Out of Darkness (Unclean Evolution Book 4)

by LC Champlin

  Ahead rose a steeple with a cross atop it, a silhouette against the stars. A church. Catholic, no doubt, judging from the architecture reminiscent of a Mexican mission on old Westerns.

  As he neared it, he flashed his Maglite across the sign out front: Iglesia de San Luis. An urge stirred in the margins of his mind. He needed to go inside. Needed to find . . . I need to find the Word.

  Ignoring his companion, he veered left, down the church’s driveway. He tossed the roll of prison clothes aside at the gate. The door stood ajar, inviting him to explore the darkness beyond. If nothing else, perhaps they could shelter here.

  He ducked through the opening. Scattered candles burned on the altar at the head of the church. Their illumination cast shaky shadows across the crucified Christ behind them.

  “Serebus!” Rodriguez barked from outside. “What are you doing? It’s not going to have anything. We need to start looking through the houses for keys.”

  “Patience.”

  The Maglite’s beam slid over the pews, along the walls with their multi-colored banners, to the front, where the Virgin presided. Behind her, the Son still hung battered and bloodied on the cross. As in all Catholic churches, they stopped the story before Easter Sunday. They preferred to wallow in the pain and guilt of the Passion.

  “No wonder Dad’s Catholic.” Not practicing, except in his love of sending others, particularly his son, on guilt trips. Wait, why did memories of childhood come with ease, but what happened over the past few weeks lay in shadow? Damned mind.

  Nathan moved down the center aisle. No books in the pew backs. They probably couldn’t afford them. Not that they needed them; the priest would read what the Church thought they needed to hear.

  Light played over the pews. Nothing seemed out of order—wait. Holes in the back of the seats. Dark liquid running into the aisle. “Here too?” His heart ached as it slammed into his ribs, but he advanced.

  “What did you find?” Rodriguez’s voice made him flinch.

  They killed them all. He tried to swallow, but coughed instead as acid invaded his esophagus. “They must have called them all here,” he breathed. “A flock to the slaughter.”

  Trying to avoid stepping in blood proved impossible; he slowed to avoid slipping. His thud-splash tread echoed in the tiny sanctuary. Mary looked down on him with sorrowful eyes.

  He halted beside an old Hispanic woman who had the wrinkled face of a dried apple. Pulse check . . . Nothing. She stared ahead, unseeing, her last sight the suffering Christ. Her husband beside her had also succumbed to his bullet wounds.

  In the next pew, a mother had tried to shield her infant. And failed. Her young toddler, a girl, lay sprawled under the seat in the puddle of blood. She stared eternally into the darkness.

  “What the f—” Rodriguez’s sudden silence spoke more than any profanity.

  Nathan turned to face her. She would act as an anchor against the maelstrom of blood and death that threatened to overwhelm him. The stench of iron and meat raked his sinuses, raising bile. Nausea seized him. Doubling over, he retched. Nothing but water came up.

  Think about anything but the bodies. One, two, three—Shivering, hand on a pew for support, he straightened. “The entire town must have been wiped out.”

  “Demons.” Rodriguez shook her head. “Monsters.” She turned on her heel and stalked out. As she crossed the threshold into the secular world, she loosed a string of profanity: “Fucking cock sucking bastards! Motherfucking shitbags, murdering—”

  Leave. Get out. But Nathan’s body turned toward the front of the church. He came here for a reason.

  Eyes on the crucifix, he advanced. A trail of blood splatters led up the steps, to the door that opened on to the podium area—the apse, did they call it?

  Pulse thudding in his ears, he marched up the steps to the door. Pause. Knock. “Hello? Is anyone there? I’m not with the killers.” What else could one say?

  Nothing.

  The door? Locked. He slammed a sidekick into the barrier, below the knob. The dry-rotted wood splintered.

  Fighting stance, light up. The beam panned over a table, chairs, and—a man slumped against the wall. Middle-aged with graying hair and weather-beaten face. A shotgun rested in his lap. He flinched when Nathan took a step forward.

