by LC Champlin
“So,” Marvin picked up as he shoved a few half-empty water bottles into a herd of their siblings on Nathan’s side of the floor, “What are we going to do at Birk’s? Hunt around with a magnifying glass?”
The Kia rode the sidewalk on the north lane. Southbound traffic clogged both sides of the four-lane artery. San Bruno Station’s pedestrian ramp up to the railroad cut the sidewalk area in half. A street lamp grew from the concrete to further impede progress.
Attention on the surroundings, Nathan shrugged. “The government ordered us to find answers to their questions.”
“Uh-huh.” Marvin looked as if Nathan suggested he knew Elvis personally. “That sounds fake.”
“That’s our story.” Josephine flashed a smile over her shoulder at Marvin.
“You’re going to contaminate a crime scene and remove evidence.”
Albin picked up: “The forensics investigators do not know what to search for.” He inched the Kia left, into the street and half into the path of a white Civic. Its way blocked, the wannabe muscle car ground to a halt.
“But you know?”
“We found the data the last time, didn’t we?” Nathan leaned left for a view of the other driver: a twenty-something blonde who looked 100% mystified about how to deal with this development. He waved for her to merge left. “By the time they figure it out, Istiqaamah’s trail will be colder than dry ice and just as foggy.”
Ahead, the girl took the default option popular among city-dwellers: lay on the horn.
Bam! Bam-bam!
Gunshots from behind. Nathan splinted his ribs as reflex yanked him around toward the sound. No sign of the source. Road rage? Gang warfare?
Vehicles resumed bleating their desperation and rage.
“Albin—”
As if reading his employer’s mind, Albin shot it into reverse, aiming for San Mateo again. A yard from the goal, a blue Prius screeched to a halt at the intersection, blocking the route.
Screee! A white Ford F-250 flatbed plowed into the enviro-car’s tail and drove the Prius into a Corolla in front of it. They hybrid’s front crumpled like a soda can.
“There goes our exit.” Numbness spread through Nathan.
Albin pulled the Kia forward as far as he could.
“This is worse than DC gridlock,” Marvin snarled as he slammed the meat of his fist against the upholstery. “Maybe we shouldn’t have left the school.”
Albin scanned the area for escape routes. “Mr. Bridges, there is no truly safe and secure location.”
“I’m so freaking sick of running.” Marvin shook his head, sighing in resignation. “But—”
“It’s better than the alternative?” Josephine guessed.
The Prius and Corolla doors opened. Drivers scrambled out, shaken but intact. Male in the hybrid, female in the other Toyota.
The F-250’s engine roared. Built Ford tough, the truck reversed to ram the vehicle behind it. The cargo bed mauled the hood and crashed the windshield beyond. Tires smoked and screamed as the truck fought to free itself like a steer in a chute. The white beast broke free, pulled a U-turn, then scraped back through traffic under the overpass.
“Time to go.” Nathan released his seatbelt.
Nathan and Josephine exited, with Marvin and Albin following on the same side thanks to lack of space on the left.
“What the fuck!” the tattooed Corolla owner yelled at the Prius’s man-bunned driver.
Up and down the line of metal and glass cages, drivers and passengers leaned out of windows. Some exited their vehicles. Even sheep mad with panic sensed when they reached a cliff precipice. Two paths lay before them in the valley of death: Leave their vehicles and walk, ending up who knew where with no transportation. Or stay in their boxes and hope the traffic cleared, ending up as sitting ducks in gridlock for who knew how long.
With a grunt, Nathan slid into Jo’s former seat. “Albin, take my plate carrier off and put on the DHS vest. Marvin, if there was anything useful in the backseat, get it. Jo, check the trunk.”
They moved to comply as drivers around the wreck began to exit their vehicles. Some approached the two arguing accident victims.
Nathan flipped open the center console. Phone charger, receipts, headphones . . . Useless junk, just like its former owner. Wait, first aid kit. Good. Aviator sunglasses? Not sport frames, but they’d do. A little black book. After Albin handed over the vest, the book went into a carrier pouch.
