Day of Darkness

by LC Champlin

  She scrambled to her feet, looking about for a weapon. She snatched up a chair. “You bastard!”

  “Amanda Muster.” The firm but calm tone gave her pause. “Please, stop. I came here to speak with you. If I meant you harm, I would have already completed my task.” The intensity of his glacial gaze, combined with his posture of non-threat, elicited a look of confusion. Or perhaps she simply did not relish the idea of ruining a chair by smashing it over his head.

  “The kids said you had some sort of ‘truth’ you wanted to tell me. That was just a trick to get me here. I know that.”

  “I know information about Mr. Serebus that you will be interested to learn.”

  “Then spit it out. Nathan will be back soon, and then you’ll be sorry you ever came back. He let you live—”

  “Correction, I let him live. Multiple times I have come here, and though I possessed the opportunity to kill him, I did not. He attempted to kill me last night, however. But that is not what I came to tell you. Are you aware that he is not who he says he is? Nor am I, for that matter.” The last sentence stung in his ears, but he must relate his story if he told Mr. Serebus’s.

  “What do you mean?” The chair settled to the floor but remained between them.

  “Has he never told you the real reason for our visit to Redwood Shores? Or why we were armed? Did he mention what group those Mara Salvatrucha gang members really belong to? I see by your expression he has not. Then allow me to illuminate you.” He removed his smartphone and queued the recording.

  Chapter 82

  Lord of the Air

  The Man - The Killers

  “Damn it,” Sarge spat as the horde ahead grew. “I knew this was going to fucking happen. I’m going to plow them.”

  “Be my guest, but first let’s try something else.” Nathan pulled the VCR-sized frequency generator from its case in the backpack. He screwed the box’s cable into a small HAM radio antenna. Controls set. Frequency at 10.

  On.

  “You really think that thing’s going to work?”

  “We’re about to find out.”

  As the truck advanced, the cannibals reciprocated. The lead monsters dodged around the front of the truck to charge the driver’s side. Powerful thigh muscles, amped by the same effect that caused them to ignore pain and injury, propelled them onto the hood of the truck.

  “Fuckers!” Sarge swerved, stamping on the gas. The truck lurched forward, throwing the Dalits against the windshield. Black oil splattered the glass. “That fucking magic box can start working any time!” Shoulders hunched, Sarge leaned forward as if facing a nor’easter.

  It certainly fucking could. Nathan attempted to swallow but failed, his throat closing. The lights on the machine flickered and pulsed as they should, like those on an Internet router. Did these diseased bastards not have their Wi-Fi on? Perhaps the version of the contagion here had evolved in a different manner than the one in Silicon Valley. Panic, icy yet feverish, rose. No, don’t think about the freq box. If it failed, they could still fight their way back to the marina. They’d gotten this far without it.

  More cannibals poured in from the perimeter, closing in behind the truck.

  “That’s it.” Sarge pulled an M4 from the backseat.

  Come on! Nathan slapped the side of the box. Work!

  The cannibals on the hood froze, then rolled off onto the pavement as the truck swerved. The street ahead cleared, oil-puking abominations retreating.

  “The Red Sea parts,” Nathan announced, hands still trembling. One, two, three—

  “Huh. We’ll see how long it keeps working. That nigger-rigged hunk of crap will probably explode in your hands.”

  “It’s a risk I have to take.” Sarge turned left—south—on Market.

  They took a left on B Street. Here the domiciles resembled what normally came to mind at the word house, rather than Priority Mail cubes with windows. Garages opened on the ground level, with the living quarters above.

  Five blocks south of B ran Colma Boulevard, the east-west street that hosted the gate across Market. The wall ran down the length of the road to the east from 280, while to the west it hijacked Southgate Avenue to the Pacific. Near the gates, Bremer T-wall replaced shipping containers for wall construction. Steel-reinforced concrete, the T-wall did a fine job of stopping vehicles and explosions, but cannibals could vault or pile over the wall. If, of course, their interest took them that far. At the moment, they seemed content to wander the streets.

