Out of Darkness (Unclean Evolution Book 4)

by LC Champlin

  Then the firing ceased. Evidently the others had taken down the last attackers. Now what? The letdown came like the moment after the last Christmas present on Christmas Day.

  Again he kept low as he trotted into the desert on the Humvee’s side of the road. North, judging by the position of the Big Dipper. The crescent moon, almost in its new phase, offered little illumination. Probably only ten or fifteen miles to the next town. Ysidro, she called it? He could reach it in a few hours on foot. There he could find help. But first he needed to help his partner.

  Turning back to face the road, he dropped to one knee. Voices speaking Spanish reached him as men moved about in the headlights.

  Rodriguez’s voice cut over them, giving orders. Probably something along the lines of, Put down the guns or I’ll shoot you.

  He eased in. Approaching from behind the truck kept the locals in the light and him in the dark. And the darkness loved the wolf. The men had their backs to him and their rifles on Rodriguez. She covered them with her MP5.

  “Drop the weapons,” Nathan barked. “I’ll shoot!”

  They spun, leveling said weapons at him rather than dropping them. Then one wheeled back to face Rodriguez. A New-Mexican standoff.

  Chapter 10

  Toil and Perseverance

  Daylight – Foxworth Hall

  Back in the bunk area, Albin slid into his coffin-sized bunk. He pulled the curtains around it to block the light and the world. Lying on his back, he pressed his fingers into his temples, closing his eyes.

  Perhaps Jim had a point. The surgeon had proven accurate in his advice previously. But rather than plunging into the deep end of socializing, Albin would ease into contact with other living beings. With a sigh, he opened the curtains, then maneuvered down.

  When the civilians had first come aboard the aircraft carrier as evacuees, the captain had ordered the Sailors to escort them when traveling between areas of the ship. Parents with small children were not permitted to carry the young ones themselves, as the halls of the ship could prove treacherous to those not experienced in the environment. But gradually, as the days turned into a week, and then a week and a half, the captain decided that if the civilians avoided the restricted areas and adhered to safety protocol, they could earn more freedom.

  Because Albin had spent most of the last ten days in hospital, he still required an escort. At the moment, a Sailor guided Albin toward the storage unit the crew had turned into a kennel.

  “What kind of dog do you have?” the young man asked.

  “A German Shepherd.”

  The Sailor said more, but it turned to static in Albin’s ears. Why did people feel the need to make small talk? But the Conrad code dictated he show respect to deserving individuals. Well-timed yeses and nods sufficed.

  When they reached the storage area, the Sailor motioned him through the hatchway. Inside, dogs interacted with one another as if in a dog park.

  Ignoring the odor of kennel, Albin made his way along the perimeter to sit on a crate that served as a park bench. Stacks of large containers stood strapped against the wall, blending in with the ship’s concrete grey. As if one did not already feel confined, the color brought all the feelings of freedom associated with a cell in Alcatraz.

  A German Shepherd trotted from behind a box. When she saw him, she wagged her tail slightly and approached.

  “Judge. Come here, girl.” Smiling, he patted his thigh.

  She padded over to him. Typical for a German Shepherd, she lived up to the classification of a working dog, behaving more like an employee then a pet. All the more understandable, considering that not three weeks ago she had served as the better half of a DHS canine unit. She seemed to have recovered from the death of her partner.

  As he stroked her head and scratched behind her ears, a yellow Labrador retriever trotted up to join the affection. The dog attempted to lick him, but he steered the wet muzzle away. Even so, he granted the Lab her share of attention.

  Two Shelties arrived. He welcomed them as he had the Labrador. A grin manifested as he murmured praise and friendly nonsense to the dogs. If only humans could live as free of worry and hatred as these creatures.

  Still smiling, he straightened. Tapering off the petting signaled the other dogs to return to their business.

  “Albin, I think that’s the first time I’ve seen you really smile.”