Nathan swung out to join Albin and Josephine at the trunk. The attorney held a tire iron. The quarrel at the crash scene, which threatened to grow violent, occupied half Albin’s attention. Meanwhile, Jo hefted a fire extinguisher.
The trunk contained cloth grocery bags, several books, and a gym bag. A laminated picture ID hung from the black duffel. Nathan clipped the tag to his armor. Badges proved useful when fear fogged people’s perception.
Albin snagged the duffle and emptied the contents. He replaced laundry with a pack of jumper cables.
Josephine indicated the ID on Nathan’s plate carrier. “Are you planning to stop at the gym?”
“You never know.”
Albin held the bag open for Marvin to fill with salvage.
“Let’s go.” Nathan waved them northward.
Thud. Thud-thud.
He turned, and his stomach turned a back flip. Fifty yards downstream, three people—two males and a female—in beach-bum clothes stood on the roofs of vehicles. Black oil stained their fronts.
Not people.
Cannibals.
Chapter 12
Railroaded
Through the Valley - Shawn James
“Back in the car?” Marvin asked as the group retreated a pace.
“No.” Not unless they wanted the car to turn into their coffin.
Albin put himself between his employer and the threats. “We need to maintain mobility.”
Josephine chimed in: “If they attack the people who got out of their cars, we could be flooded with those things.” At least she didn’t suggest they try to rescue the drivers.
“Aw, fantastic,” Marvin groaned, pointing behind Nathan. Three more cannibals scrambled atop vehicles. They peered through the windshields, then tried biting the glass.
“High ground. Move!” Nathan pushed north, toward the railroad’s pedestrian ramp and overpass. Thanks to the broken ribs, he had to climb over a lower section of railing, closer to the monsters.
Verbal throw-down turned physical at the crash scene. Movement and sound attracted the cannibals like blood attracted sharks. Dropping to all fours, the Dalits sprang forward with powerful thrusts of their hindquarters, jumping from car to car.
Albin passed Nathan to take a defensive position at the ramp between him and the monsters.
“Go,” Nathan grunted.
Ahead, Jo and Marvin scrambled onto the ramp. Nathan struggled up, while Albin remained rear guard.
The train’s red, white, and blue stripes might point the way toward independence from cannibals. Below, several drivers attempted to pull the combatants apart. “Get back in your vehicles!” Nathan yelled. They ignored him. Fine, let their blood be on their own heads.
Thanks to her agility, Josephine slid around Nathan to take point. Ahead waited San Bruno Station’s passenger shelter. Almost there . . . Yes! Glass panels on the Huntington side, concrete above, engine on the right.
Back at the wreck, yells turned into screams, cries. No choice but to continue now.
Josephine slowed, walking backward a few steps before stopping. “They’re not chasing us,” she sighed in relief.
Marvin glanced over his shoulder before halting beside her. “They’re probably too busy killing everyone down there. Maybe their buddies are waiting to have us over for supper later.”
Nathan skirted the pair. “I’m on point. Hurry.”
“The drivers will not distract the cannibals for long,” Albin agreed, tire iron in hand.
/> Perhaps they should’ve stayed at the Armory. The amarok’s growl banished the thought. The wolves awaited their alpha; the city awaited its liberator. He needed to continue the hunt.
“Do you want this?” Jo offered Nathan the extinguisher.
No AK, but it would do. “Let’s go.” He started toward the train’s engine. “I’m going to check the other side of the train.”
Stay quiet. Ease around the nose, which bore the number 101. Phone out, front camera on, he held it around the corner as a mirror. Nothing.
He rejoined his comrades. Below, horns blared loud enough to make the station window tremble. Figures—cannibals?—hopped onto the car roofs across from the accident scene.
“Come on.” Double-time. No, not a good idea. Pain reined him in to a walk. Height and long strides still ate ground, but not like the cannibals’ lope. “Albin.” He motioned toward the rails ahead, even as Albin broke into a trot to pass him. “I’m switching to rear guard.”
“Are you going to make it?” Marvin asked as he passed.
“Just go.”
