Behold Darkness

by L C Champlin

  Fffssst!

  BOOM!

  The world went silent as light blazed. The heat and shockwave punched the air from Nathan’s lungs even as he dove behind the metal walls. He skidded in the grit, arms up to shield his face.

  What the hell? He twisted around and leaned out. A mass of flames, the chopper toppled over the edge of the roof.

  He pushed to hands and knees. “Ahhh.” Bolts of pain arced over his body.

  All gone: the chopper, the terrorists . . . the data. All this work for nothing?

  Oh fuck, Murphy! If he survived, he and Rodriguez would require backup.

  With the support of an air handler, Nathan made his feet. Albin—and Josephine?—secured the other roof. The remaining terrorists—

  “Die, infidel! Allahu akbar!”

  Nathan dove in a spray of gravel.

  BANG!

  Ali. Damnit, what did it take to kill the son of a bitch? Dread, rage, hate submerged in the bloodlust that poured through Nathan.

  ++++++++++++

  An explosion more powerful than a thunderclap rattled the vents. The blood drained from Albin’s face to pool in his feet. Grabbing the radio, he jogged toward the reporter’s location. “What happened?”

  “Oh God, the chopper! Murphy used the RPG!” AKM reports sounded as she paused. Thankfully she let off the PTT button while firing. “Murphy’s down. I don’t know where Cheel is. Nathan is somewhere in the vents.”

  Mr. Serebus had survived. Feeling returned to Albin’s extremities and his heart unwrapped from around his esophagus.

  Behrmann’s gunfire originated from less than ten meters away, judging by the volume. He squeezed between two vents. A ladder lay ahead. Brilliant. He carried it to an air handler five meters away.

  Two steps down the passage, metal clanked against metal in one of the corridors to the . . . rear and left. Breathe. Think. He retraced his steps, crouched, and peeked around the corner, toward the sound. A gunman stalked toward him. Shooting him now would involve exposure. Wait, the ladder. Rifle in his right hand, Albin braced the ladder against his left shoulder and maneuvered it toward the enemy’s path. The movement of the ladder over the vents would attract the terrorist.

  A stride brought Albin into position. A shove sent the ladder toppling toward the foe. When it reached a forty-five degree angle, Albin leaned around the corner in time to see the terrorist raise a hand to catch the oncoming threat.

  Two shots. Blood splattered from the terrorist’s head and neck as he pitched backward.

  Chapter 92

  Strong Alone, Stronger Together

  Nobody Praying for Me – Seether

  Albin headed toward Behrmann’s location. Movement ahead, atop a large air handler. Behrmann? The figure rose from lying to one knee. Yes. Albin shifted left an aisle to align with her vantage. He froze. As a bonus for locating the reporter, he also located the terrorist. The man backed between two vents and out of view.

  “Josephine, seven o’clock!” She wouldn’t know what that meant. “Get down!” She obeyed, dropping from sight.

  The gunman would try to gain elevation, possibly by circling behind Albin. A rightward course could cut him off. Albin squeezed between two air handlers and emerged in the next passage. As predicted, the terrorist trotted half backward with rifle up, covering Behrmann’s position. He backed into the path of Albin’s sights.

  Albin squeezed the trigger—just as rifle fire from above knocked the terrorist to the ground. Autopilot moved Albin’s rifle with the foe, pressed the trigger once, twice, sending 7.62 mm rounds into the enemy’s skull as he landed.

  Behrmann scrambled back up to her eagle’s nest. She waved at him, then returned to supporting the Americans on the other roof. Evidently she used a ladder to ascend. Said ladder gave her a second location from which to, if not rain death, then at least hamper its delivery from the terrorists.

  “Excellent!” Albin called as he dashed back toward the ladder and the extra ammunition on the corpse.

  ++++++++++++

  Already scrambling to his feet as the echo died, Nathan sidestepped between two vents. Get high-ground advantage. A left brought him to another vent pair. He wedged himself between the steel walls and spider-climbed until his fingers closed over the ledge. Kip, kick. He tried to silence his ascent and landing, but sheet metal didn’t cooperate.

  Chrome glinted below. Nathan leapt to the nearest air handler.

  BANG-BANG!

  Ali lurched into view with a semi-auto aimed at Nathan’s head. The bloody, singed terrorist leaned against a vent for support.

  Go!

  BANG!

  Mind devoid of everything but the goal, adrenaline and desperation launched Nathan across the alley and onto another air handler. He pivoted, leapt into the gap, kicked off a vent wall on the opposite side—Shit! Nike slid on steel to turn his diving elbow drop into a collision.