  “Are you hurt?” Nathan asked. The light provided the answer: blood drenched his shirt and pants, formed a pool around him. But despite his injuries—likely a gunshot wound to his torso—he raised the shotgun, pointing it toward Nathan. The barrel wavered as the man’s strength ebbed.

  “Easy!” Nathan raised his hands. “I’m here to help you. I promise.”

  “Ayuda?”

  “Si. Help. Ayudar.” Nathan nodded as he dropped to a knee beside the victim. “Rodriguez!” Over his shoulder. “There’s a survivor!”

  “Mea culpa,” the man whispered. His gaze shifted to the crucifix on the wall in front of him.

  Boots thudded behind. “He’s alive?” Rodriguez came to Nathan’s side.

  “He speaks Spanish.”

  She nodded. “Que pasa?”

  He leaned toward her and murmured in Spanish. She held his gaze as he spoke. Then he slipped back. “Mea culpa.” In a last burst of strength, he brought the shotgun under his jaw.

  “Move!” Nathan grabbed Rodriguez’s arm, pulling her out of the room with him.

  Bang!

  The crown of the man’s head exploded, brains and blood spraying the ceiling. The rifle kicked out of the corpse’s hands. The body slumped to the side.

  Nathan couldn’t look away, couldn’t move. Blood continued to pulse from the neck’s stump.

  Chapter 5

  Revelation

  Trouble – Coldplay

  June 2, 2016—

  Albin stared at the wall as he waited for Lieutenant Colonel James Wozniak to visit him in the examination room. Gazing into space at blank surfaces had grown into a common, if not favorite, past time. Half catatonic, Albin’s mind settled into a peaceful void, burrowing into the cool sand of its inner landscape. Nothing inhabited the desert. Dragons and wolves had once prowled and fought there, but now nothing lived in the wasteland. Nothing could withstand the arctic cold.

  His fingers acted on their own, tracing the incision line on his left side, between his ribs. A tingling numbness affected this scar as well. With a grunt, he pulled his long legs up to sit cross-legged on the examination table to relieve the strain on his flank wounds. He readjusted his hospital gown. He retained his military-issue trousers, as his wounds occupied his upper body. If he closed his eyes and leveraged his power of visualization, he could see himself in his usual Armani suit, feel its second-skin level of tailoring. Even his casual wear would bring a modicum of control and comfort.

  He glanced at the cabinet to his left. The polished chrome door provided a mirror. A blond, blue-eyed man regarded him without emotion. The weight-loss he experienced during his recovery accentuated the angles of the face. The edges appeared soft, since he had removed his glasses.

  He absently brushed his hair from his forehead. He needed a haircut, among other things. Most of all, he needed to return home. However, the three-thousand miles to New York City across a cannibal-infested United States proved a daunting trip for anyone, much less someone recovering from the nearly fatal injuries he had received less than a fortnight ago.

  The room’s door opened to admit a ginger-haired, broad-shouldered man at least ten centimeters taller than Albin’s 182. He wore a disposable surgical gown over his digital camouflage fatigues. He also wore a wide grin. Lieutenant Colonel James Wozniak.

  “Albin Conrad! Long time no see. But that’s a good thing. At least when it comes to your condition.”

  “Yes, sir. I have spent the majority of my time in my room.”

  “Understandable and commendable. Your body has a lot of healing to do. I wager your psyche and emotions do too.”

  Albin looked down, nodding.
The conversation grew uncomfortable. “Is it policy that the cardiothoracic surgeon follows up with his patients at this point in recovery?”

  “What’s the matter, don’t you want to see me?”

  “What?” Albin’s head jerked up. “No, I did not intend it that way. I merely meant that if you are taking the time to see me personally, I feel rather honored.”

  “It’s all right!” Jim laughed. “I was joking. Right, let’s look at those paper cuts of yours.”

  He moved to Albin’s side to examine the suture lines on the neck: at the front where the blade entered and at the rear where it exited. Then, pushing the hospital gown aside, Jim surveyed the incisions on his patient’s side, one of which had admitted a chest tube until a week prior. Next he palpated the edges of the stab wound below it. The sites still ached when Albin moved or breathed.

  After auscultating Albin’s lungs and heart, Jim coiled his stethoscope and stepped back. “Yep, we can take out those sutures. Bet that’ll feel good.”

