Ways of Darkness (Wolves of the Apocalypse Book 2)

by LC Champlin

  “Sir,” the blond resumed when they reached the relative privacy of the bedroom. “I understand your desire to avoid taking opioids, but losing consciousness from pain, or developing pneumonia from shallow breathing, are no less dangerous.”

  Nathan leaned back, propping up a wall. “Am I supposed to drug myself in the middle of this disaster? That’s brilliant, Albin. I’m sure I’ll be quite an asset while I’m stupefied from pills.”

  Albin stared, his thumb against his left temple.

  What’s wrong with me? Nathan sighed. “I’m sorry, Albin.”

  “Pain is frustrating. It can also cloud judgment. The higher the pain level, the more difficult it will be to control. You also need to see Jim soon to be reassessed.”

  Return to the government? Yes . . . in due time. Nathan’s head thunked back against the wall. He elbow-pinned the beans as he reached for the plate carrier’s fasteners. “I’ll trade you.”

  Motioning him away, Albin unlocked them himself. “The level of protection is enviable, but the weight is a detriment.”

  Glaring at the wall rather than punching it, Nathan bit back a snarl. He was the pack leader, shouldering the weight of leadership. Yet now he couldn’t even shoulder his own armor. If he fell to the level of a burden, he may as well surrender to the cannibals.

  “Sit.” Albin nodded to the office chair nearby. It accompanied a desk and a computer.

  Nathan eased down. Before he could get the plate carrier half off, Albin lifted it clear. Then he traded his vest for it.

  “Thank you. Go help Jo and Marvin.”

  “Yes, sir. The agent who interrogated me provided a list of evidence the government desires.” Albin dropped a Percocet on the desk before leaving.

  Now, what about this exciting new pain in his center of mass? Nathan pulled his shirt up. He prodded leftward along the edge of his ribcage—and almost went to one knee with the stab of fire and ice. Nausea turned his stomach upside down. Demon-bird wings flapped in his ears.

  He grabbed the desk for support, beside the Percocet. Half a pill. Throwing it into his mouth, he chewed it. Bitter.

  The wolf snarled as the bird crowed.

  Chapter 16

  Mystery, Inc.

  Dear Doubt - Michael Schulte

  “Percocet better work quickly.”

  Back on went the soft armor, but without the Velcro fastenings. This allowed the veggie ice packs onto Nathan’s injuries.

  He turned to the computer tower on the desk. The power outage rendered the machine useless, but he could still pull the hard drive and collect external storage devices. “I need a screwdriver,” he muttered.

  He headed into the kitchen—and halted at the scene before him: Bridges constructing a multi-decker sandwich from the contents of Birk’s pantry and fridge.

  Mayo-covered knife in hand, the economist looked up. “How’re you doing? Did you find anything?”

  “I see you tackled the search wholeheartedly.”

  “It’s just going to waste. Besides, I didn’t get supper.”

  Josephine rounded the corner opposite Nathan, and also halted to stare. “You’re eating food from a crime scene?”

  “It’s not like there’s going to be damning evidence in his lunch meat. You’re not one to talk, anyway.”

  “I—”

  “You were feeding his fish.”

  Nathan leaned against the counter as emotion drained from him. What a team. “One talking dog away from doubling for those meddling kids in their psychedelic Fiat.” Then again, the teens could solve a mystery in a twenty-minute episode.

  “As you are already familiar with the food stocks here, Mr. Bridges,” Albin began, now at Nathan’s left, “gather supplies. We need to be prepared for the worst.”

  “Sure.” Marvin reached for a bottle of hot sauce marked Zombie Maker: Brain-Melter Hot.

  Josephine brushed past him. “No rush.”

  He upended the bottle over his sandwich. A pair of keys bounced onto his Swiss cheese. “What the heck?” He picked them up with thumb and forefinger. “I think I found a Clue, Fred.”

  Bingo. “Find where they fit, Shaggy.”

  Josephine shot up from where she hunted under the sink. Four cans of Raid Hornet Spray rolled across the counter as she abandoned them in favor of snatching the keys from Bridges. “They look like they’re to a padlock or safe.”

