet firm. “That’s not how he”—she nodded to Mr. Serebus—“or you live.”

  Sniffing, Albin shifted. She should reserve judgment until she grew better acquainted with them.

  She put a hand on his shoulder, turning him to face her, forcing him to meet her gaze. “You two were heroes today. That’s not living up to your philosophy.” Mock disapproval colored the last observation.

  “Every relationship is motivated by self-interest. Neither of us acted out of moral duty.” Though Mr. Serebus’s motives for assisting the St. Regis woman made one wonder.

  “Does it matter?” She raised her brows in question. “Both of you risked your lives and saved the lives of others.”

  “Motive matters.”

  “Then what was your motive for standing up in front of the terrorists? You would have benefited from leaving him.” A nod toward Mr. Serebus, who growled in his sleep.

  In order for her to understand, she would need to know Albin’s history. In that case, she did not need to understand. “Where the battle rages, there the loyalty of the soldier is proved.”

  “Why loyalty, though?” Intensity shone in her sky-blue eyes. “Is it just to keep your job? You can find another. Is it to avoid guilt? Guilt is better than death.”

  “Nuh,” grunted Mr. Serebus, eyes still closed.

  The moral of Albin’s history sufficed: “I could not allow Mr. S
erebus to offer himself as a sacrifice. There are many states worse than death, Ms. Josephine.”

  “Not if the world is just a place to go to Hell from.”

  Albin shook his head. “You do not understand.”

  “Then help me.” She squeezed his shoulder and smiled in encouragement.

  He turned to face Mr. Serebus, who remained in blissful unconsciousness. “Nemo vir est qui mundum non reddat meliorem.”

  “No one is a man who does not render the world better.”

  Brows knit in amazement, Albin stared at her.

  “Crowe was terrific in that movie,” she answered the unspoken question, then flashed a grin.

  From the bed came a muttered, “’S stupid.” Mr. Serebus opened his eyes a slit.

  “Go back to sleep, sir.” Albin frowned at the troublemaker.

  Attention back on his employer’s cardiac monitor, Albin reached up to adjust his glasses. “Ms. Josephine, you have my gratitude for ‘making an impact,’ as you put it. On that topic, I did not hear your explanation for the cavalry.”

  Ignoring him, she navigated screens on her phone. Then she held it up, speakers toward his ear. “Downstairs section clear!” Then, “Move out!”

  “It’s from a video game my little cousin plays,” she laughed. “He thinks it’s funny when I play it before we leave the car.”

  “Impressive indeed.” The ingenuity earned a true smile.

  “Albin,” she began, toying with her windbreaker’s zipper pull, “when we were getting ready to go outside and set up the exchange, what were you going to say about making the world a better place?”

  “Ah.” What he had almost said and what she needed to hear lay on opposite ends of the optimism-pessimism spectrum. “I couldn’t say.”

  “Come on.” She elbowed him.

  His hand settled on her shoulder. “If you want to make the world a better place, start with yourself.”