Behold Darkness (Wolves of the Apocalypse Book 1) Read online

  Wolves of the Apocalypse:

  Behold Darkness

  Book 1

  By LC Champlin

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  Wolves of the Apocalypse: Behold Darkness, by LC Champlin.

  EBook published by Wulfram Cross Enterprises LLC, Blairsville GA, USA.

  www.lcchamplin.com

  © 2017 LC Champlin

  [email protected]

  Edited by Doug Harrison at Lucid Edit

  Cover by me, since apparently if you want something done right, you have to do it yourself – even if you try to pay someone.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Special thanks to…

  Dragon,

  Scorpion,

  Fish,

  Bear,

  and Slug

  for helping make this series possible.

  WARNING:

  This book is intended for MATURE AUDIENCES due to-

  Blood and gore

  Strong language

  Intense situations

  Extreme violence

  Mature humor

  Sexual themes

  Interested yet? Thought so.

  Table of Contents:

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  Chapter 86

  Chapter 87

  Chapter 88

  Chapter 89

  Chapter 90

  Chapter 91

  Chapter 92

  Chapter 93

  Chapter 94

  Chapter 95

  Chapter 96

  Chapter 97

  Chapter 98

  Chapter 99

  Chapter 100

  Chapter 101

  Chapter 102

  Chapter 103

  Chapter 104

  Chapter 105

  Chapter 106

  Chapter 107

  Chapter 108

  Chapter 109

  Chapter 110

  Isaiah 59:8-10

  They do not know the way of peace,

  And there is no justice in their tracks;

  They have made their paths crooked,

  Whoever treads on them does not know peace.

  Therefore justice is far from us,

  And righteousness does not overtake us;

  We hope for light, but behold, darkness,

  For brightness, but we walk in gloom.

  We grope along the wall like blind men,

  We grope like those who have no eyes;

  We stumble at midday as in the twilight,

  Among those who are vigorous we are like dead men.

  Chapter 1

  Earth Shattering

  Nightmare – Avenged Sevenfold

  “NIGHTMAAAAAAAR—” RIIIIIIIIIIIINNNNNGGG! The St. Regis San Francisco Hotel fire alarm overpowered Avenged Sevenfold’s fury. Nathan Serebus’s ropy muscles locked his elbows, twenty-five pounds of dumbbell in each hand above him. He lowered them to his chest, sat up from the bench and set the weights aside before pulling the Bose buds from his ears.

  “What in the—” he muttered, voice lost in the din. Fire alarm lights strobed across the fitness center’s weight cage and multi-function gym. He sighed as he hit pause on his phone’s music.

  A voice over the loudspeakers announced: “A fire has been reported. It may affect your floor. Please proceed to the nearest exit. Do not use the elevators.”

  Probably some millionaire playboy lit a cigarette in the residence levels while drunk off his ass—no, rear. No profanity, he’d promised Janine six years ago . . . but old shipboard habits died hard.

  He swung off the bench and onto his feet, grabbed his water bottle and shoved it into a pocket of his black gym shorts.

  The alarm paused again to replay the warning message.

  Nathan wiped his tanned face and tar-black goatee with the bottom of his University of Alaska Anchorage tank top. “Better get a move on.”

  His Skype call with Janine would have to wait, as would Davie’s bedtime story. The little wolverine would be pissed about not hearing the end of Ragnar and the Wolves, his favorite (but his dad’s least favorite) story.

  Janine . . . Janine was already displeased with Nathan because he’d missed her presentation to the Manhattan Borough Board. She didn’t need him to be there, she simply believed that as CEO of Arete Technologies, he should make an appearance. Skill, not marriage, had earned her the PR and Marketing Liaison title: she could convince the board to buy Arete Tech’s dust bunnies, much less the company’s surplus servers.

  Normally she shrugged off his absences, but her father’s latest seizure made her edgy. Nothing for it; the software development team needed Nathan to make the last arrangements for the technology summit this weekend. To make up, he’d take her to an extra sparring class at the dojo or to an NYU debate.

  He had planned the summit months earlier. Maybe he should’ve called it in NYC. Let his Silicon Valley friends fly to his territory for once. But no. Better attendance on the Wes
t Coast, said experience and the engineering departments.

  As he made his way toward the exit, he raised his phone. For an instant, the blank screen reflected his features, ones that prompted second looks from the smarter sex. He woke the device and thumbed to Contacts, ICE Albin Conrad – Family. A thumbnail accompanied the number: a man with blond hair and blue eyes, near photonegative coloring of Nathan; narrow-featured but handsome; clean cut as a campaigning politician; and looking mildly perturbed. Albin couldn’t understand why Nathan wanted a photo or needed to use every one of his smartphone’s capabilities. Appreciation for technology highlighted the difference between Nathan’s master of computer science and Albin’s MBA plus his juris doctor.

