Ways of Darkness (Wolves of the Apocalypse Book 2) Page 7

  “Is it acceptable if we borrow your vehicle?” Consent mitigated the feeling of carjacking.

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “Thank you.” Nathan smiled, cold. “Get in the back.”

  Albin ushered his detainee into the middle seat.

  “Bridges, take the other side.” Nathan pointed to the opposite door. “Behrmann, this side.”

  “Are you sure about this?” Josephine asked. Then in a whisper, “This is only above board if the board is on the ground.”

  “Boards are for construction, not standards.” Nathan pulled the passenger door open and motioned for her to enter.

  She climbed in but looked doubtful.

  Finally, back in the driver’s seat. Nathan got one leg in the truck before Albin put a hand on his employer’s arm.

  “Sir, a word.”

  Dismounting, Nathan turned. “What is it?”

  “This is a catch and release trip.” Not a question.

  “Think of this as relocating him to a safer environment.” Nathan made a sweeping gesture to encompass the city’s distress.

  “I see. Excuse me.” His gaze on something ahead in the distance, Albin slid past Nathan.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing, sir,” the attorney replied as he swung into the driver’s seat. Slam.

  “Hey!” Nathan yanked the door handle. Nothing but a sudden stop. “Shit!” Right hand went to incision site.

  ++++++++++++

  Inside the leather interior, which smelt of pine air freshener, Albin belted into the driver’s seat. Outside, Mr. Serebus reaped the rewards of his hunger for control. Pain and irritation darkened his expression as he opened his mouth to demand driving privileges despite three broken ribs and the lingering effects of sedatives.

  Albin lowered his window two inches. “Sir, you have more important matters to attend than driving.” The glass slid back up, cutting off the argument.

  In the back seat, Josephine conducted an interview with Ray. Her voice turned to static with ease in Albin’s ears.

  Bristling, Mr. Serebus stalked around the front of the truck. He clambered in with a grunt, then fastened his seatbelt. “Onward, then, Albert.”

  “Of course, Vic.” The engine purred to life, smooth but not the silk of his Lexus IS.

  Ahead, a figure moved among the vehicles. A driver deserting his or her vehicle, perhaps? Then the individual scrambled onto the roof of a car. The young male wore a button-down Hawaiian shirt. Black fluid drooled from the corners of his mouth as he—it—threw back its head, maw agape. A heartbeat later, the contagion victim’s companions from earlier hopped onto adjacent vehicles.

  The sight should have inspired disgust or horror, or at least relief that Albin and his compatriots had escaped in the nick of time. Instead, cold settled around his heart, while the seed of a headache sprouted behind his eyes.

  “What the hell are those?” the truck’s owner yelped. “Are those the monsters—the affected subjects—that people have been talking about?”

  “You’re lucky we came, Ray.” Mr. Serebus seized the opportunity to improve their public image. “We know how to stop them if they attack.”

  Albin moved on automatic pilot, shifting the vehicle into reverse. The horn of the car behind blared, but sound waves would not stop the Avalanche. A chain reaction of vehicles easing backward began. Nearly a meter opened ahead.

  “That’s probably why they spread so quickly,” Behrmann theorized.

  Head in his hands, Ray groaned.

  Albin guided the truck past the rust-brown Tanforan sign behind the mall. Several cars rode the Avalanche’s wake.

  Mr. Serebus scanned the arid central California surroundings. “Ray, traffic is backed up for miles in either direction. The people here are dangerous even when they’re not cannibals.”

  “C-cannibals? Like from an island? They actually do that? I thought it was just a rumor!”

  “Look, Mr. Ray,” Bridges drawled as he rested an arm against the window, “I’ve witnessed those monsters. Leave them to the professionals if you don’t want to be drooling oil too.” The economist took his DHS officer act seriously.

  “It really is a disease? The CDC guy on TV was calling it a new kind of drug. Other people were calling them zombies, but they don’t seem interested in brains—”

  “They’re like the Spice or bath salts cannibals,” Josephine interrupted. “The Causeway Cannibal, remember? Except if you touch that black stuff or get bitten, you turn into one.”

