Out of Darkness (Unclean Evolution Book 4)

by LC Champlin

  “Yes,” he sighed.

  “Achieving a small goal is better than nothing, right?”

  “Amanda, my trip will no doubt be dangerous. It may not end successfully. Either way, I will return to New York City. Your home is here on the West Coast, I know, but”—he pressed on before he could balk—“if you are unable to locate a safe place before I disembark, you are welcome to accompany me. Assuming my residence is still intact, you and your daughters are free to stay there.” He paused under the guise of clearing his throat to gauge Amanda’s response. She appeared grateful. “If returning there is not an option, Janine Serebus will gladly offer housing. The Serebus compound is outside the city.”

  She regarded him, fatigue shadowing her face. “Thank you, Albin. I don’t know where home is anymore. Even if they clean up Redwood Shores, I don’t know if I can stand the memories.”

  “Of course.”

  He met her gaze. Relief eased the tension in her expression and shoulders. Had she expected him to leave without confirming she possessed a refuge?

  Chapter 26

  Prisoner in Misery and Chains

  Whispers in the Dark – Skillet

  June 3, 2016—

  Nathan focused on the words on the page before him. If he stared hard enough, he could block out the clang of steel doors, the tramp of feet, the claustrophobia of occupying a cell. Don’t look at the door; it only made the latent panic worse. Solid steel on the bottom half and reinforced glass on the top, with a slot by which he could receive food or put his hands through for cuffing and uncuffing. The barrier offered as fine a view as did the wall.

  They had locked him in a solitary-confinement cell in the New Mexico State Penitentiary as a holding tank before the trial. The facility sprawled in the desert waste less than a mile east of the National Guard Armory. The Department of Homeland Security operated an office near the Armory, according to Rodriguez. On the upside, he wouldn’t mingle with any of the inmates.

  He had spoken to his legal counsel, adding nothing new to the documents the attorney had already reviewed. Nathan informed the lawyer that he left his fate in the man’s hands. Both sides possessed all the facts. Nathan would not testify in his defense. The members of the court had likely already decided on their verdict.

  The government had chosen to try him by military tribunal (and dispense with the usual months of procedures, wrangling, and BS). Highly irregular for a United States civilian, but due to his affiliation with terrorists, the court system approved. Rather, the alleged affiliation with terrorists, since as far as he could remember, he’d never sided with them genuinely. But the Department of Homeland Security, namely Director Washington, didn’t see it this way. She knew the prosecution’s best evidence came from an illegal source: Albin Conrad’s and Nathan’s conversation. Albin had recorded it, unbeknownst to Nathan. In a civilian court of law, this would prove inadmissible. Not in a tribunal, though.

  He still received most of the same rights he would if he stood before a civilian court, including the right to a plea deal. The main difference? Military officers would play judge and jury. No trial by his peers, not that he had many. Finding a jury that wasn’t hung—and that wouldn’t hang him at the first word from the prosecution, considering the disaster the government implicated him in had affected the entire country—could require months. The government wanted this done now.

  Sitting on his bunk, Nathan leaned back against the wall. One, two, three—His Keepers hadn’t provided him with any more medication. He’d remained placid and compliant for the transfer from the military base into the heart of the deepest, darkest solitary-confinement cell New Mexico Corrections could offer. At least bullets didn’t fly over his head and cannibals didn’t snap at his throat. He had “three hots and a cot,” as well as guards to protect him. They even allowed him to keep his Bible. They hadn’t seen the point of switching his for a prison-issue one.

  He read Malachi chapter four, the last chapter in the last book of the Old Testament: “‘For, behold, the day cometh, that shall burn as an oven; and all the proud, yea, and all that do wickedly, shall be stubble: and the day that cometh shall burn them up,’ saith the LORD of hosts, ‘that it shall leave them neither root nor branch.

  “‘But unto you that fear My name shall the Sun of righteousness arise with healing in His wings; and ye shall go forth, and grow up as calves of the stall.