  Sobering, he turned to find Amanda Muster making her way toward him. Blonde, fit, and in her mid thirties, she looked every bit the upscale Silicon Valley resident despite having evacuated roughly ten days prior. But unlike many members of the Bay Area, she possessed a remarkable degree of common sense and tenacity, even when under duress.

  “Good evening, Amanda.” He inclined his head in greeting.

  Settling beside him, she reached out to pet the nearest dog, a golden retriever who had arrived late to the distribution of attention.

  “They say smiling is good for you.”

  “I smile when the situation calls for it.” Few situations fell into that category. With the world as it stood now, or rather as it slid down the slippery slope of chaos, those situations would grow even scarcer.

  She shrugged. “Maybe you should modify your standards.”

  He shook his head. “I do not compromise my standards. I have kept them thus far, even though they have cost me everything.” The last sentence came of its own will.

  Brows drawing together in mingled sympathy and concern, Amanda ceased petting the dog in favor of placing her hand on Albin’s knee. The warmth of her touch made his skin tingle. He looked away. Normally he would withdraw from close human contact other than that of Janine Serebus or son. Keeping young David off of one’s person, given his propensity for climbing family members, proved a losing battle.

  “Albin, how are you doing? I haven’t seen you since . . . Since a day after you woke up from surgery.” She removed her hand from his leg, gripping the edge of the crate instead. “I figured you needed your rest.”

  “Thank you. For visiting me, that is,” he added. He glanced at her before returning his gaze to the dogs.

  “Albin!” A girl of nine or ten years with neon pink and green hair, albeit a fading neon, bounded from behind a stack of crates. The Shelties bounced along beside her. “It’s been so long.” Though she halted before him and her mother, it appeared she wished to embrace him.

  “Ms. Denver.” He nodded. “Forgive me. I was indisposed.”

  “I know.” She looked down for a moment. “Mom said to leave you alone because you needed to get better.”

  “Denver, are you—” A girl in her eleventh or twelfth year emerged from behind the same crates as Denver, the Labrador at her side, attempting to lick her hands. “Oh, Albin. Hi.” She blushed.

  “Ms. Taylor. Are you and your sister well?” The girls had undergone tremendous change and pressure over the last two weeks. Whether they would transform into diamonds, or whether they would fall as dust remained in question.

  “Yes, we’re all right.”

  Denver inched closer to Albin, employing the dogs to disguise her advance. “You’ve got a Band-Aid on your neck. Is it going to be okay?”

  “It will be quite well.”

  “Girls,” Amanda began in the tone that signaled a desire to have a moment of privacy, “go play with the dogs a bit. They need the attention.”

  Though the siblings’ expressions indicated they saw through the pretext, they obeyed.

  “How are you faring, Amanda?” Albin asked.

  “Well, I always have wanted to try a cruise.” She forced a smile. “But all in all, it’s better than the alternative.”

  Albin nodded. The alternative meant succumbing to cannibal contagion. “I am sorry the situation did not go to plan. I would like nothing better than for you to be in the comfort of your home.” Just as he wished to experience that feeling in his own home.

  “It’s not your fault.” She fell silent. She
must know that discussing the fate of Redwood Shores would not remedy the situation.

  Albin cleared his throat. He had used his voice more today than in the last ten days combined. “I cannot stay here much longer. I have to find him.”

  “Who? Oh. You mean Nathan.” Her tone turned chill.

  “Despite what he has done, he is still my friend. He is also a distant relative. I do not abandon my family, nor do I abandon a cause that may yet yield a harvest. I have a responsibility to his wife and son.”

  “You’re a fine friend—better than he deserves.” She glanced at Albin. “Know that you have a friend in me as well.”

  “Thank you, Amanda.” He leaned forward slightly to ease the lingering pain in his flank. His right hand found the edge of the crate. As it did, his little finger touched Amanda’s. He did not draw back.

