Ways of Darkness (Wolves of the Apocalypse Book 2)

by LC Champlin

  “Yes.”

  A final squeeze, then the hand retracted. “Never forget it. Now move.” Sarge shoved him toward the door Esau and Albin had taken.

  They trooped down a hall, into an office that must have belonged to the manager. Pictures of dogs adorned the walls. The standard Ikea desk held a computer monitor, a calendar blotter, and two neat stacks of paper.

  Keeping between the door and Nathan, Sarge pushed his charge to the manager’s side of the desk. Across it Sarge spread a satellite photo that doubled as a map. “Red Chief wants you to straighten up this area.” His pen, which doubled as a kubotan that could punch through a skull, descended on Redwood Shores. Jutting from the east side of El Camino Real, the spit of concrete and houses extended two and a half miles into the Bay. A body of water, Belmont Channel, cut down the peninsula’s center, with lagoons and waterways supporting the community’s aquatic theme.

  Sarge rumbled his annoyance at acting as tour guide. “Listen close, because I’m not repeating myself. According to Forbes, Redwood Shores was one of America’s top selling luxury neighborhoods in 2009. It hasn’t changed much in seven years.”

  “How many residents?”

  “Normally, there are about eighty-thousand, but now that it’s less than 20K after—”

  “This weekend. Yes. Red Chief said he wants this place for a colony or fiefdom. What’s so special about it, other than its wealth?”

  Sarge stared at him. “That’s not important to your job.”

  “It is if I’m to give you full access to what Red Chief wants.” And if Nathan wanted to make full use of the location for his own base. “But let me guess . . .” He scanned the map. “San Carlos Airport.” He jabbed a pencil at the runways a quarter mile southwest of the neighborhood. “Water treatment facility.” End of the spit. “Radio station.” Just north of the water treatment plant. “Tech and biopharmaceutical company headquarters.” On the north side of the Belmont Channel, with more at Redwood’s base. Wait, that area . . . “Oracle’s headquarters is nearby, and south are Google and Facebook, among others.”

  Sarge grunted in the affirmative.

  The proximity to the tech giants meant many of the residents likely held science backgrounds. Nathan stroked his goatee to conceal a smile. “A wise choice for a base of operations.”

  “No shit.”

  The analog clock on the wall ticked off five minutes of Q&A. Nathan glanced at it for the fifteenth time. Drumming his fingers on the table as he tapped his foot, he gave a nod. “I have an idea, but I need resources. Don’t worry,” he forged on as Sarge’s expression darkened, “it won’t strain the Red Devil Goats.” Half-smile of camaraderie.

  “Just remember you’re our bitch, not the other way around.”

  That remained to be seen. “I require my adviser, Albin Conrad, to assist me. Red Chief’s coffee must be ready by now.”

  “Do you need a babysitter to hold your hand and change your diaper?” Sarge’s expression remained in its perpetual state of disapproval.

  “If this project is important, your leader needs to supply me with the necessary people.”

  As if in reply, the door opened to admit Albin. He appeared unharmed. The intelligence that normally sparkled in his eyes had returned for the most part.

  Nathan’s hand spasmed open to reach toward his friend—then it closed. A smart enemy used relationships against its opponents. “Albin. We were discussing the Goats’ holdings.”

  Coming to his employer’s side, Albin nodded once, gaze on the map. “The fiefdom.”

  “With our help, it will be.” The comfort of familiarity, of an ally, eased Nathan’s tension a notch.

  After he brought Albin up to speed, the adviser asked a few questions to clarify points, then fell silent. Haggling, compromising, and planning followed. Throughout, Sarge remained as difficult to work with as half-dried cement.

  At the conclusion, Sarge stepped back from the table. “Don’t waste time. You’re going out there ASAP,” he declared as he moved to the exit.

  As soon as the door closed, Nathan gripped his friend’s shoulders, forced the blue gaze to meet his brown. “Albin, are you all right? If they hurt you, I swear—”

  “No, sir. I am unharmed.” The light of defiance flickered again in Albin’s eyes.