  “‘And ye shall tread down the wicked; for they shall be ashes under the soles of your feet in the day that I shall do this,’ saith the LORD of hosts.

  “‘Remember ye the law of Moses My servant, which I commanded unto him in Horeb for all Israel, with the statutes and judgments.

  “‘Behold, I will send you Elijah the prophet before the coming of the great and dreadful day of the LORD.

  “‘And he shall turn the heart of the fathers to the children, and the heart of the children to their fathers, lest I come and smite the earth with a curse.’”

  Nathan looked up at the bare wall before him. “I am indeed proud. I deserve nothing more than to be burned as stubble.” He set the Book aside on the bunk. With a grunt, he pushed to his feet. He stalked to the far corner of his cell, where he lowered himself to the floor. Knees pulled up to his chest, he rested his temple against the cold concrete wall.

  They would judge him and find him guilty. They would sentence him accordingly. They had all the evidence they required. He should make it easy on them and simply admit everything and beg them to put him out of the world’s misery.

  Time slipped into relativity. Minutes, hours, days—it didn’t matter.

  The click of the heavy steel door unlocking brought him out of his reverie. He didn’t bother to turn. If they wanted him to move, they would tell him.

  “Nathan Serebus.” That voice. Memories crashed into him: A heavy-set black woman with a tight bun atop her round head. DHS Director Washington, in charge of the Bay Area.

  He said nothing, merely breathed as he gazed at the wall.

  “Turn around.”

  He obeyed, shifting to a cross-legged position, but didn’t meet her eyes. Instead, he looked at her forehead. Show no emotion. Don’t give her that satisfaction. . . . Other than what she’d already derived from witnessing him sit in the corner. But what the fuck did it matter? His guilt lay between him and God.

  She stood with arms akimbo. “Your trial will be soon. But before then, I felt I should give you an update on the status of your friends. I regret to inform you that your attorney and adviser Albin Conrad is deceased.”

  Nathan stared. Ringing grew in his ears, deafening. Darkness edged his vision, swelling. Heat and cold washed over him, alternating. As his heart ratcheted into the hundreds, his breathing ceased.

  “There was an altercation on the ship. He was involved. Unfortunately, due to his wounds, he did not survive. A shame, since he was to testify.” She sniffed. “Don’t get your hopes up, though. We didn’t really need him; we have his sworn statements.”

  Her mouth continued moving, but the ringing obliterated her words. Albin. Dead. After all he’d survived, and all he’d suffered. Dead. How could it be? God had spared him before.

  Why don’t I feel anything? Wouldn’t I know if he was dead? No, not after he’d severed the bond with his friend. Nathan’s attempts to kill his relation and adviser saw to that. Just because Nathan dragged Albin to safety at the end and apologized in tears did not restore the sacred trust. Had it ever really existed if he’d broken it so easily?

  Washington turned and walked out. The door closed, but even its clang couldn’t cut through the hurricane roar in Nathan’s ears.

  Dead. He would never see the attorney again. Janine and Davie would never see him again. “And it’s all my fault.”

  Nathan pushed himself up along the wall. His legs carried him to the bunk, where he lifted the sheet. Pulling it free, his hands acted on their own, twisting it into a rope. His fingers tied two knots a few inches apart
in the middle.

  He moved to the sink. After looping the sheet around the fixture, he tied it off to form a large loop. Then he knotted the middle. A noose, not a leash. He would save the taxpayers money and the military time.

  The loop settled around his neck. He had only to kneel, then lean forward. It would cut off the circulation to his brain and he would fall unconscious in a matter of seconds. In a few minutes, total brain death would occur.

  The knots should go . . . there and there, over his carotids. “Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani?” A question he already knew the answer to. His arteries pulsed against the knots. Maybe this suicide attempt would prove a success. Three’s the charm.

  He leaned forward as if bowing himself to the ground. “Mea culpa.”

  Deep breath. One, two, three—

  Eyes closed.

