Out of Darkness (Unclean Evolution Book 4)

by LC Champlin

  After she settled onto a crate, he took a seat beside her. “Are you certain they are still in the area and will provide you shelter?”

  “We don’t have a whole lot of options.” The steel floor occupied her gaze. “I have to do the best I can.”

  “I would propose that few people aboard this ship are in better circumstances.”

  With a sniff, she straightened. “What are you going to do? After you find Nathan, I mean.”

  “That will depend on the situation in which I find him.”

  Redwood Shores residents loitered about the common area, some watching the news. They ignored Albin and Amanda.

  “You’re a good person,” she murmured, placing her hand on his shoulder. The tension in his muscles eased.

  “No, there is no such thing as a ‘good’ person. I antagonized him, giving him reason to fulfill my own prophecy. I provided testimony they will use to convict him.” He swallowed, throat unaccountably tight and dry.

  “So did I. Wait”—her hand fell away as she leaned back to stare at him—“you’re blaming yourself? Seriously?”

  “No. I am admitting mutual culpability. I cannot throw the first stone.”

  She sighed. “I don’t know you very well, but I know there’s no changing your mind once it’s made up. How are you going to find Nathan?”

  “The DHS and FBI will likely call on me to give my testimony.”

  “They might just do it with Skype or something similar. Or maybe the statements will be enough?”

  “I believe I can convince them a personal appearance is superior.” He hoped.

  “You’re going by yourself?”

  “Yes.” Straightening his spine, Albin drew a breath. “I do not wish to place you and the others in any more danger than I have already done.”

  Her eyes narrowed for an instant before her expression softened. “We were in more danger before you came. You saved my girls lives, and you showed the neighborhood the danger it was in.”

  Had he? The memories of the past weeks had warped, growing surreal. Releasing a controlled exhale, he leaned forward and pressed the tips of his fingers against his temples.

  “Are you all right?”

  Warmth and weight between his scapulae—Amanda’s hand—made him flinch. “I should go.” His side aching, he pushed to his feet. “Good night, Amanda.”

  ++++++++++++

  As Rodriguez limped to the rear of the Ford, Sophia returned to the driver’s seat. Then the rescuer stuck her head out the window. “You.” She motioned to Nathan as he lowered the tailgate. “I changed my mind. Get in the passenger seat. And you”—nod to Rodriguez—“in the back seat.”

  Cautious but desperate, Nathan moved to the passenger side. “You have my gratitude.”

  “Think of this as my good deed in memory of little Raymond. I may not be able to love my enemies, but at least I can help you. You might be able to track them down, since you’re cops.” She sounded somewhat disgusted at the profession.

  Nathan and Rodriguez settled into their assigned positions. “Tell me,” Nathan began, “how well did you know the boy I buried?”A twinge of pain arced across his heart at the memory.

  “He was my cousin.” She didn’t meet Nathan’s eyes as she turned the key in the ignition.

  “My sympathies.”

  “Why did those bastards murder your people?”

  “I believe they wanted to kill some of our prisoners.” This provided the only explanation for why anyone would care about a small DHS convoy carrying detainees.

  “Who were the prisoners?”

  “I can’t say.” His memories supplied images of vague figures in the van with him, but the drugs blurred their faces. The president of the United States could have sat with him, and he wouldn’t have noticed.

  “My village is a bloodbath.” She tore her gaze from the road to blast him with a glare blazing with Hell’s fire. “They died because you were carrying prisoners through our territory. I deserve to know who these people were and why they were so important.”

  As did he, since the attackers apparently hadn’t targeted him. It should come as a relief, but who ranked as a more valuable target than him? He looked over his shoulder at Rodriguez in encouragement.

  The officer’s jaw clenched as she glared out the side window. “They were people who played a role in creating and worsening the cannibal outbreak in California. They helped the terrorists who released the contagion. That’s all I can say. I’m sorry,” she added.

