Behold Darkness

by L C Champlin

  “I’ll keep watch and use the radio, channel four. Channel five if there’s traffic.”

  He clicked the second radio to channel four in response. Then he unclipped the keys and held them out to her. She hooked them onto her belt loop.

  The two started down the alley, toward the street. “I’ll use the dump truck cab—”

  “Do so after I drop the data. Then I will keep watch for you. Proceed to the corner of this fence,” he instructed as he grabbed the top of a fencepost and wedged his toe halfway up the chain link.

  “Be careful.” Then she trotted toward her station.

  Be careful. An inane excuse for advice, but everyone loved it. Behrmann dropped to one knee at the fence corner, her attention flicking among the roofs and the ground. Good. He swung over the barrier, landed in a crouch, then jogged bent double toward the most suitable stack.

  “Get down!” the radio crackled, prompting him to duck behind a barrier pile. Heart thudding in its cage, he waited. “Okay, go.”

  Two stacks of barriers off lay his goal. He darted toward it, slid between it and its neighbor. Where to secret the drive? There, near the bottom. Mr. Serebus made a point of asking for all the data when he knew only one drive existed. Thus, Albin left the USB flash drive, which he had found in the board room, beside the genuine. A decoy? Then he produced the box cutter and pencil. The former he placed next to the drives, the latter he used to scratch a message.

  Steeling himself, he ducked from behind the stack and swung back over the fence into the alley. Here he sprinted down the straightaway. Across the railroad tracks, he landed in the driveway behind the Wendy’s and Starbucks.

  Movement on the left halted him before the fence’s halfway point. A lone figure was meandering through the car park forty meters away.

  Albin’s throat went dust-dry as he froze, right hand clenched around the Beretta. If he kept still, maybe it would ignore him. The cannibal, a female, moved at a retiree’s pace. She—it—made a left with a wide radius. At this rate, waiting could take all day. Both he and Behrmann needed to get to their posts in the next minute.

  As he inched right, his ankle struck metal. A long, bent pipe protruded from the sand. Not exactly a boar spear, but it would do. Pulling it from the earth, he resumed his course.

  With the predictability of the Underground, the cannibal halted, head back. Then it dropped to all fours to kick off its lope.

  Albin stopped again, assumed a defensive stance.

  Thirty meters left.

  It is a human. Behind, he braced the pipe’s end against the fence wire.

  Twenty meters.

  A human that could spew toxic oil and withstand center-of-mass shots from an assault rifle.

  Ten meters.

  Sssssaaaahhh!

  Ready, set, now.

  Clay-red eyes burned as the cannibal lunged. Every iota of concentration and strength flowed into Albin’s movement: aim, sidestep right, left hand guiding the pole. The monster’s momentum carried it onto the pike, drove the metal through the back of the skull. Albin released the pipe and opened measure on the creature as soon as point entered eye socket. The cannibal twitched, then went still with a last hiss.

  He staggered backward as he attempted to regain his composure. His pulse throbbed in his temples and his breath barely came.

  Inhaling, he turned and jogged toward the lot’s northwest corner. If he remained on the western aspect, the assorted snipers couldn’t spot him. A spit of sand jutted between the drive-through carwash ahead and the pharmaceutical building to its right. He pounded toward the north fence and its bushes.

  After negotiating the debris and brush to reach a suitable location, he reported over the radio, “You may proceed.”

  “Roger that.”

  With an eye roll he rose to peer over the fence. Thanks to the open gate, he had a clear view of the dump truck. Along the street loomed the terrorist-infested edifices. If he squinted against the glare along the roofline . . . There, the top of a gunman’s head. The masked Arab was looking to the south.

  Behrmann scurried along the inside of the fence. Where had her tarp gone?

  So far so good—No, the terrorist turned toward the lot. “Down!” Albin snapped into the radio. She hit the dirt, pressing against the shrub-covered fence. Two heartbeats later the sniper turned north. “Go, quickly.”

  Hopping to her feet, she darted, bent double, toward the gate. Almost there. Destination reached. Now the most dangerous stretch: across the road.