  Nathan fished out his Bushnell binoculars. Right on schedule, the steel gates rolled aside on their rails. A second set of gates formed an airlock chamber with the front barriers, allowing for safe transport of vehicles into and out of the hot zone.

  A white truck and trailer, one step below a semi in size, pulled out of the lock. As the vehicle trundled onto Market Street, the gates closed behind it. Nathan adjusted the binoculars. The side of the truck bore the emblem of . . . the Red Cross.

  “If that’s not flying under a false flag,” Sarge rumbled, “you’re going to be one hell of a hero if you take the Red Cross out.” He gave a laugh of satisfaction.

  “We are not destroying the trucks. Why is that a difficult concept for you to grasp?” Nathan lowered the optics to shoot a warning glare at the hulking man. “Don’t fuck this up.”

  The mercenary shrugged.

  Ahead, the vehicle rattled past their location, heading north at thirty miles an hour. Sarge edged the Ford close enough to the intersection to see the north course of Market. The enemy truck veered right at Valley Street, the crossroad after A Street.

  Sarge pulled onto Market, then banked right as well, but rolled into the El Camino Inn parking lot just south of the Market / Valley intersection. The lot took them in an L-shaped course to drop them on Valley Street.

  Or it would if Sarge had continued pulling out. Instead, he stopped. Two blocks ahead on 3rd Avenue, the Red Cross truck slowed to a halt. Cannibals milled about, but none approached closer than twenty yards. Evidently the vehicle’s shield functioned. Excellent.

  “That’s all the farther it’s going to go?” Sarge ran a hand over the millimeter-long stubble that passed for hair. “I don’t—”

  He broke off as the sides of the Red Cross trailer clattered to the pavement. They revealed a radio tower on its side, telescoped to fit onto the bed. As an engine hummed on the trailer, the tower swung upright. When it reached ninety degrees, it began to extend.

  “A QEAM.” Sarge grinned, fierce and appreciative.

  A quick erecting antenna mast, just as Lexa had said. “Let’s go.” Nathan nodded toward the tower. “Remember, do not destroy the truck.”

  Ignoring his passenger, Sarge keyed the radio. “Team One, they’re at 3rd and Valley. Go.” The words barely left his mouth when an SUV pulled around from behind them and sped toward the truck. It plowed through the cannibals foolish enough to remain in its way. Other Dalits jumped aside. They began to learn what many animals never mastered: avoiding vehicles.

  Another SUV screeched to a halt in the middle of the intersection, southbound on 3rd. They boxed in the vehicle fore and aft.

  Gunshots cracked from the mercenaries’ vehicles. The radio truck returned fire, but only for a few rounds before another volley from the raiders silenced it.

  The radio hissed: “The driver and passenger have been hit. We’re moving in.”

  The men piled out of their vehicles. They ranged about the cab, covering both doors. At a signal, they yanked the doors open and cleared the vehicle. A moment later, two bleeding corpses lay on the cement. At the appearance of blood, the cannibals redoubled their hissing.

  Nathan keyed his HT. “Get those bodies away from the truck. They’re drawing the cannibals.”

  Two raiders pulled the corpses toward the oil-droolers. The monsters took advantage of the free food, darting in to drag off their prey. The Dalits tore into the bodies abdominal cavities with tooth and nail. The
y zeroed in on the organ meats except for the intestines.

  With a last look around, Nathan exited the vehicle. He and Sarge made their way to the truck.

  “Are you able to work the transmitter?” Sarge growled at him.

  “Why else would I come?” Did the bastards think he tagged along for the entertainment value of risking his life? He climbed onto the back of the vehicle. As he made his way to the base of the mast, cannibals seethed twenty yards away. Their hissing grew like the sea on a stormy day. A disconcerting experience, to say the least. The clearing between him and the cannibals bristled with weapons. Sarge’s men, though small in number, made up for it with firepower.

  “Hey, there’s somebody on the truck radio!” one of the mercenaries reported.

  “Good.” Nathan grinned at the raiders. “Who’s up for a little fun?”

