Day of Darkness

by LC Champlin

  “I do.” A smile of relief banished the anxiety from the teen’s face.

  ++++++++++++

  The roar of jet engines drew Nathan’s attention as he toyed with the controls on the frequency generator box. He leaned closer to the research lab window and peered up. Nothing except the afternoon sun.

  He pulled his mask up over his face and tightened the straps. Though only a respirator intended to protect against paint fumes and dust, it would hopefully filter out the larger particles. At the least, the false sense of security dropped his heart rate below a hundred. The government spraying an unknown substance on him didn’t engender serenity.

  He squeezed the PTT. “Security team, tell everyone to get their masks on.”

  Affirmatives followed.

  Not a moment too soon. Overhead, a line of four A-10 Warthog Thunderbolts roared over, covering the peninsula that formed the Bay Area. They rumbled north, toward downtown. They resembled nothing more than a squad of tank killers going to wage battle with the monsters on the ground.

  A minute later, the noise returned, but distant. No doubt they had swung around to cover Oakland, Berkeley, and the other communities on the mainland. None would escape the crop dusting, but did the residents represent the wheat or the pests?

  Lexa seemed confident the gas would pose no danger to healthy—non-cannibal—humans. But why should anyone believe her? She worked for LOGOS, the company the created the cannibals. She offered no proof other than her word that she meant to undo their evil. “I’m so sick of words,” he breathed.

  The gas might kill them despite her claims. After all, scientists once watched nuclear blasts with only goggles for protection. Most of the Bomb Watchers Club’s members had since died of cancer. For all he knew, she may even take sick pleasure in subjecting them to a chemical worse than Agent Orange.

  Or the gas might contain an airborne form of the contagion that turned humans into cannibals. “Now there’s a comforting thought.”

  Whatever the truth may be, it didn’t matter, because as of sixty seconds ago, they had all been exposed to the substance.

  “Sarge,” Nathan spoke into the radio, “our time starts now.”

  ++++++++++++

  “Ready?” Sarge asked as Nathan docked at the Brisbane Marina, which lay roughly twelve miles north of Redwood Shores.

  “Are you?” He smirked as he threw Sarge the boat’s line.

  “You really believe it’s a wise idea to broadcast that Lexa woman’s frequency?” The big man looked up from securing the mooring. “You don’t know what it’s going to do.”

  “I’m not exactly drowning in alternatives, Sarge. She said LOGOS’s broadcast needed to be stopped.” Let Sarge continue to think he helped Nathan air the interference frequency. If he had any ulterior motives for helping, they would reveal themselves soon. “But don’t worry; the redundancy plan will ensure LOGOS doesn’t get its way.”

  “You’re pretty confident.”

  “Of course.” Nathan stepped onto the dock. “I’m going to whistle for the flies and the hornets.”

  “What?”

  “You’ll see. Are your people at the South San Francisco BART prepared?”

  “They’re not my people.” Sarge glowered.

  “Your contracted gang, then.” Adjusting his backpack straps on his shoulders, Nathan proceeded toward the waiting truck, a black Ford F-350 with an armored brush guard protecting its grill.

  “They’re ready. I still say this idea is insane.”

  “The government’s getting too controlling for my taste.” Nathan climbed into the passenger side. “I’m going to protect my people and my interests. In the process, I’ll hopefully be able to expand our reach over the entire Bay Area.” He would be the savior of San Francisco, and more importantly, its ruler. “With it secure, the area around it will open.”

  Belting in, Sarge chuckled. “You aren’t greedy; you just want the land that touches yours, right? And I thought Red Chief was a power-hungry bastard.”

  “I am an ambitious bastard. Just like you.” Of all people, Sarge had no right to pretend superiority.

  The mercenary said nothing as he shot the truck into drive and set off down Sierra Point Parkway. As they traveled, his minions’ vehicles fell in behind, five total.