  “Excellent.” Grinning, Nathan gave him a pat on the bicep. “Now, it’s up to us to make Redwood Shores a colony.”

  Chapter 67

  Redwood Shores

  Run - AWOLNATION

  The Dodge Ram 1500 swerved around wreckage on its journey through the warzone. In the rear, in the shelter of the utility truck cap, Nathan braced himself against the opposite wall with his feet.

  He rechecked his list by the afternoon sunlight that filtered through the side windows’ frosted glass. The plan would work. God had sent him here to take victory by the horns and offer it on the altar.

  Across from him hunched Albin, studying the walls of their transport. He looked uncomfortable in his “costume.” Jeans, long-sleeved gray sweater, and a tan jacket presented a casual but influential look. The jacket covered a SIG Sauer P250 Compact in his waistband and the DHS bullet-resistant vest under his shirt.

  Nathan ran his thumb along the seam of his acid-wash jeans. The Blackhawks had pockets, durability, and tourniquets. They did not fit the image of an escaping rich twit, though. And he drew the line at skinny jeans. The black T-shirt and leather jacket presented an edgier persona. The DHS vest beneath them hugged his ribs enough for support but not pain, while a chunky Rock Island GI Standard .45 fit snug against his appendix.

  Neither of their weapons held ammo. Yet.

  The truck turned right, into a parking lot. Nob Hill Foods, the sign declared. This section of the commercial zone also housed restaurants and banks.

  When the vehicle stopped, Nathan maneuvered to the exit and pushed the doors open. Squinting in the Cali sun, he slid on a pair of pilot shades and grabbed his satchel before easing to the asphalt. Behind him came Albin, also with a manpurse over his shoulder.

  Nathan advanced to the cab, where the mercenary grunt handed a paper bag through the driver’s window. The white work truck pulled away, heading back down Redwood Shores Parkway.

  Taking cover with Albin at the corner of the shopping center, Nathan produced two fifty-count boxes of .45ACP Remington hollow points from the paper bag. Albin accepted one box, then began thumbing rounds into his SIG’s magazine. The other went to Nathan, who followed suit. After stashing the ammo boxes in their messenger bags, the two invaders set off north up Redwood Shores Parkway.

  Above, beyond earshot and out of sight in the blue sky, the mercenaries’ drone watched.

  Trees and shrubs shaded the left side of the street, while fences guarded the houses on either side. Birds chattered in the leaves, offering a dissonant accompaniment to the sirens that wailed in the distance.

  Sweat slid down Nathan’s neck as he moved out at a speed-walk. Half a Percocet did its job. While he and Albin kept their hands close to their pistols, the weapons remained concealed.

  Past Heron Court Apartments, Bridge Parkway, and Cringle Drive. No cars passed. Scattered bands of cannibals roamed side streets, but stealth carried the humans by in safety.

  All routes through Redwood Shores fell along the spectrum of risky to deadly. His course qualified as fairly risky, since the fences limited escape routes, and enemies could drive up to assault them. Other paths required too much time or dropped them too far from the target.

  A mile and a half of trudging brought them to Marlin Drive. Eleven houses down, at its intersection with Davit Lane, two cars blocked the road. With this in mind, Nathan and Albin overshot the street, opting to hop—or in Nathan’s case, struggle—over the fence that paralleled the parkway, then cut through a yard to reach Keelson Circle.

  Nathan breathed a sigh of relief when they entered suburbia: medium to large houses with yards and manicured hedges. Not
the mansions of Woodside, certainly, but the homes here would still sell in the multiple millions.

  According to the Goats’ map, the target house lay on the southern half of Keelson Circle.

  Shading his eyes, Nathan looked down the street. “There.” A cream, orange-trimmed two-story with a hedgerow instead of a fence around the front yard. Despite their initial impression as a squad of wild raiders, the Goats collected detailed intelligence on their territory.

  One, two, three—Nathan headed for the unoccupied house beside the American Pie residence. Through the picket gate, up the steps. Rapping his knuckles against the door, he called, “Hello? Is anyone there? I’m here to help. Hello?” Feigning disappointment, he returned to Albin on the sidewalk.