  Just as she ducked around the gate and out of the lot, the sniper turned. “Back!” Raising the Beretta, he centered the sight picture over the gunman. In theory, a .40 caliber’s effective range hovered at ninety meters. In theory, he could dispatch the terrorist. And in theory, he could also shoot the sniper’s bullet from the air.

  Whoooooo!

  He jumped at the car alarm’s scream, glanced toward the sound by reflex. Of course, the carpentry truck’s panic button. On the roof the sniper snapped his weapon up. At the other corner of the fence, a breeze caught Behrmann’s tarp, providing further distraction.

  “Go, now.”

  The reporter unplastered herself from the fence and sprinted for the dump truck cab, making its concealment just as the gunman swept his sights back across the street.

  Albin let out the breath he held. “Look sharp; the curtain goes up now.”

  He found the other radio and hit the PTT: “Mr. Serebus, do you copy? Your time is up.”

  Chapter 73

  Get Your Game On

  Devour – Shinedown

  Nathan’s radio crackled: “Exit through the front doors, then turn right and keep on.”

  “Bear in mind, Mr. Serebus, I also have a radio set to your channel.” The terrorist chief tapped his shoulder mic.

  “I trust your men will clear my way of cannibals?” Nathan asked, hand on the door.

  “My men are exceptionally proficient shots.” Grin.

  Wonderful.

  After looking both directions for hostiles, other than the fifteen or more who were watching him through rifle sights, he stepped outside. Asphalt, low tide, and smog stench greeted him. Even the pseudo-freedom brought a thrill.

  Right turn, then straight. Jogging along the wall, he halted at the corner. “I’m at the corner. Now where?”

  “Right. Carry on straight with as little interruption as possible.” Interruption. Cannibals, in other words.

  “Understood.” Releasing the PTT, he muttered, “Now let’s see just how good these snipers are.”

  The empty parking lot stretched away to his left. Unless they could hide behind palm trees, nothing could creep up on him. Ahead, a fence and its shrubbery ran east to west. He continued to trot in its general direction, along the building perimeter.

  Around another entrance and on to the corner. “Another corner,” he relayed to Albin.

  “Another right.”

  Nathan peeked around the wall. Two dumpsters, three company vans, a flatbed cargo truck, palm trees. He eased toward the vans, with as much stealth as possible when moving along an open wall in broad daylight.

  Rustling from the overgrown bushes on the fence line.

  Ssssssaaaaahhhh!

  A male in a UPS uniform stepped from the leaves. Its head lolled backward as oil hung from its mouth in ropes. One, two, three, four. Maybe it wouldn’t see, smell, hear, or . . . whatever him.

  Nathan pressed his back against the wall as if he could sink into the concrete. Cheel must admire the Romans and their coliseum games of Christians versus lions. Little did he know he had sent an amarok into the arena.

  Ssssssaaaaahhhh! Rust eyes locked on Nathan, shoulders rolled forward, movements grew purposeful. The shamble turned to a lope with lion-lunges every third step. Running? What the actual fuck?

  Nathan sprinted for the dumpsters as the cannibal neared. Padlocks secured the lid flaps. Shit.

  Thud, th
ud, thud, slap, thud. It was getting closer, twenty yards away at most.

  Using the fork pocket as a foothold, Nathan jumped onto the lid. The cannibal slowed, pulled itself to its full height and let out another hiss. Did they climb?

  He risked a glance up at the Doorway Pharm roof. “Any time, you bastards.” Nothing. No rifle barrels, no snipers.

  Below, the cannibal ambled closer. Nathan’s throat closed as he tried to swallow. Unarmed, face to face with a monster that could vomit toxic oil.

  Three yards away. Lifting its head, the thing dropped to all fours like a frog. Frogs jump. And so did cannibals! It launched at the edge of the Dumpster, missed the edge in a sloppy landing.

  The impact forced Nathan to one knee. “You’re not supposed to be able to do that, you ugly motherfucker.”

  Thud! Another attempt plopped the cannibal’s upper body on the lid.