  Did she describe the target’s identity, or only him? Nathan looked down at the Bible in his hands, his thumb tracing the gold-embossed Holy.

  “Did the fuckers kidnap or kill these prisoners?” Sophia demanded. “Why do they want them?”

  Rodriguez frowned. “Some they killed, some they took. They’re either going to use them for a hostage exchange, or to further develop the cannibal disease. They may just be getting them out of our hands so we can’t gather intelligence from them.”

  “A town is dead just for that?” Sophia shook her head, her fingers drumming on the steering wheel’s cracked leather.

  Lacking anything to say to the question, Nathan shifted topics: “Where are you taking us in San Ysidro?”

  “I’ll drop you off at the tribal police office. Only a few cops work there, but they should be able to help you. If they’re not around, we’ll use the fire station. I haven’t been to San Ysidro for a while, but it must be in better shape than San Luis.” Hate and rage strained her voice.

  Chapter 16

  Pale Horse

  Where Your Life Begins – Halcyon Skies

  As Albin exited Amanda’s quarters, Kuznetsov pushed off from leaning against the corridor’s far wall. Wordless, the engineer resumed his role as guide.

  As the two made their way toward Albin’s bunk area, they encountered another civilian. Pale and diaphoretic, he did not acknowledge them. Kuznetsov pivoted to avoid a collision. A coughing fit seized the stranger, echoing down the passage.

  “Seasick?” wondered Kuznetsov.

  Albin paused to watch the man stumble off. “In a ship this size, only significantly rough weather conditions affect the vessel’s stability.”

  Following Albin’s gaze, Kuznetsov frowned. “I heard there was a bug going around. Not with Redwood Shores, but with the people from Foster City and the surrounding areas. I hope none of the crew gets sick.”

  “I hope none of us falls ill.” A respiratory infection with rib pain and a recently healed pneumothorax sounded perfectly hellish.

  “We’ll have to treat this like a cruise ship; wash the hands a lot.” Kuznetsov mimed the action as if Albin required a refresher course on the procedure.

  “I dislike cruises. One was more than enough.” The urge to disembark and return to dry ground tugged at him more powerfully now than it had on his cruise to the southeast of Alaska. His maternal grandparents, whose anniversary the cruise honored, had not shared his restlessness.

  He paused at the door to one of the living areas belonging to the Foster City evacuees. When his knock received no response, he opened the hatch. The interior mirrored his dormitory, with lockers on the walls, and bays of bunks stacked three high and pressed closer than shelves in a second-hand bookstore.

  Coughing greeted him. Most of the beds had their curtains pulled; wheezing, throat clearing, and sniffing emanated from within their confines.

  One of the curtains slid aside. A pale man with bloodshot eyes and perspiration standing out on his brow rolled out of the bunk. His feet found the ground, but he almost collapsed when his legs attempted to hold his bodyweight. He clutched the edge of the bunk for support.

  “Do you need assistance, sir?” Albin asked the ill man.

  Kuznetsov eased closer to the attorney and placed a cautionary hand on his shoulder.

  Leaning against the bunk, the subject in question drew a rasping breath. His eyes rolled toward the interloper
s but failed to focus.

  “I believe we should summon help,” Albin remarked to the engineer while backing away.

  After he pulled Kuznetsov into the hall, Albin closed the door. “Alert the medical team. I will check the other rooms.”

  “Right.” Snapping a nod, the Russian trotted off.

  At the next room, Albin opened the hatch a crack and put his eye to the gap. Coughs and groans echoed. He opened it farther. Several people sat on the edge of their bunks. One vomited into a rubbish bag.

  A woman with perspiration-dampened hair, and skin the color of spoilt milk stumbled from her bunk. Wheezing with each breath, she lurched toward Albin. The muscles of her face twitched as if she received electric stimuli. Blisters had formed. They grew more apparent as she stepped into the halogen light.

  The cannibal contagion? But how? The civilians had spent the last ten days aboard the aircraft carrier. Perhaps the vessel had admitted more evacuees, though no one had mentioned it—not that he paid much heed to the conversations of those around him.