  Eyes on the packs of Dalits that roamed among the warehouses, Sarge shook his head. “I still say you’re trying to get us killed. Going in behind the wall is fucking insane. This place is crawling with cannibals.” The muscles on his forearms stood out as he gripped the wheel. “Your radio tower will work fine for the broadcast. Lexa even said so.”

  “I talked to several broadcasting experts who live in Redwood, and they said the transmission will work best if I reach the Sutro Tower by Twin Peaks in downtown, or the San Bruno Park tower if all else fails. My tower lacks the reach.” No radio expert, Sarge would think this reasonable. “Hijacking the antenna trucks in the meantime will give us an advantage. We don’t need to stop all of the vehicles.” But hijacking for a reason other than broadcasting Lexa’s frequency pattern, unbeknownst to Sarge.

  “San Bruno is just southwest of us. We should start there. If that falls through, we try for Sutro.”

  Nathan shook his head. “That tower won’t be as effective as the Sutro Tower.”

  “Ever heard that the enemy of good is better?”

  “I want best. We have a backup plan anyway, assuming your people come through.”

  “Don’t worry. My guys can handle keeping the generators running at the Redwood Shores tower.”

  “They’d better be able to, or we might become cannibal hors d’oeuvres.”

  Head shake. “If anybody gets us killed, it’ll be you by coming to the cannibal side of the wall.”

  “Not if we follow the radio antenna trucks. They think they’re going to get in, meaning they have faith in their ‘shield’ frequency. No doubt they tested the shields thoroughly.”

  Brow lined, Sarge worked his jaw, half stretching it and half readying to bite. “If you can’t get the antenna trucks’ shields switched to the attractor frequency pattern, your distraction plan won’t hold water.”

  The convoy banked right, leaving Bayshore Boulevard for Guadalupe Canyon Parkway, which led west.

  “Oh?” Raising a brow, Nathan settled himself with one arm on the door rest in an effort to appear casual.

  “A few cannibals might follow, but not the number you’re needing.”

  “Let me worry about that.” Frowning, Nathan looked out the window. They passed vacant buildings and abandoned vehicles. Many of the cars smoldered, charred wrecks left over from the rioting. That same rioting had made the number of cannibals explode. Fucking idiots, thinking protesting could save them from a contagion.

  Packs of Dalits darted across alleys, but they numbered few compared to the hordes that had invaded Northern Redwood Shores.

  Nathan rubbed his Nike toe against the backpack between his feet. It held the frequency device, his amulet against evil. The scientists had taken to calling it the freq—pronounced freak—box. Using equipment from the radio station and around the neighborhood, as well as the office buildings across the channel, the R&D team had assembled a second frequency generator. It lacked the power of the first, but then again, it didn’t need high output. Though bulkier than the first box, and with a shorter battery life, it would serve his purposes.

  “Stopping those trucks is going to fucking suck.” Sarge growled as the houses outside gave way to the brown, rolling wilderness of San Bruno State Park. “They’re going to be guarded.”

  “The guards will be focused on the cannibals, not us.”

  “There’s still time to set mines—”

  “No, none of your improvised explosive devices. This isn’t Iraq.”

  “IEDs work like a fucking charm over there.”

  “This requires more finesse.” Sidelong glare. “I’m not going to throw those trucks away.�
�

  Silence settled—and reigned.

  Eventually the hills of San Bruno State Park surrendered to the cluttered civilization of Daly City. Guadalupe Street turned into East Market Street, with its row upon row of two-story pastel-colored boxes that residents affectionately and naively called houses. On the left, on the south side of the street, sprawled Thomas R. Pollicita Middle School.

  South of Nathan and Sarge’s location, the government-erected floodgates against the cannibals crossed both Junipero Serra Freeway and Pacific Coast Highway, which merged into north-south Interstate 280. The wall ran down the center of Southgate, cutting through Woodlawn Memorial Park and its graves. The military had thought outside the box this time: it had stacked railroad shipping containers to form most of the barrier.