  Nathan leapt off and sprinted for the vans. If he could break a window—

  He stopped just past the first vehicle. Two more cannibals shambled toward him from between the vans. Reflex danced him backward, saving his chest from a swipe.

  Already running, he aimed for the flatbed. Everything went silent save his breathing. Twenty yards, ten, five.

  He caught the edge of the trailer, kicked himself up from the tire and onto the bed. The three cannibals barely registered from the corner of his eye as he pounded to the cab.

  To the left, a chorus of mucusy hisses filled the air; the cannibals halted to . . . evaluate the situation?

  Two logging chains lay at the head of the trailer. A bolt held an end of each, while a hook for securing cargo capped the other end. Yes! The nearest chain hissed through the air, arcing around his head once, twice. Crunch. The hook caught on the UPS cannibal’s cranial vault. Nathan braced himself and jerked it and half the gray matter and membranes free.

  A pace behind their fellow, the other two bastards hunched as if deciding to walk or jump next. The leftmost half shambled, half loped around the trailer’s rear. Flanking?

  A third of the way down the bed lay another chain and hook. Damn it, if Cheel wanted a coliseum show, Nathan Serebus would play predator, not prey. Two swings for momentum, then another crunch. A rust eye popped as hook crashed into face. With its nervous system control annihilated, the cannibal dropped in a heap.

  One left.

  BAMBAMBAM! Lead pounded the last monster’s head into ground beef.

  Nathan stared at the mess, the chain in a stranglehold.

  “Good show. But the data awaits.” The goddamned bastard was greedy for his files.

  One, two, three, four. Hold. Nathan hit the PTT: “Albin, it’s been a refreshingly scenic route, but I’ve had enough of making friends.”

  “Cross the road. Enter the lot. You may not be finished making acquaintances with the locals.”

  Nathan resumed his trek. Past shrubs, past a Caterpillar dump truck and a Ram 2500. Two figures stepped from behind a parked Mazda. As he made for the lot, he raised an arm to tag the creatures for his snipers.

  Silence reigned, other than the thud of his Nikes on the asphalt and his pulse in his ears. Take the shot any time now, you bastards. In his peripheral vision the cannibals turned toward him, hunched in preparation for their bizarre lope.

  Breaking into a sprint, he tore through the open gate. He wheeled, almost fell in the loose sand, lunged for the chain-link gate. Clang! It rattled on its hinges as the latch fell, locking the monsters out.

  Ssssssaaaaahhh!

  The cannibals slowed, halted at the fence. Rust eyes remained fixed as their blistered faces turned from side to side like snakes. Black mucus dribbled from their mouths and down their ruined business attire.

  To Nathan’s right waited stacks of concrete barriers. Ten yards into a run and—

  Automatic weapon fire thundered. He turned in time to see the two monsters jerk with the spray of bullets. Gore, bone, and oil aerosolized as lead tore through flesh. In three heartbeats, only sludge remained of the things’ heads and torsos.

  He slowed to a stop three yards from the easternmost stack and surveyed his surroundings. Dry grass and vines rattled in a breeze that summoned sand devils. Sirens, the chorus of the apocalypse, lent soprano accompaniment. In the distance, choppers patrolled.

  Key the mic: “Now what, Albin? Let’s get this over with.”

  Chapter 74

  Get the Show On

  Bleeding Out – Imagine Dragons

  “You’ve reached the drop site; however, I need more information about your standing with this Istiqaamah group. You owe me that, as I could have already made good my escape.”

  Deep breath. ”I don’t owe you anything. Suffice it to say that if they’re pleased with my services, I can break into a new customer demographic.” Nathan began examining the nearest barrier stack. Logically the device would resemble a hard drive or a flash drive.

  “Their terrorist activities do not worry you even slightly? You’re cold, by the way.”

  Nathan shifted right, still hunting. “This Istiqaamah group has the right idea. You’ve witnessed the wreckage here and in New York. I’m siding with the winning team. When the dollar drops to zero, I plan to have a diversified, international portfolio. It’s not as if the parasites in our government have ever done anything to help me. The position with me is still open. After eight years together, I don’t see why you should turn it down.”