  Chapter 83

  Lord of the Flies

  Legend - The Score

  Nathan abandoned the trailer bed in favor of the tractor cab. He grabbed the mic. “Yeah, sorry, our radios aren’t working real good. I don’t know if it’s from the interference or what.”

  “Who’s this?”

  “One of the guys decided to be smart and deal with some cannibals that got too close, so I’m taking over comm duty.”

  “Are you ready for the broadcast?”

  “Yeah. But I got new instructions. Apparently the head honchos fucked up on their frequencies. You’re supposed to change them.”

  “I didn’t hear anything about that.”

  “You surprised? You know how well they communicate.” No large enterprise communicated well with its subordinates. “This is the new setting.” He read off from the sheet Dennis had provided him.

  “Are you sure? I don’t know. I’m going to wait until they call us. Better yet, I’m going to see if I can get a hold of them. If they don’t answer, I’m gonna stick with what we got.”

  “Fine, but it’s your balls that’ll be on the chopping block when you fuck this up.”

  “Fucking shit, we don’t have much time.”

  “Don’t you guys know anything about these frequencies?”

  “We’re just the drivers. Don’t you know that?”

  “If you don’t want to change them, at least change your shield settings.” The new and improved numbers followed. Improved for Redwood Shores, rather.

  “All right, we’ll try it. Tower Two out.”

  “Listen up,” Nathan called to the mercenaries. “Get the remote-control installed on this truck.”

  They set to work attaching the necessary hardware, a simple invention that pushed the accelerator and brake as the controller dictated. An adjustable rod jammed cross the footwell, bracing between the center console and the door’s firewall, locked onto the wheel. It offered limited steering capability. As for a camera, they didn’t need one. Like an RC car, they could see where it went well enough from a distance.

  As they worked, Nathan moved to the frequency control. “Here goes everything.” He turned his transmission generator on and the truck’s shield off.

  When he finished adjusting the repeller / shield settings, everyone except for one of the lowest-ranking mercs—or so it appeared since they elected him to stay behind—returned to their vehicles. The poor Red Shirt bastard flipped the switch, powering up the truck’s frequency generator again. Then he jumped from the cab into the waiting door of the Suburban. With the team clear, they roared off. Not a moment too soon, for the cannibals surged over the truck. The polarity switch could work both ways.

  ++++++++++++

  The Ford sat on the west side of Market, on Albert Teglia Boulevard. Behind and to the right sprawled the Bay Area Rapid Transit station, covering several acres in concrete, parking garages, and railroad tracks.

  To the left rose the La Terrazza Apartments—from this angle, just a three-story terracotta wall with scattered windows.

  The radio-controlled antenna truck rumbled back down Market Street, toward the gates. Cannibals chased it; a few had remained on the trailer after the vehicle had started moving.

  Key the radio: “We need clearance! Now!” Nathan reported on the frequency Sarge said the gate guard used. How he knew this didn’t bear asking.

  “We can’t let you through. You have too many of the affected following you. Pull up through the front gate; we’ll seal you in the lock. We’ll attempt to clean them off the vehicle.” By that, the man meant they would open fire on the Dalits.

  “Can’t you do that afterward? Just let us through and take them out after. I don’t want to be stopped with these things crawling all over my rig. They’re going to damage the equipment.”

  “Why are you hauling a radio tower? You were given clearance to enter in order to drop off supplies to former safe zones in case any civilians are still sheltering in the area. Nothing was said about a return with different cargo.”

  “It’s for the news broadcasts and cell phones, to get information to the people.”

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t let you through the lock. It’s against protocol. Stay inside the vehicle and we will deal with the threats.”

  “There’s no arguing when you fuckers come to a decision, is there? But make it fast, before these things bust through my windshield!”

  Nathan leaned back in the passenger seat of the F-350. Ahead, the radio rig trundled toward the gate. “It’s proceeding nicely, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “I guess this counts as you shutting down the broadcast, but you’re over thinking it. Mines would have worked just fine.”

  “This is necessary.”