  The cars behind took advantage of the mall’s parking lot to speed past the Avalanche. They veered left, down the driveway toward El Camino Real, only to halt at the gridlock. Imbeciles.

  Behrmann leaned toward Albin’s seat. “Sneath Lane is up ahead.” A median formed a speed hump between them and direct access.

  Mr. Serebus grunted as the truck rumbled over the hump. Sneath Lane carried little traffic, but they needed to cross El Camino Real to reach it and the Golden Gate National Cemetery. No drivers appeared eager to let the vehicle through, however.

  “You’re not going back into town, are you?” Ray queried. “Even if you are DHS, it’s insane.”

  “What’s insane is this traffic,” Mr. Serebus snarled as he released his seatbelt and reached for the door handle. “Stay close. I’m going to play Moses and part the Road Sea.”

  “I’m not sure this is wise.” The tension headache spread its vines around Albin’s skull.

  In reply, the passenger door slammed shut, rocking the truck.

  “Could you please . . . not slam the doors?” Ray finished the request with a sheepish smile.

  With cannibals, fear-maddened citizens, and human predators turning the city into a keg of gunpowder, remaining in the vehicle’s safety outweighed speed of travel.

  “I’m going to help him,” Behrmann announced. Again the vehicle rocked under the door slam.

  Bridges peered about. “I’ll stay here as backup.”

  Albin’s knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. Ahead, Mr. Serebus withdrew his wallet. Sunlight flashed on the gold CCW badge as he waved it before the drivers upstream. Free hand up to signal them to halt, he stationed himself in front of the vehicle closest to the Avalanche. Behrmann moved to the next car and held up both hands. She wore her radio on her left shoulder, which increased her “official” persona’s credibility.

  The downstream cars pulled ahead with the shift in traffic. Tectonic plates and Supreme Court cases moved with more alacrity. Albin eased the truck into the gap.

  Insane indeed, but the description applied to more than the traffic. Charges scrolled past his mind’s eye: fleeing and eluding, impersonating an officer of the law, carjacking, assault, battery, false imprisonment.

  He advanced into the next section of dry seabed.

  Soon the counts would include trespassing, contaminating a crime scene, removing evidence, and likely another dozen before Mr. Serebus finished the day. Of course, Albin committed the acts as well, making him an accomplice. As a citizen and an attorney, he should care. The rational side knew this, but the realistic side had begun laughing. As a participant in the end of America as he knew it, only survival mattered.

  Bridges and Ray held a discussion, but their voices blended to a buzz.

  Rows of white tombstones came into view ahead to the right in the National Cemetery. It felt as if he watched the scene from outside his body. The truck cleared two lanes on autopilot. A last lane breach opened the way to the final leg of the journey.

  Simultaneous door slams jarred the passengers and elicited a groan from Ray as Mr. Serebus and Behrmann situated themselves. Reality snapped back into focus. The headache returned with double force. Albin took a breath and accelerated down Sneath Lane.

  On the left passed a Shell Station and a . . . military base? Olive-drab transport trucks and tractors occupied a car park beyond chain-link fence. Personnel in camouflage fatigues
and combat accoutrements trotted toward a Stryker troop carrier.

  “Why don’t you get transportation from the Marines over there?” Ray sounded suspicious. “Those tanks and Humvees look like they’d help you out more than my truck.”

  A military base?

  Chapter 14

  Avalon

  Fire - Barns Courtney

  Mr. Serebus wore his plotting expression: eyes narrowed, smile dangerous. “We have our mission and they have theirs.”

  Albin wove through traffic, leaving the military installation behind.

  “We’re almost at the cemetery,” Behrmann announced. She avoided mentioning their intention to visit Birk’s house.

  Mr. Serebus shifted to address Ray. “Thank you for the use of your vehicle. Take my advice: Stay off the main roads. Don’t leave your vehicle unless you have a secure location nearby. The cannibals are fast and aggressive, but the worst predators on the streets are people.”

  “I’m finding that out,” Ray grated.

  On the right, the cemetery gates came into view at the end of a winding drive. White marble arches flanked the wrought-iron gates to provide pedestrian entrances.