  The Call icon lit. Knowing Albin, he occupied his room fourteen floors above, reviewing paperwork minutiae Nathan would’ve cursed at.

  Calling . . . Jamming the phone to his ear, Nathan waited. “Come on, hurry up!” No ringing. And . . . no reception, data, or Wi-Fi. Perfect.

  Nathan snarled and hit End. Ah, for the days of receivers you could slam! Back then, when you hung up it was a communication in itself, capable of a range of emotions, but mostly rage. Now the best he could do was clip the phone inside his waistband.

  He grabbed the exit’s handle, just as a string of automatic-weapon fire punctuated the alarm’s clamor. He threw himself back and landed on his stomach, hands over his head. “Oh ffffuck!”

  Chapter 2

  Bullet Time

  I Just Wanna Run – The Downtown Fiction

  Combat breathing took over. Instinct made Nathan scramble, bent double, to the gym’s rear. Cover, cover, he had to find—Why did all the equipment have to be damned plastic! No defense. Then let offense be the defense.

  He halted at the nearest treadmill, grabbed its strut, screwed his Nikes into the carpet, and heaved with all his six-feet-two-inches of muscle and adrenaline. The machine growled away from the window.

  The last rays of day mingled with the gym’s fluorescents to illuminate the machine’s thick power cord. He yanked the plug out of the wall. Then he turned to the treadmill, braced a foot against the motor housing while wrapping the cord around his arm, and pulled until veins stood out on his forearms. Crack!

  “Finally, a use for these stupid hamster wheels,” he hissed, cord in hand.

  From the free weight rack he grabbed a ten- and a three-pounder.

  More gunfire—and screams. They sounded closer, on his floor. But buildings skewed sound, so he couldn’t tell for certain. He crouched. One, two, three, four. He counted as he inhaled. Hold for four. While his sympathetic nervous system calmed, he knotted the cord’s end around the ten dumbbell. Being proactive kept fear at bay. A tug on the cord proved its security. He tied the three-pounder on the other end. Improvised nunchucks complete.

  With the three-pounder in his left hand, the cord wrapped around his wrist, and the ten dangling from his right, he headed for the back door.

  He should call 9-1-1 when he found cell reception. Wait, the data and networks worked fine an hour ago. Did the towers malfunction, or suffer sabotage?

  Fucking—damn it! The bastards were making him break his no-profanity promise. It would have to wait until this shitstorm subsided.

  Two bursts of gunfire, then yells from right outside the main entrance. Get Albin and get out.

  At the door, Nathan pressed an ear to the cherry paneling. The steel between the wood dulled the hall’s sounds. Dropping to one knee, he pushed the door open a crack. Gray Employees Only doors stared back. The green exit sign on the left marked another cherry door.

  He slipped out, just as the other gym door slammed.

  “Get down!” yelled a gunman.

  Cold filled Nathan’s gut. Had they seen him? He peeked out the exit, which opened at a right angle to the gunman’s entrance. What a ridiculous floor plan!

  To the right and ahead ran carpeted halls, their walls the color of dying moss and glowing in luxury hotel lighting designed to calm. Cherrywood doors and overpriced art helped guests rationalize shelling out over $500 a night for a bed and the opportunity to spend even more on amenities.

  The fire alarm continued to blare, so no elevators functioned. Stairs. At least the addle-brained designers had put the stair door on his right. He sidled out, shoved open the first fire door, then the second.

  Fourteen stories of battleship-gray stairs awaited, if Albin hadn’t started down. “I never should’ve agreed to the nineteenth floor. ‘Great view, just like home,’—my ass.”

  How long had the alarm been ringing and hot lead spraying while he was pumping iron to the battle songs of Death Metal? The first gunshots had sounded distant, but since the building’s skeleton of concrete and steel dampened the sound, he could only guess at their origin.

  With the ten-pounder in his left hand, he bounded up the stairs. He slowed near the sixth floor landing: gunmen could burst through any of the doors.

  Slam! The fourth floor fire door. Savior or slayer?

  Nathan reached for the handle, but the door crashed open before he could touch it. A yuppie, pale as a sheet and in gym clothes, stumbled out. The man’s eyes bugged out at the sight of Nathan’s raised dumbbell, but momentum and panic drove him on.

  Nathan grabbed for him. “Stop! There are—” The idiot plowed past.