  “We’re just north of Avalon,” Nathan commented, eyeing Sarge.

  No response.

  “At least, it was Avalon before you burned it down.” Smoke still rose from the south.

  A shrug.

  “The trucks will be coming up 280.” Nathan returned to the task at hand. “After that, they’ll split up. One will probably try for Skyline Boulevard along the west coast, and another one will come up Mission Street.” Mission lay ahead. It filled the gap between 280 and San Bruno State Park, paralleling the interstate.

  “No fucking kidding. Next you’re going to tell me the sun sets in the west. My men are already in place.”

  “Excellent. Remember, I don’t want them directly engaging—”

  “We’ve been over this. I get it.” At the last sentence, Sarge made a slashing gesture. “Remember, you’re not my boss. You’re also not Red Chief.” The restlessness in the man’s voice made Nathan’s hackles rise.

  The retort begged for release: If I’m not like Esau, perhaps you won’t betray me like you—thankfully—betrayed him. “If we do this correctly, you’ll have looting rights of the entire Bay Area. The gangs that used to oppose you won’t be a problem either. In due time.”

  “If they don’t fucking nuke us first.”

  The truck rolled through the intersection of Hillside Boulevard. Abandoned, wrecked, and / or burned out vehicles littered East Market Street.

  “Detonate a nuclear bomb in California?” Nathan laughed. “They won’t even let you change the magazine in your AR-15 without a screwdriver. This is hardly a war-happy state. And too many high-ranking people in DC like this idiotville.”

  “They’ve already done a lay-down. That means they’re doing something. This threat is too big to ignore, even for these motherfucking retards”

  “That’s where the finesse comes in.” Nathan sat back with a smile. If only he felt as confident as he looked.

  “Huh. I hope you can finesse us out of Hell. Look.”

  Ahead, a horde of cannibals filled the road. They overflowed into the Wendy’s lot on the left and the Bank of America’s on the right. Most clustered along Market Street like kids waiting for the ice cream truck. Except they hadn’t come for “a taste of heaven on earth.” No, they were determined to find happiness within—in the form of passengers.

  Chapter 81

  Truth and All Its Consequences

  Running - James Bay

  Albin pressed his back deeper into the hedge. On the opposite side of Keelson Circle’s southwest loop, a group of four residents went on their way, bent on a task of importance if he judged by their quick stride.

  Though it remained questionable, it seemed likely that Mr. Serebus’s departure from the neighborhood via speed boat involved the military aircraft flyover. Rather, the A-10s had prompted his action. He had not acted surprised in the least. Also, the residents had retreated indoors moments before the warplanes arrived. When he spoke with Amanda, he merely related that he left to assist Sarge with scouting. The trajectory of his launch—toward the northeast—pointed to a visit to San Francisco.

  Albin straightened his trench coat, which had dried during the hours of surveilling Mr. Serebus’s movements.

  He needed to find a sympathetic ear among the residents. Behrmann and Shukla had scorned his attempt at proselytizing them a number of days ago. Jeremy Nelson had suffered at the hands of the Red Devil Goats . . . and Albin due to the attorney’s action against Jennifer Nelson. That narrowed the field to the Musters.

  The daylight made his mission doubly difficult. His course took him through the Nelsons’ back garden, aiming for the gate to the front.

  As Albin approached it, the gate creaked open. Holding his breath, he sidestepped behind the corner of the house.

  “Are you sure you left it out here, Zander?” came Taylor Muster’s voice.

  “Yeah. At the bush.”

  “We have a ball you can use, you know.” Denver also accompanied them.

  “I want my ball.”

  Did any adults supervise them? Likely not, considering Amanda would occupy herself with running the neighborhood in Mr. Serebus’s absence. As for Zander’s father, he required time to convalesce.

  The trio of children trooped into the middle of the garden, Zander pursuing his ball with the single-minded purpose common to preschoolers. Indeed, he had left the toy under a shrub at the far corner. With his stuffed lion—Ashland?—under one arm, he broke into the controlled-fall run of the young.