  Albin parked the truck with its front bumper a handbreadth from the gate. Doors slammed as the occupants exited.

  As Albin disembarked, backpack in hand, Ray stepped out. “Am I allowed to use my truck again?”

  “In a moment.”

  Mr. Serebus tapped the truck’s bed cover. “Any weapons in here?”

  “I . . . I don’t even know how to use the pistol, really.” Ray rubbed his bruised wrist absently.

  “Learn, Ray.” Mr. Serebus turned away to join Bridges and Behrmann, who had already begun climbing onto the truck’s bonnet.

  Ray winced.

  Albin adjusted the backpack straps over his shoulders and around his waist, then caught the gate’s top horizontal bar. After pulling himself over, he landed in a crouch. At the impact, the ache in his temples blurred his vision for a moment.

  Because the drop would prove a problem for Mr. Serebus, Albin moved to the gate and interlaced his fingers for a step. With a snarl, the injured man struggled over the barrier.

  He stepped off his makeshift stirrup, splinting his chest. “Ray, don’t think like a sheep out there.” Intensity burned in Mr. Serebus’s dark eyes.

  “Thank you for your service.” Albin tossed the keys over the gate. Ray caught them but did not reenter his vehicle.

  “Your country thanks you,” Bridges declared, glancing up from the map on Behrmann’s mobile.

  The reporter looked up as well. “Go east and find side roads.”

  “Do I get my gun back? It was my grandfather’s, remember?” Ray extended a trembling hand through the bars toward Mr. Serebus.

  “Ray, you survived me disarming you, but you may not survive someone else disarming you. This”—Mr. Serebus patted the weapon in its vest pouch—“will cause more trouble than it’s worth.” Issue settled, he turned to Behrmann. “Let’s go.”

  “That way.” The reporter pointed northwest, right of the cemetery’s central monument: a mound with a flagpole at its summit. A stone corral surrounded the hill’s crown, while a road wrapped its way around the mound. White, flat markers studded the incline.

  “H-hey,” Ray protested. “I . . .” He trailed off at Albin’s glare.

  “Seek safety before sundown. After that time, Hell will break loose in ways you cannot imagine.”

  Paling, Ray retreated to his truck.

  Pocketing her phone, Behrmann led the way across the street and between bushes in a hedgerow. “Birk’s house is almost straight ahead, by those trees.”

  Silence settled over the group like a sand drift as the sun sank lower in the sky, gilding the grounds. Shadows stretched from stones as if the ghosts awoke to salute the visitors.

  As the group left the road, they fell into single file to pick their way among the markers. Mr. Serebus zigzagged so as not to step on the graves more than necessary.

  They skirted the western edge of a stand of trees to reach the cemetery’s fence. With a last look at the army of the fallen, Albin wedged his trainer toe in a chain-link diamond and swung over.

  As he interlaced his fingers to form the step for Mr. Serebus, Bridges followed suit on the other side. After easing over the fence, Mr. Serebus gave Albin and the economist a nod. He resumed splinting his thorax, pale under his Grecian tan. Avoiding narcotic pain relievers made sense, but the man needed to choose between impairment from medication and impairment from pain.

  Meanwhile, Behrmann scampered up and over the fence like a squirrel—or a police dog on the attack. “This way.” She took the lead as they proceeded out of the back garden, up the alley between the single-family dwelling and its neighbor. The houses crowded each other so closely that if Albin spread his arms, he could touch both structures simultaneously.

  “An excellent place for an ambush,” Mr. Serebus commented, voice low.

  “It’s not far,” Behrmann whispered.

  Mr. Serebus leaned against the nearest house as he and the reporter peered around either corner at the alley’s end. His breathing grew rapid and shallow. As they advanced, Albin came abreast of him.

  A hundred meters down the road, two families helped each other load their SUVs. Another evacuee vehicle careened around the corner.

  “That house.” Behrmann nodded to a rust-brown single story with an attached garage. An arch provided architectural interest over the walkway to the front door.