  “We have little time,” the adviser commented, playing his role. “Perhaps that one?” He pointed to the Creamsicle-trim house.

  Nathan tramped to the door, then knocked as if he’d come to ask if they had a moment to hear about the Book of Mormon.

  “Hello? I’m here to help, but I need your help first. I’m not going to hurt you, I promise. Hello? Is anybody there?”

  Something thudded deep in the house, like a door shutting. With his ear to the panels, voices reached him.

  “We’ve wasted enough time already,” he addressed Albin, who joined him on the doorstep. “Somebody may have already broken into the truck and stolen the water.”

  “Perhaps we should return to the vehicle and await assistance?”

  They spoke at just above conversation volume. Anyone on the other side of the door would hear every word.

  “Maybe. It’s too bad. These people need help.”

  “As do we.”

  Even if this house’s residents stayed holed up like rabbits, another house would surely open its doors. If not, they moved on to Target B.

  Nathan gave it one more try: “If you can hear me, we can help you.” Nothing. A shame, since this home’s resident provided an ideal mark.

  They headed down the sidewalk toward the next dwelling.

  Movement in the shrubs across the street—

  Ssssaaaahhh!

  Nathan and Albin hopped over the hedge-fence, which came to knee height, and dropped to the grass. From the foliage on the opposite side of Keelson emerged a cannibal. A day ago, she had probably driven her kids to soccer practice in her Escalade, or so the active wear and ponytail hinted. Her—rather, its—sallow, plague-pocked face scanned the street, eyes locked in place like a snake’s. A trickle of oil rolled from the corner of its mouth.

  A cannibal. What an excellent boon to the plan!

  The Dalit ambled through the yard’s open picket gate and onto the sidewalk. Throwing its head back, it hissed again.

  The sound grew tangible, running its nails over Nathan’s skin. He shuddered. Beside him, Albin stopped breathing.

  A window in the house behind the Dalit slid open to reveal—Shit, the shrubs’ branches blocked the view.

  “Mama?” A boy’s voice.

  An involuntary intake of breath sent shards of pain into Nathan’s sides. “Stay in there, kid,” he murmured.

  “Mama? Are you coming in?”

  The window opened fully and a boy around the age of four—Davie’s age—clambered out. At the sound and movement, the cannibal soccer mom wheeled. It and the boy stared at each other for a breath that stretched into eternity.

  “Circle around,” Nathan whispered to Albin.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Grunting, Nathan struggled to his feet. “Get back in the house, kid! That’s not your mom. Now!”

  The child only gaped.

  “Damn it.” Over the shrub and onto the sidewalk. Here Nathan could maneuver. “Cannibal, over here!” Elbows braced against his sides, he clapped and whistled. “Come get me!”

  The commotion snapped the Dalit’s attention to him. It took a step forward, paused, then took another. Did it know the child would make an easier target? Or would it judge him more appealing due to his larger size?

  “That’s right. Come on.”

  “Hey, you!” A female’s voice, coming from the Creamsicle house. “Come here!”

  Him or the cannibal? He couldn’t risk looking behind.

  As the Dalit approached at stalking speed, Nathan sidled along the sidewalk. A parked car worked for a shield. The monster dropped to all fours. It lunged.

  Hugging his sides with his left arm, keeping his weapon-hand free, he jogged toward the house of the open door. He risked a glance back. Jaw still dangling in surprise, the kid looked to the left, then began climbing back into the house as if in a trance. Albin’s doing?

  “Oy! Here!” The attorney yelled as he slid from the bushes across the street. He lobbed a yard gnome, which sailed through the air to shatter ahead of the charging cannibal. The monster missed a step.

  Nathan hopped the hedgerow to pound up the walkway to the Creamsicle door.

  “Come on!” A tweenage girl waved him in.

  The Dalit cleared the car as he barreled over the threshold.

  Slam!

  On the other side of the barrier’s peephole, the cannibal drew up short on the front porch. She—it slapped both hands on the door and began feeling it. The doorknob rattled as the monster tugged.

  Click-click. Lock and bolt secure.