  “Warmer. Yes, eight interminably long years. You will forgive me if I decline their offer, as I am already employed.”

  “Yes, you fucking work for me.” No drive here. Farther right?

  “You misunderstand me, sir. I am now self-employed as the new CEO of Arete Technologies.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” Nathan kept his tone dismissive. Good work, Albin. “Do you honestly think you’re going to be able to waltz back to New York and proclaim yourself the boss like some sort of conquering chieftain?”

  “Warmer. Ah-ah, sir, I believe you were the one who held Ragnar Lothbrok as a role model.”

  “And you preferred Sir Francis Walsingham.” Act in secret like the spymaster. “That makes sense. What are you going to say, that I became a terrorist and sailed off to the Middle East? No one will believe you. All I need to do is make a phone call and you’ll be staring down the barrel of legal action. I would say you’d be fired”—he turned to glare across the sandlot as if he could see the attorney—“but you already are.”

  “Forgive me, but I don’t believe you possess the authority to make termination judgments. You’ve become a traitor and thus have no standing in Arete Technologies.” Albin played his part almost too well.

  “You may be the lawyer, but I know the bylaws. There’s nothing demanding loyalty to the US. There is, however, much about loyalty to the company and its management.” He jabbed a thumb at himself. “Thus, you are in violation.”

  “On the contrary, I am acting in the company’s best interest.”

  “The man I’d take a bullet for is behind the trigger! You’ve waited years to do this, haven’t you. Gaining my trust and the loyalty of Arete Tech’s people, all so you could stage a coup.” Baring his teeth in a snarl, Nathan turned to rake the surrounding buildings with his glare.

  “I could hardly allow the company to remain in the hands of a man who is mentally unstable and thus unfit to lead.”

  “Unstable because I fought to protect you?”

  “You are irrational and unpredictable, a danger to yourself and others. It is a mercy to all stake holders that I assume command.”

  “I do what’s required. If you consider it irrational, that’s your problem, not mine. Take your best shot at unseating me, but remember this: no one takes what’s mine.” Fair warning, Cheel.

  “Hot.”

  Where? “Why are you giving me the data if you’re betraying me? Why not take it for yourself?”

  “Incriminating evidence, as the crime scene
investigators say.”

  Nathan straightened to sneer at the surrounding buildings, one of which sheltered Albin. “Then it’s not a heroic effort to rescue the hostages done from the goodness of your warm heart? What a shock.”

  “Very hot. No matter what happens to the hostages, I win. If they die, you will be implicated as an accessory to murder. If they are traded, then they give witness to your treason.”

  “An attorney to the end!”

  “I do hope your new associates are as congenial as you describe them to be, because once you bring them that data, you’ll be out of cards to play. I notice they did not see fit to equip you with any weapons. How trusting.”

  “Why should I have a weapon when the watchers on the walls have AKs?”

  “Good luck, sir.”

  “You’re the one who needs it.”

  There! Midway down the center stack, a black rectangle a bit smaller than a Zippo lighter, and with it a standard flash drive. A gray box cutter lay beside it. After another glance about for cannibals, Nathan dropped to a knee to recover the items. On the concrete above the drive a message in pencil read: Exit strategy = weakness. Carpentry or rental-car park. USB = 0.

  Using the box cutter, he made a slit in the inside of his right Nike’s tongue, at the middle. The real drive, not the USB decoy, slid inside. Straightening, he shoved the USB device into a pocket in his Blackhawks. The box cutter disappeared into another. “Thank you, Albin; that will be all. Now fuck off.” Be safe.

  “One last thing, sir.” The last link in the chain that would bind Cheel.

  “What? Are you going to tell me you plan on bedding my wife and claiming my son as your own, too, when you get back?”

  “I would make Janine a better husband and David a better father than you ever could. They will thank me for taking your place.”

  Rage and pain flared by reflex. “This from a man who’s never had even one fuck in his life?” Nathan’s fists clenched; his own words stung him worse than Albin’s. “You had twenty years with her, but you just couldn’t pull the trigger.”