  BANG!

  He grabbed for the weapon hand, missed, ducked Ali’s swing, retried, succeeded. Left jab, but Ali blocked. They staggered back along the alley, each working for footing.

  “I’ll . . . kill . . . you,” Nathan snarled through clenched teeth.

  Kick—Ali blocked. A knee from Ali followed, but Nathan tensed and turned enough to avoid the majority of the force. Attacks, blocks, dodges flashed on the periphery of consciousness as the instinct lizard-brain kicked in.

  Ali’s weight shifted. Nathan slid in for a shoulder throw. The 1911 came free from Ali’s grip. Nathan brought it online, but Ali lunged on all fours down an alley on the left.

  The prey was on the run. The amarok killed lone hunters.

  Nathan barreled down the passage, weapon up—and hit the ground on his back, hard. Blindsided. But he still held the Springfield. Ali staggered into view.

  Fire.

  Click. Empty.

  Roll right, just in time to miss Ali’s elbow drop. On hands and knees, Nathan pivoted right. Crunch! Pistol butt glanced off Ali’s left collar bone.

  Momentum brought Nathan’s left leg around and under. Up. A kick to Ali’s chest sent him onto his back in the dirt.

  Survival instinct overcame a lacerated trachea, broken collarbone, and other injuries: Ali hiked his legs up and over in a backward somersault, and scrambled for the gap ahead.

  “Run. It’s more fun.”

  ++++++++++++

  To the right, Behrmann continued to fire. Judging from the gunshots across the street and thud of bullets into concrete and steel, the terrorists had located their attackers. Where did the murderers lurk? There. “Second floor, middle window,” he relayed via the radio.

  Behrmann directed her fire as ordered. The terrorist ducked back into cover.

  Where else? Aha. On the ground to the north, but not for long. His rifle’s rounds tore through the car roof and into the waste of flesh behind it.

  On the roof, two men burst from the steel maze: Mr. Serebus and Cheel’s hound.

  Chapter 93

  Labyrinth

  Enemies – Shinedown

  Chemical-fire smoke gusted around Nathan as he emerged from the metal maze.

  Ali sprang at him like a cat, but Nathan dodged. He grabbed a handful of gravel and flung it in the Arab’s face.

  “Ahg!” The captain blinked by reflex.

  Crunch! Pistol connected with nose. Blood sprayed as Ali staggered backward. Yes, more! Crack! The trachea gave way.

  “Guuurrrg!” The terrorist clawed at his throat as if he could reopen it. Hatred burned in his eyes when Nathan grabbed the armor front and shoved him against the chain-link fence.

  “Still alive? Good.” Riiip! Velcro came loose, data case came out. “Was this worth it?” Nathan waved the case in Ali’s soon-to-be pulverized face, then slid it into a pants pocket. “It’s mine now. You—” Pistol up. Slam! “Can go—” Slam! “To—” Slam! “Hell!” Thuck. Through the temple, through the membranes.

  Ali spasmed, flailed. His fin
gers brushed Nathan’s face, leaving war-paint stripes.

  “Die!” Nathan roared. The 1911 powered up between Ali’s arms, into what remained of a face: a mass of blood, mangled skin, and muscle.

  The body fell limp.

  Automatic-weapon fire punctuated the roar of blood and pant of breath in Nathan’s ears.

  Dragging the terrorist’s corpse back into the maze like a predator with its prey, Nathan crouch-ran past the debris and flames that marked the chopper’s doom. The railing wall provided decent cover, which increased as he neared the southeast corner.

  If Murphy had survived this long, he and Rodriguez could wait another minute for Nathan’s assistance.

  The guard wall at last! Nathan propped the comatose terrorist against the concrete. I need to do this. Up and over. The murderer slid off the rail to plummet headfirst toward the asphalt three stories below.

  As the body fell, Nathan’s soul soared. The wet thump brought a rush of satisfaction. “Justice for the fallen. All the fallen.” No longer was Nathan the prey, striking out in defense. Now the amarok felled the hunters.

  The movement attracted the nearby cannibals. They fanned out and loped over. Nathan stepped to the south wall to scan for more of them. They closed in with heads back and mouths open. Their movements seemed smoother now, almost hypnotizing in their half-human, half-animal ambulation.

  The whir of chopper blades wafted from the distance. Where?