  Nathan moved to the next drawer. A box of flatheads in varying sizes waited.

  ++++++++++++

  The headache drilled its way through Albin’s left eye and further into his brain.The Tylenol he had found in the cabinet would not take effect for another forty-five to sixty minutes.

  He shouldered the backpack, which he had set on the counter. The nearby Raid spray would make a suitable close- to mid-range weapon. Organophosphates trumped Mace in stopping and staying power. He slid a can into one of the plate carrier’s pouches beside the World War II revolver.

  Bridges held a bottle of water toward him. “Here.” A flock of dry goods waited for the economist to load them into the duffle bag.

  “Thank you.” Albin lowered his backpack to insert the water. “What is your plan, Mr. Bridges?”

  “My plan?” Stepping back from the counter, the other man let out a deep breath. His wide-set brown eyes unfocused for a moment. “I’m going to load these and find the lock to the keys while I eat my sandwich. After that . . . Well, this is exciting, don’t get me wrong, and I’ve always wanted an adventure—to prove I was up to it, you know. But now I just want to go somewhere safe for a little while. I can’t go home yet, I know.” His shoulders dropped as he returned to the foodstuff. Four centimeters shorter than Albin’s 183 and with a medium build, he suddenly looked every bit the stereotypical economist—soft, unassuming, uncertain. His rumpled, white button-down, half open and showing his undershirt, added to the impression.

  “Where is home?”

  “I live in DC. I’m out here working on a project for my economics Ph.D.”

  “Washington DC is in no better state than San Francisco.”

  “I thought the government would protect us, but that hasn’t panned out. What’s your and Nathan’s plan?”

  Excellent question. “In aim, it is identical to yours. We keep our options open regarding means, however.”

  “Mm.” Mr. Bridges resumed packing the duffle.

  Albin turned to leave, then paused. “Mr. Bridges, you’ve performed remarkably well during this disaster. I cannot promise the route Mr. Serebus and I take will be safe, but if you wish to accompany us, you are welcome.”

  The economist stopped packing, a beef-jerky bag in hand. He gave a crooked smile. “Thanks. We’ll see how it plays.”

  Albin handed him a Raid can. “This will be effective against human opponents.”

  As Albin strode from the 1980s cupboards and counters and into the back living room, Bridges’s words echoed in his mind: If we want the files, and if the government wants them too, and if the terrorists were trying to get their paws on them at Doorway Pharm . . .

  Albin opened the glass sliding door. A charcoal grill, garden hose, recycling bin of aluminum cans, and patio set with two mismatched chairs composed the garden’s contents. Trees belonging to Brentwood Park, which abutted the rear of Birk’s lot, guarded the patch of grass. As with most California homes, a two-meter-tall wooden fence guarded the property. A padlock secured the rear gate. Albin hefted the chairs, carrying them to within two meters of the back fence.

  In the west, the sun neared the horizon. Storm clouds roiled in the distance, casting the surroundings in an otherworldly blue-gray glow. He squinted into the twilight. The hairs on the back of his neck stood erect. Something more than the ambient chaos disturbed him.

  If a hostile force wanted to enter the house, they would scout the area, then choose the simplest, least-protected door to breach. The patio’s glass sliders fit the criteria. On the other hand, a vehicle co
uld deploy a strike team able to batter down the front door and storm the residence before the occupants could react.

  “I need an alarm.” His gaze drifted to the recycling bin.

  After completing his project, he slipped inside and closed the slider behind him. Wait. He opened it a centimeter to allow the garden’s sounds to reach him inside the residence.

  Inside, he stopped at the office / bedroom, where Mr. Serebus had dismantled the tower and ransacked the room. He had made excellent headway in five minutes.

  “I have the hard drive.” Mr. Serebus pointed to the naked drive, which lay on the desk. Four USB drives and an external hard drive accompanied it. He returned to riffling through a stack of folders.

  “Excellent. I installed an alarm line in the rear. I am going to check the building’s fore.”