Josephine came abreast of him, looking doubtful and concerned. “Nath—”
“I said go!” God had chosen him, and He would carry the son of His right hand to victory. “What shortcuts are there?”
She pulled her phone out. “I’m looking.” And jogging.
They hurried across the overpass above San Bruno Ave. Below, vehicles packed the four-lane with only inches between bumpers, sheep queuing for the slaughter.
“We hop off up here.” Jo pointed ahead where the track curved right, before the chain-link fence that guarded a supply yard. “Then under 380.” Ah yes, the overpass ahead, which arched across Huntington. Traffic clogged it too. “We take a left down the back way into the Shops at Tanforan.”
Shouts behind them. Jo’s voice faded to a buzz. Several escapees from the monster mash at Huntington and San Mateo barreled down the tracks. They headed south. Only lunatics—or those with a mission—forged north. Wait, he’d missed the directions. Shit!
The group reached the get-off point, still five feet above the ground. Albin, Jo, and Marvin dropped to the concrete, on guard. With a snarl, Nathan eased down.
“Cross here,” he ordered as he checked both ways. Traffic at a standstill functioned like a log jam over a river.
After picking across the four-lane, they started north, up Huntington again. They passed desert scenery, and houses hailing from the 1960s and ’70s.
Two miles remaining, or twenty? Maybe a Percocet would help. But it wouldn’t take full effect for an hour. Delay aside, who knew how he’d react to the drug? It could make him too “relaxed” to continue, too wired to think, or even trigger an anaphylactic reaction.
Shadow engulfed him as they entered the overpass’s cavern. Horns and shouts echoed off the walls. “Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,” he breathed. “I will fear no evil: for Thou art with me; Thy rod and Thy staff they comfort me.” Rods and staffs would beat fire extinguishers and tire irons.
A group of pedestrians trotted past, fear in their faces. They blended in Nathan’s vision like an aerial view of a sheep flock. “Hey,” bleated a male in a button-down Hawaiian shirt, “you guys are going the wrong way!”
“No.” In the back of Nathan’s mind, the amarok locked gazes with the twenty-something. “You are. Get off Huntington if you enjoy living.”
Not breaking stride, Josephine added, “Those cannibal things are at San Mateo.”
The kid opened and closed his mouth in incomprehension before hurrying to rejoin the flock. Hell probably held a betting pool for survival times on each refugee. Whichever demon bet five minutes or less on these sheep would win a new pitchfork.
“There’s the back road to the Shops.” Jo pointed to a street branching left, westward.
“Time to find a ride,” Nathan declared.
In the distance, Marvin’s voice: “I don’t think anybody’s taking hitchhikers.”
Which vehicle in the traffic jam—a veritable dealer’s lot—would fit his needs?
“It’s not that far walking,” Josephine put in.
Sonata, Chrysler 300C, Legacy, LaCrosse . . . There, the black Chevy Avalanche in the nearest lane.
“Sir, the truck?” Albin either saw his employer’s smile or read his mind.
“Ideally.” To Jo and Marvin, “Look official.”
“Wait.” Josephine grabbed his shoulder. “You’re not going to do what I think, are you?”
“GTA?” Brows raised, Marvin crossed his arms.
Nathan turned, put a hand on Josephine’s shoulder in a mirror of her action. “After all we’ve been through, you believe I would stoop to petty crime?” No, go big or go home. “We’re with the DHS, and we’re here to help. We also happen to need a vehicle. Now, follow my lead.”
She exchanged glances with Bridges, who shrugged, then engaged Federal Reserve Economist Mode, looking sober and official.
“This should be interesting.” Josephine decided as she scaled up three notches on the ABC Action News Reporter level.
Showtime. Sunglasses on, gym badge semi-visible on his chest, authority in his bearing, Nathan marched toward the Avalanche. Behind, Albin and company spread out to surround the vehicle. The letters across their vests lent weight to the story: DHS.