  “The areas are still numb.”

  “It might stay that way forever, but hopefully the nerves will regenerate. You were very lucky. If that’s the only permanent damage you end up with after getting a dagger shoved into your neck and side, you’re even luckier.” Jim flashed the grin again. “I came prepared.” He removed a square package roughly the size of a CD case from his pocket.

  “Semper paratus. My, I do feel special. I assumed you would have one of your staff—”

  “I never pass up an opportunity to speak with you, Albin. There’s not many people I can have a decent conversation with around here. I’m usually too busy or too tired anyway.”

  “My apologies for neglecting to bring you Mountain Dew.” The tradition for the past few meetings, before Albin’s injuries, involved presenting the surgeon with soda and discussing the issues of the day until he finished the bottle.

  “Ah, I should give that up anyway.” Shrugging away his addiction, Jim pulled back the paper on the suture removal kit. “It makes promises about how alert and productive it’ll make me, then it leaves me as tired as ever but with palpitations.”

  “Such are all vices.”

  “Mmhmm. All right, lay back.” Kit in one hand, he motioned for Albin to follow orders.

  Albin stretched out on his back while Jim donned gloves.

  “Have you made any plans about your next move?” the surgeon asked as he cleaned the anterior neck site with an alcohol swab. Though conversational, the tone failed to disguise the seriousness of the question.

  Albin’s skin registered pressure, but not the cold or the moisture. He gazed up at the corner of the ceiling. “I may be half British, but I do not enjoy ships. I plan to disembark as soon as possible for New York.” A hot poker of guilt burned his heart, more painful than the dagger that had pierced his side. What would he say to Janine and David Serebus? “Jim, may I speak with you frankly?”

  “What do you think we’ve been doing all this time? Hold still, I’m going to get this first suture. It might be a little uncomfortable.”

  “I cannot feel anything.” An emptiness opened, for the statement could refer to every domain of life: physical, emotional, mental.

  “So what’s your question?” Pressure on his neck and the click of scissors as Jim removed the first suture.

  “Whenever I close my eyes, I hear wolves. They are howling as if in pain. I dream of them. I have never dreamed of anything that I can later recall, yet now not only will the dreams not cease, they haunt my waking hours as well.” Again Jim encouraged Albin to reveal more of his inner turmoil than anyone save Janine could.

  Continuing down the line of sutures, Jim remained silent.

  “I am aware that it is most likely related to the trauma I sustained. But I am not a medical professional and thus I will refrain from diagnosing myself.”

  “I’m a trauma surgeon, Albin. I can put you together if you’ve been used as a knife block or target practice. I’m your man for that. But there’s no one—and that includes psych—who can put your mind together after it’s taken a tumble. All the king’s horses and all the men king’s men, right? Only you can do that. And it sounds like you have an inkling of how you’re going to go about it.”

  “I have to find the Wolf.” Albin closed his eyes as Jim reached the end of the incision.

  “You’re going to be the hunter again? Roll onto your right side so I can reach the other ones,” Jim added.

  After doing so, Albin resumed, “I have to find Mr. Serebus.” He paused as Jim moved from cleaning the scar line to removing sutures. “Do you know where he is?”

  “I thought you’d never ask! The DHS and a few other alphabet-soup agencies arrested him for his various indiscretions. They took him off the carrier a day after he arrived. As far as I know, they’re moving him to a military base in New Mexico to await trial.

  “That one’s done,” Jim informed him of the suture removal. “One more to go.”

  Chapter 6

  The Least of These

  Bleed It Out – Linkin Park

  “What . . .” Nathan swallowed as his mind replayed the man’s head vaporizing. “What did he say?”

  Rodriguez pushed past him to see the body. She froze. With a choking cough, she turned away. Shaking her head as if to throw the image from her mind, she passed Nathan to stand beside the altar. “He said he gathered the people here.” She spoke without emotion, like a machine reading text. “The murderers who did this claimed they were going to protect them from criminals who were coming through town. But after they collected everyone here, they shot them all. The people didn’t stand a chance. Then the killers shot him—the priest.” Gesture toward the headless shepherd.