  Chapter 11

  Born for Adversity

  I Am My Own Disease – 4th Point

  Lights glowed down the road, coming toward Nathan and Rodriguez from the ghost town. Damn it, another Humvee? No, the engine sounded different. Another pickup truck. Had the locals brought reinforcements?

  The gunmen began yelling.

  Rodriguez followed suit.

  “Put down your guns!” Nathan bawled.

  The truck slowed as it approached.

  Nathan sidled toward the edge of the road. This kept everyone in view. And to think, he’d wanted to face a human enemy! But even so, it beat dealing with a church full of dead bodies. Even though he might soon join them—

  Not tonight. The red-gold eyes glared in the back of his mind.

  The truck, a Ford F-150 from the ’80s, rattled to a halt. A hunting rifle appeared through the open driver’s window. “Everybody, put down the guns!” the woman inside yelled.

  “Sophia,” called one of the men. A stream of Spanish followed. Damn it, couldn’t these people speak English in the bloody United States?

  “We’re not with the people who killed the village,” Nathan announced to Sophia. “If you don’t believe me, look for the grave. There’s a spade at the head and a cross of rocks. I buried a boy there after he died in my arms. The attackers killed our people too.” Rather, Rodriguez’s people and a few prisoners. Left hand up, he laid his M4 on the road.

  Sophia rattled more orders at the men. They looked at each other, then lowered their weapons.

  Both hands up now, Nathan looked from the men to Sophia. She stepped out of her vehicle and moved into the headlights. Early twenties, dark hair hanging about her attractive face. Taller than Rodriguez, but still on the short side. She wore jeans and a plaid shirt. She carried a hunting rifle with an ease bred from growing up on the range.

  Her dark eyes met his. “I saw the grave. I saw what’s left of your convoy, too. The bastards came for a reason; if they attacked you, then you’re that reason. I want nothing to do with that. We’re going back to the village to bury our dead. You’re on your own.”

  She climbed into the truck. The engine roared as she gunned it in reverse.

  The men spat remarks in Spanish that sounded less than complimentary. The driver scrambled back into his truck, while the passenger raised his rifle.

  Bang! Bang! Bang!

  The Humvee settled as the tires deflated, air hissing from gaping holes.

  With a last curse, the villager swung into his truck. Then they rumbled away, Rodriguez yelling after them in Spanish.

  The avengers’ departure called attention to the headlights and rumbling engine of the Humvee. Nathan trudged over to join Rodriguez, who approached the vehicle.

  “You stayed,” she remarked. She didn’t meet his gaze but continued looking down the road in the direction of the retreating tail lights.

  “I didn’t know what they were going to do. They might have killed you, or worse.”

  “What do you care?” Narrowed eyes. “If they had, you might have been able to take the Humvee.”

  “And do what? I only want to have my life back.” He headed toward one of the attacker’s corpses. “But I know I can’t have that; thus, I’m going to pay for my crimes and consider my life lived.” He wanted to find his family, but would they want to find him? He stooped beside the attacker’s corpse and pulled an AK from under it.

  “You’re a strange fucker.” Rodriguez shook her head as she moved to the other carcass.

  With the bodies stripped of useable gear, Nathan climbed into the Humvee. “Your superiors will begin looking for us when we fail to arrive in a few hours.” Hope sprang eternal, even in the desert. “They might see us by satellite or helicopter. We only have to wait for them. Now that we’ve dealt with the raiders—”

  “Have we?” She paused before swinging into the driver’s seat.

  “You believe they may come for us again? I’m not certain why they left us alive. Maybe it was a mistake on their part.”

  “We can drive this thing a little way. Might get a few miles.”

  “Someone will come by.” He leaned back. “I’m an important person, after all. They want their scapegoat.” Scapegoat, the goat the ancient Israelites released into the desert while killing the sacrificial goat. The exiled goat carried away the sins of the people, while the slaughtered goat bled for them.

  He pulled out his flashlight, the only weapon left to him. Clicking it on, he shone it around the vehicle. In the rear—Bingo! A tool box, a pump-action shotgun, two semi-auto pistols, a can of ammo, a five-gallon water cube, and a twelve-pack of bottled water.