  His head to one side, Bridges frowned. “If we want the files, and if the government wants them too, and if the terrorists were trying to get their paws on them at Doorway Pharm . . .” He trailed off as they reached the walkway to Birk’s residence.

  The hair on the back of Albin’s neck prickled; the other man needn’t finish his thought. If three parties wanted the data, who else might pay the house a visit?

  Crossed strips of crime-scene tape secured the door. The fact that the authorities managed to perform even this on such short notice did them credit.

  Albin withdrew Birk’s keys, but Mr. Serebus snatched them. “Disturbing crime scenes is my job.”

  While his employer saw to the lock, Albin reached for the yellow tape, only to find Bridges and Behrmann at his side. Together they broke the seal.

  Grinning, the economist made a slight fist-pump gesture. “I’ve always wanted to do that.”

  “It never gets old.” The reporter tossed a strip over her shoulder.

  Still smiling, the economist turned to survey their surroundings. He sobered instantly. “There,” he whispered, pointing down the street. Three figures shambled from an alley six houses distant. They paused, looking about. White skin caught the sinking sun’s light, turning them erythematous.

  The ache behind Albin’s eyes exploded like a fragmentation grenade, sending shards of pain through his skull.

  Chapter 15

  9/10

  Miracle - The Score

  Fricking hell, what did all the keys go to? The next key missed the lock completely when Nathan tried for it. One, two—Fire licked his flanks, chest, and now mid-stomach. That was new. The morphine lingered as a ghost only, with the recent physical exertion blowing away its ashes. The abdominal breaths he took normally, and that spared his ribs, now sent waves of pain through his gut.

  “Cannibal!” someone whispered, hand on his shoulder.

  A glance backward confirmed it. Get in, key! It slid home—thanks to Albin’s hand on his, guiding.

  Nathan rolled around the door frame, then slid along the entry’s wall. A Bowie knife in his solar plexus couldn’t feel any worse. The pain stopped him like a physical presence, vengeful and malicious. His eyes closed.

  “Sir.” Albin.

  Gold eyes burned in the back of Nathan’s mind. “Look . . . for anything . . . useful.”

  “Are you—” Jo began.

  Nathan waved he
r off.

  Pain’s demon loosened its grip a notch. Where did Birk keep his Tylenol and Advil? Nathan blinked in the gloom; he occupied a living room. A hall opened off either side, on the far end of the space.

  Right first, past a dark bedroom. Every step sent jolts of pain from above his stomach. Maybe something tore. Maybe the scans missed an internal injury. Fuck, what if the pain worsened? Dark wings brushed the edges of his vision. Breathing came quick and shallow. His hands shook as fever heat flared through his torso.

  Finally, the bathroom! He tore open the med cabinet. Nothing but toothpaste. If not for the pain, he would have put his fist through the wall.

  Maybe Birk kept his pills in a kitchen cupboard. He stumbled back into the hall with the aid of the wall.

  In the kitchen, he set upon the cupboards. Door number one: dry goods. Slam! Next: Flatware.

  “Mr. Serebus.”

  Nathan turned to come face to face with a blister pack of pills. “Thank God.” He snatched them from Albin. Wait. “These are the Percocet. Ibuprofen—”

  “Will be ineffective for your pain at its current level.” Albin regarded him, one eye narrowed in a wince. “It’s worse.” A statement that encompassed every damn thing at the moment. “Nine out of ten, correct?”

  Jaw clenched, Nathan glared death. Efforts to hide his vulnerability had failed. Shoulders hunched, he pushed the pill pack against Albin’s vest-protected chest before turning to the refrigerator and, more importantly, the freezer.

  The demon bird of pain wanted to demolish his will with its beak and talons, forcing him to drug himself into greater weakness. What remained of the cool wafted over him as he whipped the freezer open. He shifted ice cream containers and foil packages. Aha! Peas and beans. Peas to the incision, beans to the right rib fractures.

  Albin opened his mouth to launch into a lecture, but Marvin wandered into the kitchen, cutting him off.

  As Nathan moved back toward the first bedroom, Albin followed at his side closer than the family dogs, Hati, Skoll, and Fenrir.