  “A gut shot so he would suffer.” To get out of the church, he would have to crawl back through his flock. “No wonder he killed himself, if he thinks it was his fault. But it wasn’t. He thought he was doing what was right.” A sense of familiarity arose. Trying to do what was right, but meeting only violence. And self-destruction.

  Rodriguez stomped back down the aisle.

  “I wonder if he has keys?” The words escaped Nathan before he could stop them. Well, why not? Death had no sanctity. Returning to the corpse, he rummaged around in the blood-soaked pockets. Success!

  Nathan joined Rodriguez in the sanctuary-turned-slaughterhouse. “Here.” He handed over the keys. “We don’t have time to bury him. This will have to be his grave, as it was his life. Did you check everyone?”

  “Not yet.”

  They split up.

  Nathan paused beside a pew and its occupant. One, two three—He just needed to check for pulses.

  At the other end of the sanctuary, Rodriguez had begun evaluating the casualties. She moved with stoic dignity.

  A groan from beside Nathan. Under the seat? He squatted, aiming the light beneath. A young boy hugged his mother’s corpse. Blood covered him, but whether it came from his wounds or his deceased—judging by the bullet hole in her temple and her glassy eyes—mom, who could say?

  “Buddy, come here.” Addressing Rodriguez: “I have a live one.” Back to the boy: “Let me help you.” Dropping to a knee, Nathan maneuvered toward him between the pews. The child offered little resistance as Nathan pulled him from the corpse. Not a good sign.

  The boy—between age four to seven—groaned, tried to curl into the fetal position. “Mama—”

  Better try Spanish. “Tu mama . . . esta muerto. Lo siento.” I’m so, so sorry. “Are you hurt? Dolor?” The blood soaking the boy’s clothes made looking for an injury difficult.

  Rodriguez joined him, crouching as he moved the victim into the aisle. She spoke in Spanish to the child as she lifted his blood-stained shirt.

  “There.” Nathan pointed to a bullet hole in the victim’s thigh. It had shattered the femur, if he went by the limp, cold limb. Blood oozed from the wound. Rodriguez clamped her hand over the site.

  “Hold press
ure.” Nathan shoved to his feet. “I’ll get a tourniquet.”

  “Got it.”

  There, one of the corpses wore a belt. Nathan wrestled it off.

  “It’s too little, too late,” Rodriguez muttered.

  “We have to try, damn it!” Hands shaking, sweat dripping down his face and between his shoulder blades, Nathan leaned in. Belt around the thigh, as high as possible. “Stay with me, kid.” Tighten. The boy whimpered. His eyes rolled back and his breathing faltered. “Stay awake!” Shit, shit, shit! What the fuck were they supposed to do? Nothing short of a fully stocked trauma hospital could save him. Damn it! Why are my hands always tied when I try to save lives? “Maybe we can get him to an ER—”

  The boy spasmed, then fell limp.

  “It’s too late.” Rodriguez released the wound. It no longer bled.

  She spoke the truth: the boy’s breathing had stopped. “Wait, CPR—” Nathan lurched forward.

  “No!” Rodriguez exclaimed as she threw her arm out to stop him. “He’s bled out. He doesn’t have any blood to circulate. We couldn’t save him.” Moisture shone in her eyes, but fire blazed behind the unshed tears.

  “No.” Choking at the tightness of his throat, Nathan sat back on his heels. “No. Not again. Not again!” His fist slammed into the end of the pew.

  He squeezed his eyes shut. Then it came, an avalanche of memories, each indistinguishable from the next. Overwhelming, terrifying, raging. Behind it all, red-gold eyes blazed. Howls as if from a thousand wolves sang in his ears. The memories poured in. Slow down, slow down! They roiled around him, sucking him down into the suffocating dark. No! Not again.

  Then—then the torrent thundered away, taking his last vestige of strength. “No . . .” He opened his eyes. On his side, in the fetal position, his hands over his ears. Looking up—the sky? How did get outside?

  Shaking on his shoulder. “Serebus. Are you all right? Are you having a seizure?” Rodriguez.

  He rolled to his hands and knees. “I . . . I started to remember.”