  Red-gold eyes blazed awake in the darkness of his mind. You are not finished.

  His eyes shot open. They fell on the Bible on his bunk. He’d stopped reading at the end of the Old Testament. Vague memories of the Gospels from when his mother had read them to him surfaced. The Old Testament contained many a familiar story, making it more interesting to a young boy than the New Testament’s doctrines. But it also contained a Law that left no room for mercy or escape. Salvation remained absent.

  He had broken every one of the Ten Commandments at least once. Except for adultery, but his imagination had betrayed him from time to time. So in his heart he scored a perfect failure, ten for ten.

  He closed his eyes again, but the red-gold eyes glared back. You are still the chosen instrument.

  But he’d fucked that mission up. He’d let pride and greed dominate him.

  Life for life. Remember your promise.

  Nathan’s hands lifted off the noose apart from his conscious control. His gaze remained on the Bible. “I am not finished.” He lurched to his feet.

  Click. The cell door swung open. Four guards filled the doorway. “What do you think you’re doing?” the nearest demanded.

  “I was stretching my sheets.” Blank expression. “They were wrinkled.” He untied the end from the sink. “Is there anything I can do for you gentlemen?”

  “You weren’t considering hurting yourself?” The corn-fed hulk eyed him with suspicion.

  “Of course not. My life is full of possibilities. Why would I end it now?”

  “Put the sheet back on the bed and keep it there. We’re watching you.” With a last glare at the prisoner, the officer closed the door. Clang!

  If Albin now rested with his ancestors, Nathan would live to honor the man’s sacrifice.

  Nathan skimmed to the book of Psalms, chapter 51. “Hide thy face from my sins, and blot out all mine iniquities. Create in me a clean heart, O God; and renew a right spirit within me . . . Deliver me from bloodguiltiness, O God, thou God of my salvation.”

  Nathan Serebus would stop the world’s current madness. Albin will live on, motivating his friend to action, just as Nathan’s late mother inspired him to achieve greatness in life.

  “Where there’s life, there’s hope.” And Nathan still had life.

  Chapter 26

  In Legal Trouble?

  When I’m Gone – 3 Doors Down

  June 3, 2016—

  The hatch to the civilian holding area opened and a squad of Sailors in HAZMAT suits entered. They divided the people and led them off to begin the process of decontamination showers and medical examinations.

  After running the gauntlet, each subject received a clean set of clothes. The precautions followed those at the San Francisco International Airport’s intake, obeying the dictate by the Centers for Disease Control. Due to the possible mutation of the contagion, the Navy chose to double the quarantine period.

  Sailors housed the processed civilians in another hold, one free of the contagion but containing a similar arrangement of cots.

  The next sixteen hours provided more social contact than Albin had experienced in the previous two weeks—even when he accounted for the time spent sleeping, as the quarantine stretched through the night and into the next day. The interaction pushed depression from the throne of his mind. However, unlike other group engagements he had experienced, the pervading sense of being apart rather than a part did not manifest.

  Bridges and the engineers also occupied the hold. The group spoke of their experiences and hopes—those before and after the outbreak.

  For his part, Albin found himself speaking of his time with the Serebus family, and even his life before them: his childhood in England, his teens in America, and general points about his stays abroad while his father undertook missions for MI6.

  When the sisters grew restless, Albin added to their martial arts skills and refreshed those they already possessed.

  Eventually the need for solitude settled on Albin. When he lapsed into silence, his companions respected it.

  ++++++++++++

  June 3, 2016—

  In the visitor room, or whatever one called the stark room where prisoners begged their attorneys to land them a pardon from the governor, Nathan sat back to regard his legal counsel, Paul Morgan. Late thirties to early forties, brown hair combed back off the high forehead. Sincere determination shone in the man’s dark eyes. He wore a gray suit with a salmon tie and shirt. Gold cufflinks glinted at his wrists.

  The attorney began pacing. “Are you serious? Really serious?”