  He slammed the door, leaving the woman to her fate. Hopefully the illness would prevent her from remembering how to use the latch.

  How many more of the infected wandered the ship? They could easily spread the contagion to the military personnel. The consequences of that occurrence did not bear considering.

  Unarmed and with no more than a rough idea of the ship’s layout, Albin would stand little chance against a pack of the abominations. Thus, sheltering in place sounded wise.

  He trotted toward his dormitory, careful not to trip in the narrow passages. When he reached his room, he ducked in.

  Ssssssaaaahhhhh.

  A balding man in his forties rolled out of the bunk over Albin’s. Greg? Gary? It no longer mattered. Black mucus dribbled from the corner of the cannibal’s mouth.

  Albin backed into the hall.

  Running feet sounded. Three Sailors charged down the passage wearing yellow HAZMAT suits. They carried M4 carbines.

  “Where are they?” the lead man demanded.

  “This room, and at least those two.” Albin indicated the two he had inspected. “I did not come in contact with any. I only witnessed them from a distance.” No sense spending more time in quarantine.

  “Proceed down the hall,” the Sailor ordered, pointing behind Albin.

  “With pleasure.” Albin continued in the direction. He could circle back and reach Amanda’s room. A voice in the back of his mind warned him to obey the evacuation. The naval personnel would see to the Musters and the others.

  He followed the passage. Veering left would take him to another hall. However, a trio of Sailors cut him off. They wore MOPP gear: gas masks, gloves, and baggy over garments.

  “Let’s go.” The leader caught Albin by the upper arm. “We have to get you to safety.”

  Having little choice, he cooperated. “Have you evacuated the other rooms? What of the kennel?”

  “We’re handling the situation. Move.”

  They swept him along down the tunnel of steel. Then they pushed him through a hatchway into a storage area. The heavy barrier slammed shut behind him.

  Kuznetsov, Shukla, Bridges, and a number of other civilians occupied the chamber. No Musters and no Behrmann, however. No Judge, either.

  “Do you know if the others are safe?” Albin asked his companions.

  A quartet of shaking heads replied.

  “Did they screen everyone here?” Likely not, considering they had thrown him in with all the care of rubbish collectors emptying bins.

  Bridges pursed his lips as he looked about. His dark, spiked hair seemed to bristle with unease. “I don’t see anyone drooling oil or hissing, so that’s a good sign. But I suppose they could still be carrying it. It could have a subclinical phase now.”

  Shukla rolled his eyes. “That’s a comforting thought.”

  Bridges offered a shrug to the Indian.

  Albin cast a glower at the hatch that separated him from the Musters, Behrmann, and Judge. Did he trust the military to carry them to safety? No. But leaving to find them meant abandoning his companions here.

  You’re being paranoid, the voice of reason warned. The Navy likely had the situation under control. They need only lock the doors. A chill trickled down his spine as a thought occurred: if they locked the civilians in together, any who had not succumbed to the infection would turn into prey. What if Amanda occupied one of the contaminated rooms?

  Chapter 17

  Bound with Shackles

  After Death – Midnight

  Sophia and her passengers pulled into town several minutes after leaving the Humvee. Driving eighty miles an hour down the deserted strip of asphalt brought them to civilization quickly. They passed a Dollar General, whose yellow sign glowed.

  They rolled by a veterinarian’s facility and the USPS office. She guided the vehicle past as many vacant lots as buildings. The San Ysidro fire department passed on the right, a modern structure among trailers and low-slung aluminum sheds.

  No other cars passed, but at ten o’clock at night in the middle of the desert, during a national crisis, who could blame the residents for staying indoors?

  She swung the Ford into the sand parking lot of a light-colored building more akin to a house than a public facility. It boasted a shingle roof, not the aluminum of the other buildings in the area. A light burned in the window.