  “Fuck!” Nathan took a step after, but the yuppie rounded the staircase and disappeared.

  Then: yelling, gunfire, screaming.

  Unwilling to look over the railing and risk getting blown off, Nathan yanked the door open and lunged through.

  Ears ringing from the shooting, he took a right and sprinted down the hall. He couldn’t think about the victim who probably just got a closer look at his own guts than he ever wanted. Nathan needed to keep running.

  One slip and they’d chase him down like wolves after a caribou. The temperature dropped ten degrees at the thought. Jaws, panting, growls. They’re coming for me! He shook the thought—and memories—from his head.

  The sixth floor hosted half the spa, which housed the Infinity Pool, steam rooms, saunas, and whirlpool. Because he hated the chlorine baths hotels called pools, this floor had remained a mystery.

  The fire door to the stairway at the other end of the floor thudded closed.

  They didn’t identify themselves as police, meaning he’d landed in an active shooter situation. Hide, run, fight, went the government recommendation. Hiding in a hotel proved exceptionally difficult, as most doors stayed locked. He needed an employee access card, but as none dropped out of the clouds, he’d make do: the spa.

  He headed for the white double doors, and from his pocket he whipped out two black keycards, one to his room and one to Albin’s, from his back pocket. The odor of Vicks or similar spa crap stung his sinuses. He slid his room card into the reader. Red light. “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding! How many hundred bucks and—” He jammed Albin’s card into the slot. Green light.

  Inside, on the left, glowed the blue Infinity Pool. On the right lay the spa’s hospital-white, black-trimmed entry room, where guests began their “fabulous sojourn of indulgence and relaxation.” He’d read the website description to Albin in a lisping accent during the drive from the airport, courtesy of the St. Regis Bentley. Albin deadpanned that it sounded perfectly suited for Mr. Serebus, assuming it contained a shooting range, the latest in computer systems, and Mrs. Serebus.

  Suddenly Nathan went deaf—no, not deaf, the fire alarm had stopped. The emergency response teams must have cleared the alarm.

  A heartbeat later, the lights died. Darkness pressed in on him, tried to steal the air from his lungs. He grabbed for his phone. The emergency lights came up, transforming the reception room’s atmosphere into one more appropriate for the nightmare he’d blundered into.

  Even if the ERTs had arrived, the silence gave the hotel occupants a false sense of security. The E lights should tip people off, but with spoiled rich fucks, you couldn’t ta
ke common sense for granted.

  Fortunately, at this hour most people had better places to be, so few guests would need to be evacuated. The spa had closed earlier, and the employees seemed to have left.

  Since no staff member arrived to escort Nathan to the “luxe locker rooms,” he barged through the women’s-side door. The gunmen, if they’d seen him, wouldn’t think to look for him here.

  He’d give the shooters a minute or so, then return to the stairs. Albin being Albin, he had likely already reached the bodyguards’ rooms, assuming they hadn’t come to him first.

  Bodyguards. What a pointless expense. Then again, you never knew what nutjobs would show up at a summit: Greenpeace maybe, or . . . an anti-processor group? Now, after spending all day tripping over the bodyguards, he actually wanted them. Damned irony.

  The main door hissed open and closed. No rest for the hunted. His lip curled, resentment chasing away the fear that gnawed the edge of his mind.

  He forged deeper into the women’s area, past the showers, into an anteroom with doors marked for the steam room, sauna, and hot tub. He ducked through the closest door, marked Jacuzzi. A glass and brushed-aluminum railing bordered the square pool. Chlorine tainted the air, made his eyes water.

  Shoving his water bottle between door and jamb, he put his back to the wall adjacent to the entrance and gripped the ten-pounder with both hands.

  One, two, three, four. Hold.

  If his shoulder blades pressed any harder into the wall, they’d leave dents. Control yourself. Fear makes the wolf bigger than it is. He didn’t often picture himself in a terrorist attack, but when he did, he looked badass: tricked out in 5.11 Tactical BDUs and body armor, complete with goggles, helmet, and hard knuckle gloves. Gym clothes never appeared. An assortment of weapons always accompanied his fantasy: Kimber Raptor II 1911s, one for each leg; KA-BAR knife; M48 Tactical Tomahawk; AA12 shotgun across his back; and M246 SAW rifle on his shoulder. And he couldn’t forget copious grenades and ammo. Dumbbells and his Krav Maga skills didn’t cut it.

  The door opened again, and boots thudded outside. A crash, then rustling, panting. What in hell? Footsteps too light to belong to his pursuers padded on the tile.