  Readying her MP5, Rodriguez looked from mirror to mirror. “The best time to move in the desert is at night.”

  “With your knee?” He snorted. “I’m not carrying you for miles upon miles. However, I could reach San Ysidro alone—”

  “When I’m cold and dead,” she growled.

  “If we stay here, we’re a target for the enemy, but we’re also visible to our allies. If we leave now, we’re again still a target, and we have even less protection. We have shade in the day if we stay here. Perhaps in several hours, your knee will be in better condition.”

  “Maybe I can raise help on the radio,” she suggested as she picked up the mic from the center console.

  “Best of luck.” Clicking on the flashlight he’d recovered from one of the corpses, he resumed reading the Good Book.

  Several minutes passed with him tuning out Roddy’s SOSs. The line of staples across his back—a souvenir from . . . a fight, the details of which remained foggy—began to itch. Again. The healed laceration on his thigh and the one on his upper left arm also tingled. They’d slipped from his awareness during the adrenaline spikes of the past hours. If he remembered correctly, the staples should come out today. Not that he remembered much clearly.

  Leaning into the backseat, he pulled the tool box up. Digging produced needle-nose pliers and wire cutters.

  First up, his upper arm. He shrugged out of the vest and blood-crusted uniform top to access the site. Snip the center of the staple, then work each end out of his dermis. Wire cutters and pliers made effective, if uncomfortable, staple removers.

  Rodriguez glanced over at him. And did a double take. “What the fuck are you doing?”

  “Performing brain surgery.”

  “Can’t that wait until tomorrow?”

  “They itch. And I’m bored.”

  “Whatever keeps you quiet and out of my hair.” She returned to watching the mirrors.

  He returned to his diversion. The activity provided a sense of accomplishment. And it prevented him from thinking about the slaughter. All the slaughters.

  Chapter 12

  Scars

  Broken Crown – Mumford & Sons

  On his bunk again, Albin ran his thumb along the edge of a John Grisham paperback. The pages hissed as he flipped through them. It had come with a scrap of paper tucked between the pages. It read, In case you get bored.—Amanda. He should return the book, as he had finished it a day ago.

&n
bsp; Acting on its own, his hand set the book aside before reaching for the only other book in his possession: a Bible. This had not come with a note; it had simply appeared. He couldn’t remember a time before it had occupied his sphere of existence while on the ship. Someone must have given it to him before the medications wore off. His mind and trauma performed their own memory-altering work. But the headaches he had suffered before his final confrontation with Mr. Serebus had calmed. Now the formerly blinding pain came and went as a dull throb behind his eyes.

  His finger traced the embossed gold lettering on the Bible’s cover. Opening it randomly, he found himself in Psalms: My soul refused to be comforted. I remembered God, and was troubled—

  He did not finish the chapter. While he had read the Book of Proverbs recently, the majority of the holy book made him uncomfortable. It spoke of a God who sought the good of His people. Could such a Being care about such a miserable, unclean race as humanity?

  The current plague and chaos came as just deserts, the harvest for mankind sowing discord. The line from journalist Steve Turner’s poem came to mind: “If chance be the Father of all flesh, disaster is his rainbow in the sky,” he murmured.

  Memories had surfaced of late as he convalesced in his bunk: From childhood, from growing up with his mother the nurse and his father the MI6 agent. The dark times of living in Libya, when he had watched insurgents slaughter a boy with a machete because Albin would not give up the location of his family or of himself. He had killed one of the terrorists responsible for the horror, but not the killer himself. Sometimes justice went undone.

  Memories of his time with Mr. Serebus pushed aside older scenes: Albin introducing the man to Janine. Then their marriage, and David’s birth a few months later. The countless business days since then turned into a blur. The family moments—holidays, game nights, Sunday dinners—stood out like roses in a hedge: beautiful, but reaching for them invited pain.