Nathan circled around the Avalanche, approaching the driver’s side from the rear. He placed his hand on the side panel to “tag” the vehicle like a real law enforcement officer would. Careful. Frightened sheep could stampede or butt. Or whip out a Glock. For once, San Francisco’s stringent gun control laws might come in useful to someone other than gun runners and thugs.
A balding man in his late forties glared daggers at the Legacy ahead of him, attempting to shift traffic with willpower. Out of full view, Nathan rapped on the glass with his knuckles. The man jumped, head whipping around so fast he probably pulled a muscle. Mingled fear and anger lent a sunburned hue to his pudgy face.
“Roll down the window, sir.”
The glass lowered two inches. Idiot, all the way! “What do you want?”
“Sir, the DHS requires your vehicle. It will be returned after the Department has no further need of it.”
“You’re DHS?” The driver eyed him with suspicion.
On cue, Albin strode into view of the man’s side mirror. The black DHS across the vest arrested the driver in mid-comeback. Mouth open, he looked back at Nathan. “I still want to see a badge.”
Nathan deployed his wallet, flashed his concealed carry permit shield, and re-pocketed it, all in under two seconds. “Step out of the vehicle, sir.”
“I don’t—”
“I’m going to ask you once more to step out of the vehicle. Then I am going to remove you and charge you with obstructing DHS operations.”
Indecision flashed across Baldie’s face.
Albin rapped on the backseat window. “Exit the vehicle, sir.”
On the other side, Jo and Marvin closed in.
The window rolled down fully. A revolver snapped up to face Nathan.
Chapter 13
Blue-Light Bandits
Be Free - Zayde Wolf
Muscle memory took over: Nathan grabbed Baldie’s revolver barrel and hand, then rammed the opponent’s wrist into the window frame.
“Aaah!” Surprise and pain never failed.
The weapon came free, slipping into Nathan’s grip. “Get your hands up.” He leveled the firearm at its former owner while trying the door handle. Locked.
The window began to roll up. Son of a bitch! Staring down a barrel didn’t faze him, which meant . . . no bullets.
Nathan’s left hand snapped out, through the shrinking opening in the window. Thumb under his palm in a ridgehand, he swung in, contacting just above the idiot’s sternal notch. Accuracy over force. The man gagged, his hands going to his throat.
Nathan opened the door from insid
e, then pulled. But so did the driver. Then the door flew open as Albin put his strength beside Nathan’s. Baldie struggled toward the opposite door, half blind from gag-reflex tears, but Josephine and Marvin appeared beside the exit.
Albin darted forward, caught him by the collar and left arm. Baldie half fell out of the truck. With a snarl, the attorney shoved him against the side of the vehicle, twisting the driver’s arm behind him in a hammerlock like a deputy restraining a suspect. “Be still or be charged with resisting arrest.”
His prey ceased struggling, trembling instead.
Marvin approached on the blond’s right, while Josephine came around the front of the truck.
Nathan stepped forward. Terror twisted Baldie’s features. Primal pleasure flared deep in Nathan’s heart. No. Reason asserted itself. Scared people did stupid, dangerous things. “Calm down, sir.” Easy tone to calm the sheep. “I’m sorry if we intimidated you. My name is Vic.” In case he read the gym badge. “My associate is Albert. What’s your name, sir?”
“R-ray.” His eyes bulged a fraction less.
“Nice to meet you, Ray. We need your vehicle for official business. I understand why you pulled a weapon on me, and I’m willing to overlook it if you cooperate. It’s not loaded anyway, is it.” A check of the revolver’s cylinder confirmed the theory. The weapon held antique status: a Smith & Wesson Victory Model, with a lanyard swivel attached to the bottom of the grip. “This is a good quality weapon. Was it your grandfather’s?”
Nod, groan. Ray squeezed his eyes closed, temporal arteries pulsing.
Marvin and Jo looked on as if watching a movie. Rotten tomatoes would fly later, no doubt.
“Pat him down. Then let him up.”
Albin raised a brow of doubt but complied. No dishonorable steel appeared on the search, so the attorney stepped back. With an exhalation of relief, Ray began massaging his beleaguered arm. He gulped as he glared at the assembled.