  “Thank you. Check back—”

  “In a minute or less. Yes, sir.” He turned to go.

  “Albin.”

  “Sir?”

  “I’m uncomfortable spending the night here.” Mr. Serebus ran a hand through his unruly hair. “It’s approaching forty-eight hours since this disaster began. Even law-abiding people are going to be desperate and scared enough to turn on their neighbors.”

  “At which base do you wish to spend the night?” Marines, Armory, or police station?

  “My own.” The predatory grin emphasized his intent.

  “Then I suggest we hurry. We have less than an hour before full darkness.” Mr. Serebus would commandeer a safehouse if he chose not to co-opt a government installation.

  “The authorities should arrive soon, wouldn’t you say?”

  “As GPS signal is unobstructed here, I would agree.”

  Albin crossed to the other side of the house. The second bedroom, really a den with a bathroom, occupied this half. The garage entrance opened opposite the den.

  He padded past Behrmann in her searching of the office. Fish tanks did indeed occupy a wall of the room. Her nose remained buried in a stack of papers as he slipped into the garage.

  Flicking his torch on, he panned the light across the detritus Birk called possessions. Landscaping implements, outdoor recreation gear, and scrap lumber littered the place. Aha, a bat lay among the debris. While not his weapon of choice, it would do.

  Twilight filtered through the garage door’s row of windows. He picked his way over to peer out. The deserted street looked back.

  He stepped to the side door. With a deep breath, he turned the handle while he held the bat at the ready. Looking both ways revealed all calm on the home front. Another fence divided the alley between Birk’s house and his southwestern neighbor. A bolt latch barred the door to the front garden.

  Albin unlatched the gate and crept through. Beyond, the grass was not greener on the other side, but neither did it harbor hostile forces. At the next house’s window, he peeked in. Darkness.

  On to the house on the northeast side. Its interior also lay dark and still. Breathing a sigh of relief now would prove premature, however.

  As he returned to the garage entrance, he reached for the button on the shoulder mic.

  Bzzzzz—

  Insects? It sounded familiar, like . . . the drone.

  Chapter 17

  It’s the Law

  I Want it Free - Kongos

  The door to the garage flew open. Albin slammed it closed, then threw home the deadbolt. He carried a baseball bat in one hand.

  “What’s the matter?” Nathan broke off his conversation with Jo in the den to come to his adviser’s side. Minutes marked the lifespan of peace nowadays.

  “The drone has returned, sir.” Albin took deep, calming breaths.

  “That thing again?” The reporter paled as she shouldered the backpack she’d salvaged from Birk’s belongings.

  Images of the flaming Suburban intruded on Nathan’s thoughts. “Marvin!” he called, looking at the ceiling as if he could see into the attic.

  Outside, cans jangled. Albin threw an arm out to push Nathan and Josephine from the yard’s line of sight.

  “Hostiles?” Nathan murmured. He looked about, analyzing the house’s layout, internal structure, and defensibility, as Albin did the same. Hiding in a house with only improvised weapons at their disposal offered few choices.

  But if the wolves at the door thought they’d find three little pigs inside, they would soon learn another pack had beaten them to the bacon.

  Nathan risked a peek around the corner. No bullets hammered his skull. No men in combat gear exploded through the glass slider. “If people and not a cannibal or dog set off the alarm, they’ll expect us to leave through a door.”

  “The window in the other bedroom,” Jo supplied.

  Albin tapped his bat against his leg. “The drone will spot any escape attempt. It may even be equipped with infrared cameras.”

  “Come on.” Nathan motioned Albin and Jo across the gap to the kitchen. “Unless anyone has a shotgun, there’s nothing we can do about the drone. It may not even be here to watch us.” Hope strayed into delusion during desperate times.

  Albin raised a brow of supreme doubt before stealing a glance around the corner across from the bedroom. A flashlight beam blazed through the front window, slicing through the gloom a foot from the attorney, who jerked back.

  “Hey, guys.” Marvin’s pale face appeared past the bedroom’s doorframe. “Any time you want to book it out of here . . .”

  The light slid to the other window. The three lunged across the hall and into the bedroom.