  In the lot sat a silver newer-model Ford F-150 with the Jemez Pueblo Tribal Police logo on the side: a golden eagle swooping on prey against a mountain backdrop. Scattered civilian pickups accompanied the Ford.

  Now that they returned to civilization and its laws, he would soon wear the handcuffs and inmate scrubs again. A shame he couldn’t have spent his hour or two of reprieve doing something more pleasurable than burying a body and escaping an attack.

  Would they let him keep his Bible? Didn’t the Geneva Convention or code of prisoner’s rights say something about a prisoner getting to keep a religious book? Then again, they’d probably drug him again, and he wouldn’t give a damn about anything, especially reading.

  Rodriguez shoved open her door and stepped out.

  “Well?” Sophia asked Nathan as he hesitated. “Aren’t you going?”

  “Yes.”

  Rodriguez yanked his door open. “Serebus, get your ass out here.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Head down, he slid from the seat as Sophia regarded them with furrowed brows.

  “Hey,” she called. “These are tribal cops, not real police, but I guess you aren’t either.”

  He whipped around. “Excuse me?”

  “DHS. You’re not really cops, you’re Federal.”

  “Oh.” He cleared his throat. “No. Not real cops.”

  “Good luck.”

  “You as well.” It seemed he’d used the last of his luck. That meant he had to make his own.

  “Move.” Rodriguez shoved his shoulder, aiming him toward the police station.

  They marched to the door, which he opened and entered first, Rodriguez covering his back. Did she think he would make a run for it here and now of all places and at all times?

  They entered the lobby. An American Indian with medium build and a few years older than Nathan’s thirty-three glanced up from the sergeant’s desk. He wore a button-down flannel shirt. “Who are you?” His right hand dropped below the desk, probably hovering over a weapon.

  “Officer Maria Rodriguez with the Department of Homeland Security.” She flashed her badge. “I have a prisoner here.” She nodded to Nathan. “Our convoy was attacked and destroyed about an hour ago along the road to the west. The village of San Luis was slaughtered by the same force that attacked us, or so we assume. We were the only survivors of our convoy.”

  “Is that right?” The desk sergeant’s eyes widened. “That’s serious. But I gotta ask, if he’s a prisoner, why is he in a uniform?” Evidently the recent national chaos inured him to local de
ath.

  “We didn’t want to attract attention if we met anyone.”

  During the exchange, Nathan glanced about. Various tribal artifacts decorated the area—pots, arrowheads, beadwork—as well as an Indian blanket behind the sergeant and potted plants in the corners.

  “What’s his name?” the tribal cop gestured to Nathan as if pointing out a cow at a livestock show.

  “Nathan Serebus. He’s got a long list of serious charges.”

  “Huh. He must not be very dangerous, though, since you’re letting him run around without cuffs.” The man stood, stretching his back before coming around to the front of the desk.

  “Don’t let him fool you. He’s caused the death of a lot of people. He’s medicated now for travel. Serebus”—hand on his right trap—“put your hands behind your back.”

  Wincing inwardly but remaining expressionless, he obeyed. The cold bracelets clicked around his wrists. Shackled like a real prisoner once more.

  “Yeah, he must be drugged if he’s so compliant you were able to get him here by yourself. How’d you get here, anyway? Who brought you?”

  “A woman from San Luis,” Rodriguez responded, hand still on her captive’s shoulder. “She’s the only survivor, as far as I know.”

  “All right.” The sergeant pushed off from leaning against the desk. “I suppose you want to contact your people. And you’ll want him in a cell.”

  The cop reached to grab Nathan’s elbow, but Rodriguez intervened. “He stays with me.”

  “I don’t know.” The sergeant scratched his head. “If he’s got that many charges, it’s policy we lock him up.”

  Nathan regarded Rodriguez from the corner of his eye. She folded her arms. “You heard me, sergeant. Where’s your radio?”

  “This way.” He waved for them to follow as he set off down a hall. “The chief’ll want to talk to you before you use it. It’s policy.” He cast an apologetic smile over his shoulder at them.