  Somewhere out there Albin still—

  “All right, buddy, turn around slowly with your hands up.”

  Brows furrowed in confusion, Nathan turned, hand still on the bolt—and came face to face with a chambered Louisville Slugger.

  Chapter 68

  Meet the Family

  New Blood - Zayde Wolfe

  The woman who held the bat looked as if she’d played pro-league ball. She wore her dyed-blonde hair in a braid. Aside from the baseball bat over her shoulder, she looked like the moms at the playgroup Janine took Davie to: tight jeans, V-neck sleeveless top.

  “Easy now.” Back against the door, Nathan raised his hands.

  “Don’t move.” Five yards away, a preteen girl with neon-dyed hair trained a lever-action rifle at his head.

  “I’m not moving, see?” He lifted his shades to appear less intimidating. The Goats hadn’t mentioned firearms in the house. Dangerous times could turn even sheep into dangerous beasts. Scared people did unpredictable, stupid things.

  “What do you want?” the woman demanded, shifting her stance. Determination burned in her brown eyes.

  A mother bear. “Ma’am, I’m here to help.” Hands up, Nathan kept his voice even. The neighborhood’s informal second in command wouldn’t trust him easily.

  “Sure you are.” This from the tweenager who’d invited him to the party. She resembled her mother right down to her murder-glare, except she wore two braids and a T-shirt. She held a dandelion weeder like a spear, its forked, forged-steel tongue as deadly as the Serpent’s. “We’re not stupid, you know.”

  “I dunno,” the younger girl snapped. “You might be, since you let him in.”

  “I couldn’t just leave him—d”

  “Girls!” their mother cut them off.

  The door handle jiggled again. Thud. He risked looking out the peephole. Head down, the cannibal fumbled with the knob.

  “No,” he replied in a tone usually heard from horse whisperers, “you certainly are not stupid. But you are trapped.”

  “She’ll wander off eventually,” the mother responded as if meeting one of her offspring’s arguments.

  “Let me reach into my bag”—glance at his satchel—“and get my radio. Albin, my friend out there, can lure the cannibal away. Then I can use your spear to . . . deal with the thing.” He met the dandelion weeder’s dual-point stare.

  “You just want my weapon.”

  “What’s your next step?” he addressed Mother Bear.

  “As soon as Jennifer leaves, you’re going back to wherever you came from, unless you want to be a homerun.” Bat wiggle. Frown.

>   “Who is Jennifer?”

  Silence heavy as a New York City phone book dropped. The women exchanged glances.

  “Is Jennifer . . .” He pointed over his shoulder.

  More silence.

  “I see. I don’t know how experienced you are with those things, but they will kill anything in their path. It—she—was about to attack her own son.”

  “I’m sure she wouldn’t.” The mom shook her head. Denial was more than a river in Egypt, and it held more danger than the Nile’s crocodiles.

  “Listen to me—sorry, what’s your name? I’m Nathan.”

  “Amanda,” came the automatic response. Then anger flashed in her eyes at her slip.

  “Amanda, if we don’t act now, more people will get hurt. If one of those things bites you, you become one as well. You’ll attack your friends, your family.”

  “No, they’re just sick. The news said they’re affected by some sort of drug or illness.”

  “Whatever the cause, they’re still infecting people.”

  “Then the government can just quarantine them until . . . until they find a cure. We haven’t found a cure for HIV or schizophrenia yet, either, but we don’t kill—”

  “Mom,” the tween put in. The mingled dismay and frustration in her face and the drop of her shoulders indicated they’d danced this tango before. “Those things are dangerous. Chas said he saw leaked news footage of them jumping on people in Union Square and killing them. The Army’s shooting them!”

  “They’re zombies!” piped up the preteen with the lever-action. Age eight? Ten? Hard to tell when they got older than five. She had pink- and green-streaked blonde hair, and wore a Black Veil Brides tank top.

  “Worse than zombies, actually. Trust me.” He winced.

  “Is that how you got all beat up?”

  “Partly.”

  “Cool!”

  “Could you please lower that before you shoot my eye out?” Nathan motioned for her to lower the Red Ryder