  “Good morning.” Albin forced a smile as he left the shadow of the house.

  They gaped at him as if a leopard rather than a friend approached them. What lies had Mr. Serebus told them?

  Taylor pushed Denver behind her while trying to catch Zander, who did not share the girl’s trepidation in the least. Animals and children proved the best judges of character, or at least judges of who would bestow food and attention upon them.

  “It’s all right.” Albin removed his sunglasses and held up his hands in a gesture of good will.

  “You’re not supposed to be here,” Taylor admonished.

  Denver continued to stare. “You’re not wearing the armband. That means you’re not allowed.” Disappointment wilted her expression.

  When Taylor turned, an armband about her bicep caught the sunlight: black with a white triangle in the center, its point up as a pyramid. A red strip of fabric accompanied it. Denver and Zander also wore the designators.

  “Have I ever harmed any of you?” he enquired. “Haven’t I given you skills with which to protect your lives? It was I who helped Zander’s father return to Redwood Shores.” The continued skepticism in the children’s faces worsened the ache in his chest. Mr. Serebus did not care about these people, yet they sided with him against one of the few people who attempted to preserve their lives.

  “Ms. Taylor, Ms. Denver, I need to speak with your mother. There is a truth I must deliver, inconvenient as it may be.”

  “What do you mean, truth?” asked Denver, forgetting to glare at him.

  “If you bring her here, I will tell you. I am not a threat to you. If I were, I would have already attacked you and your mother.”

  The sisters exchanged glances, then for no particular reason looked down at Zander, whose attention had returned to the ball in his hands.

  “I have little time. I must speak to her while Mr. Serebus is away. He will not allow me to tell her the important secrets she needs to learn.”

  “Secrets? All right,” Taylor decided. “I’ll get Mom. But Nathan is coming back soon.”

  “Of course.” Albin nodded as if she related the Underground’s schedule.

  The trio scurried off, leaving him to wait.

  They would tell Amanda; she would bring reinforcements. Remaining here would end poorly. He ducked through the fence gate and across the street. If he acted as if he belonged here, people would pay him no heed. The streets appeared deserted now anyway.

  He reached the Musters’ house, which greeted him with a locked door. They had learned from their previous mistake. Very good.

  Though every moment he lingered increased the risk of detection by hostile p
arties, he had no choice but to wait. Thus, he edged between the house and the bushes, sheltering in their shade.

  Within five minutes, the blue-gray Genesis pulled into the Nelsons’ driveway. Amanda Muster disembarked with three guards following her from the vehicle’s other doors. The children had remained with another keeper, apparently. The new arrivals carried weapons ranging from a baseball bat—in Amanda’s case—to pikes, garden implements, and knives for the security team.

  The quartet entered the rear garden and remained long enough to sweep the area. When they returned, they looked confused but relieved. The three guards departed, waving to their leader. With a shake of her head, she marched across the street, up to her residence. She did not glance his way as she unlocked her door and stepped inside.

  Ten seconds passed. Albin deserted the shrub to ascend the steps to the front door. He stood to the side as he knocked, as the woman may have a firearm inside and prefer to shoot first and ask questions never when she saw him on her stoop.

  The door opened. Amanda appeared, bat ready in her right hand.

  “Good morning, Amanda.”

  “You!” She made the mistake of pulling the bat farther back for a stronger swing. He closed, moving in for a clinch. Nudging her hips out with his, he unbalanced her as he pinned her arm with his. She struggled to strike with the bat, a futile task considering the angle of his body to hers. As she tried to pull away, he hooked her foot with his and pulled it out, taking her to the ground—gently. The surprise of losing her footing caused her to drop the bat, which came to his hand almost of its own accord. While he could have followed her to the ground, he stepped back. The bat slid behind his right leg, out of her reach and sight.

  “Amanda. Peace.” He held up his empty hand.