  The radio truck pulled up to the gate. With a rumbling and a grating of metal, the blast doors parted. Nathan guided the vehicle in, but stopped it short of proceeding all the way. Now it sat across the rails, as troublesome as a truck across train tracks.

  “Well?” Sarge asked.

  “Wait for it.”

  “Move the vehicle completely inside the lock or we can’t close the door and deal with the cannibals.”

  “It’s stuck,” Nathan responded. “The engine won’t go any farther. I think some of the cannibal bones and shit must be stuck in the gears.”

  The Dalits continued to swarm from the surrounding area, climbing over one another like Wal-Mart shoppers on Black Friday in their rush to reach the truck. They scrambled over the roof to find the source of the transmission. More attempted to clamber up the broadcast tower.

  Military personnel with rifles appeared on the walls. Twin .50 cal machine guns guarded the gate as well. Gunfire rattled as they let loose on the cannibals, creating a new image for the saying shooting fish in a barrel.

  Sarge’s radio squelched. Then a voice came: “This is Team Three. We have a visual on the other vehicles. The oil spitters are all over them! It’s like maggots in meat.”

  “Whistle for the flies, eh?” Sarge gave Nathan a sidelong look. “Not bad.”

  “Of course.” Nathan allowed a smile. “But let’s not get congratulatory yet.”

  “We still have to broadcast that jamming frequency, right?” Sarged asked, tone offhanded.

  “What’s the matter? You don’t think this will be enough?”

  “We should do what that LOGOS woman told you. She was the one who gave you the frequency and the information in the first place. She wants to stop this clusterfuck, you said.”

  “The tower at Redwood will broadcast when I get back. Now that the trucks are shut down, we don’t require the other towers to reach this area.”

  Sarge grunted a laugh. “Looks like good is enough for you after all.”

  “O ye of little faith. Best is easily within reach. We only need to run out the clock. They have a thirty-minute window to broadcast their greatest hits. If they fail, they’re back to square one, or at least that’s the impression Lexa gave.”

  “The trucks are at the other gates,” one of the mercenaries related.

  A streak of smok
e lanced toward the antenna truck at the gate.

  BOOM!

  Chapter 84

  Headbutt

  Unstoppable, Rebel Remix - the score

  A fireball erupted at the base of the antenna mast. The tower toppled, crashing into the top of the gate. The thick steel resisted, but they would not open again until the military cleared the debris.

  “Damn it!” Nathan slammed the meat of his fist into the door. “It’s too early to stop the attraction signal. What the fuck are your people thinking?”

  As if in answer, Sarge’s radio squawked, “What the hell? That wasn’t us!”

  Sarge growled like a bear protecting its meal.

  Not them? Then—“This is Red’s doing, it has to be. No doubt LOGOS contracted him to protect their interests.” Fucking Esau, always showing up at the worst possible times.

  A red Dodge Ram Heavy Duty pickup barreled down Market from the north. Not the lifted, double-smokestack-equipped Ram that Red used as his personal vehicle, however. It swerved toward them—

  “Shit!” Sarge rammed the Ford into reverse and rocketed backward, just as the other truck hurdled past. The Ram’s brakes squealed; it left twin trails of rubber.

  The window rolled down to reveal an M4 barrel. Behind it, a flame of red hair and a grinning, red skull. Esau Seir, back from Hell.

  “He’s going to broadside us!” Nathan barked.

  Sarge launched the truck forward just as gunfire rattled, peppering the side of the Ford.

  Up Market, hard right on C Street. Safe for the moment in the residential area, the merc pulled out his M4. “It’s gonna take more than a radio frequency to deal with this fucker.”

  With a snarl, Sarge threw himself out of the truck. Along the way, he barked orders at his forces via radio.

  “I’m not here for a firefight,” Nathan muttered. “But if the Bull wants to lock horns with the Goat, let him.”

  No sense staying in the vehicle where Red Chief’s minions could surround and murder him. At least outside he had a running chance. He also had a good chance of killing the enemy. The frequency generator should provide enough protection, at least for ten to twenty yards. Red evidently carried a shielding device too if he operated in the overrun city.