  “Deadly serious.”

  “They won’t even believe you. And if they accept it, do you have a way of following through? You can’t just make a wild claim”—arms out to illustrate just how wild a claim Paul thought Nathan made—“and expect the court of law—“

  “Tribunal, not a real court. It’s one step away from a kangaroo court.”

  “You can’t expect your judge and jury—who are the same people, let me remind you—to buy what you’re selling. You can’t just say, ‘Why yes, I solemnly swear to find a cure to cancer if you let me go.’” The pleading in the fellow’s eyes would have given a softer man pause.

  “Completing feats worked for Hercules.” Shrug.

  Paul leaned across the table toward his client. “This might come as a shock to you, but you’re not Hercules, and there’s no Golden Apple to steal or hydra to kill.”

  “Ah, there you’re wrong.” Nathan leaned forward as well, his hands folded before him, handcuff chain running through a steel ring in the table. “There are plenty of apples to steal and monsters to defeat. There’s also plenty of shit to shovel—more than thirty years’ worth. Paul, let me speak to them.” Two could play the pleading game.

  “You’re insane!” Violent head shaking emphasized the point. “Let me handle it and stick to the script. We have a chance for a reduced sentence—”

  “They’re going to find me guilty, meaning I’ll rot in a cell for decades. I would prefer not to rot for even a day, much less years. Thus, a plea deal is the best chance.” As he spoke, Nathan spread his hands as far as the chain would allow.

  “I agree with that, but I disagree with the terms, which is kind of a big deal.” The last two words came through gritted teeth. The attorney had a good heart.

  “Allow me to rephrase: my plea deal is my best chance. I at least want to try this. What have I got to lose?” Nathan raised a brow.

  “Damn it.” Letting out a sigh, Paul stood back. “As if having to do months of work in only days wasn’t bad enough, now—” He broke off, shaking his head. “Hemorrhoids are less of a pain in the ass than you are.”

  “Then you’ll do it?”

  Paul growled. Rubbing his temples, he nodded. “I’ll do it. But I’m not happy about it.”

  “I have a feeling a great many people aren’t going to be happy about it.” A very great many.

  Chapter 27

  On Deck

  On My Own – Ashes Remain

  June 3, 2016—

  After the medical staff finished assessing the civilian
s and crew, and the quarantine time period expired, the captain assembled everyone on the flight deck.

  Its expanse spread around them like a deserted car park, for the carrier had no air wing aboard. This lack of aircraft and crew worked to the civilians’ advantage, freeing space the aviators, support staff, and warbirds normally occupied.

  The ship came within sight of land. At last. The promise of solid rock under his feet again eased the tension in Albin’s muscles and mind as he took his place among the front ranks of Redwood Shores residents.

  Behrmann moved through the crowd, always in search of a better vantage. The Musters stood at his right. Kuznetsov, Shukla, and Bridges milled on his left.

  Above them, the captain emerged from the bridge. He wore his dress uniform as he stood on a walkway. Loudspeakers carried his voice to the assembled: “We will be ferrying all civilians to a safe zone in Fort Bragg. It’s the shore over there.” He held his arm toward the cliffs of the West Coast. “There will be housing provided. Due to the recent outbreak, we’re unable to allow you to return to the general population of the town immediately.” The civilians murmured, but he continued, “When we’re sure that there is no risk of anyone spreading the infection, you’ll be allowed to stay in the city. We will help you arrange transportation and lodging from there.”

  “A refugee camp?” Amanda whispered in Albin’s ear.

  He held up a hand for her to wait until the end of the explanation.

  “The CDC will be involved as well. Don’t worry; you’ll be well protected and cared for.” Cared for in the manner of the Japanese detention camps of the Second World War? “It’ll be more comfortable than most Marine camps.” The captain meant it as a jest, but none of the Silicon Valley residents found it amusing. “We will begin ferrying you over in a few hours. Please pack your belongings that were sanitized since the outbreak.”