  “Window.” Josephine nodded to the exit as she swept the desk’s contents aside.

  Marvin already moved for it. They hoisted it open as Albin watched the front window and Nathan guarded the door.

  “Looks clear,” Jo whispered.

  Nathan stepped to her side. “We need to get into the neighbor’s yard.”

  Glance back—Ahg! Stars flickered across his vision as the move caught rib fractures at the perfect angle for agony. Nails biting into his palms, he gritted his teeth. He couldn’t breathe or yell. He couldn’t attack the enemy. Or could he?

  “They have weapons.” Soon they will be my weapons. Ever the Giver of gifts, God provided for His conqueror. “I’ll meet you in the park out back. Go.” About face, double-time back through the kitchen.

  “Mr. Serebus—”

  “I’m coming!” Josephine whispered.

  A peek around the corner showed no movement in the front yard. He ducked across to the den and the garage entrance. Stubborn as a pit bull, the news hound dogged his heels. Very well; she had proven herself at Doorway.

  Into the garage. His P2X’s LED beam washed over boxes, golf clubs, tennis rackets, yard implements—There, a short-handled spade.

  While he grabbed it, Josephine pulled an 8 and a 9 iron from the nearby golf bag.

  “That’s the only real use for golf clubs,” he remarked.

  One in each hand, she tested their weight. “They’re called clubs for a reason.”

  Spade over his shoulder, he edged left for a view outside. “Watch where I’m not watching.” He leaned out. A gust of wind grabbed the door and pulled. Overhead, clouds assembled like an army massing for war. No drones occupied the airspace.

  The fence gate blocked the view of the front yard. One, two, three, four. Ah, the Percocet began to work. A vague feeling of . . . buoyancy let him float over the worst of the pain.

  On to the gate. He squinted through the quarter-inch gap between barrier and frame. Suburbia looked back, sleepy and oblivious. He reached for the latch. Click, creeeak! Couldn’t Birk perform any home maintenance?

  All clear. Josephine tapped him on the shoulder and pointed. Nathan pushed her back as a male in dark clothing stalked away from them along the house fronts. He shone his flashlight into each window, a handgun ready for action as well. Dusk concealed the details, but his upper body’s bulk and angles indicated a tactical vest.

  Only one
interloper. More likely roamed the neighborhood or lurked in the shadows like roaches.

  Light blinded Nathan. Blinking, he dodged back into the garage. Josephine opened her mouth, but he held up a hand.

  “Department of Homeland Security! Come out slowly with your hands raised,” the invader ordered.

  “Is it?” Josephine hissed.

  Nathan gripped the door handle with one hand, the other white-knuckled on the spade. The authorities might have come for them. Then again, hadn’t he posed as a DHS officer less than an hour ago? Called blue-light bandits, some criminals played cops to gain a citizen’s confidence.

  One, two, three, four. “Don’t shoot!” He pulled the door open enough to stick the spade head out. No bullets tore through the steel. “How do I know you’re DHS?”

  “Come out and I’ll show you my identification. I’m here to investigate the location of suspects: three males and one female.” That matched his team. GPS could have provided the DHS with the civilians’ location.

  Then another male voice: “Come the fuck out or I’ll send the K9 in!”

  Barking, whining—a dog. Not looters, then. And mercenary squads usually didn’t include dogs, right? They didn’t use exploding goats or runaway dump trucks on a regular basis either, though.

  He dropped the shovel, then sidled through the gate with hands up, into the sight picture of the two officers in the next yard. Over five hundred lumens of LED power seared into his retinas. Blinking, squinting, he lowered his left hand enough to block the glare. True to the invader’s words, a German Shepherd strained at its leash, teeth and eyes flashing. DHS in white letters marked its and the men’s vests.

  “Don’t shoot.” Two steps backward placed the gate in a position for Josephine to exit and ambush these men if the situation turned sour.

  “Get on the ground,” the K9’s partner ordered, pulling his Shepherd back onto its hind legs. The other officer’s semi-auto and flashlight followed his suspect’s movements as Nathan eased down.