  ++++++++++++

  Chopper rotors buzzed to the north. A Black Hawk hovered half a mile off, with another an equal distance behind. More rotors, faint as an echo, hummed in the southwest.

  Albin raised the rifle and scanned the area. Wait—a black AH-1Z Super Cobra rose from behind the overpass in the southwest and darted forward. Tension bled from his muscles at the sight. The cavalry at last.

  Movement at the service door on the other roof drew Albin’s attention. Two gunmen burst from the roof access door, weapons panning.

  He acquired his targets.

  Chapter 94

  Not the Fall but Landing

  My Demons – Starset

  More terrorists? The gunmen’s AKs swung in Nathan’s direction.

  Below lay the walkway roof, which the chopper destruction had peppered with shrapnel and debris. Nowhere to go but over.

  Heat and smoke roared past Nathan as he pulled himself half over the wall. In his peripheral vision: a white-hot explosion consumed the terrorists and the access outbuilding.

  ++++++++++++

  The explosion rocked the building, rattled the walkway, thundered in Albin’s chest.

  The same concussive force threw Mr. Serebus off the corner of the building. Time slowed to one-tenth speed. Details sharpened to supernatural clarity as the man twisted in midair.

  ++++++++++++

  “Urf!” Nathan’s upper body slammed into the metal roof. Fingernails clawed for purchase. His left Nike sole squealed on the window. Kick, inchworm. Gasping for breath, muscles screaming, he swung his legs onto the roof. “Yes!”

  Now he could risk a look at the chopper, whose rotorwash blew sand and dust into his eyes and thrashed his hair. A black Cobra—a fucking Snake!—hovered forty yards away, weapon systems on the building.

  Still on his belly, Nathan grinned. “The cavalry is here!” Then the multi-barreled minigun under the nose swiveled in his direction. Its three eyes of heavy-caliber death stared at him. “Wait!” Hands open, arms out, surrender position. The barrels dropped three inches.

  Small-arms fire exploded up through the walkway roof. One kicked into his left chest, stopped at the armor plate.

  “Move!” Albin. The radio.

  Roll right—

  BAM-BAM-BAM!—from the other roof, hammering the metal he’d vacated a heartbeat earlier.

  Another burst punched up on his left. Maybe he should risk jumping off and landing on a car roof thirty feet below.

  As the chopper swung toward him, a swarm of rockets blasted from the Cobra’s Hydra hive. They exploded ten yards to his left while the Gatling thundered. Glass shattered, pouring like razor-edged rain on the cannibals below. The whole structure rumbled with the onslaught.

  Nathan resumed the non-threat snow-angel position. His heart slammed against his ribs hard enough to rattle the roof. He squeezed his eyes shut while gasping for air. Why . . . couldn’t he . . . get his breath?

  Something about his position, the proximity of salvation, and his latest near-death experience punctured the shell of his emotional tanker truck. What little mental energy remained washed out. Energy went to…breathing.

  Nothing. He felt nothing. Not like when the cold swept in to put everything but critical functions into hibernation mode. No, now he felt vacant, devoid even of the drive to defend. Everything felt heavy. His lungs strained for air. Had a bullet or shrapnel piece caught him in a vital spot? I just . . . want . . . to sleep.

  Creeeeaaak! Squealing steel and cracking cement, along with a shift in the angle of the bridge, made his eyes open a crack. He needed to . . . figure out how to not fall two stories into walkway wreckage. Tell that to his body.

  ++++++++++++

  Gritting his teeth, muscles bunched, Albin fought down the urge to return fire. Missiles and a 20 mm Gatling gun? Idiots!

  When the barrage ceased, Mr. Serebus remained unharmed, by some miracle.

  One moment. If the military met the terrorist threat with extreme prejudice, they may consider anyone with a weapon a threat until proven innocent.

  Albin dropped his weapon as if it had turned molten. “Drop the rifle!” he yelled to Behrmann as he jumped to the ground. He dodged between equipment to reach the roof’s open expanse. “Get where they can see you and get on your stomach before they fire on us!”

  Chopper blades thudded to the west over the sister building as he emerged. Behrmann trotted out a few meters away. She dropped, assumed a prone position at the sight of the aircraft.

  “What is our story?” Albin asked over the choppers as he followed her example. If they ever needed media spin, they needed it now.

  She turned her head to eye him with suspicion.

  “I am serious. I bow to your expertise.”

  “All right. The truth, or as close to it as we can come without mentioning that we handled the cannibals. I don’t want to risk getting put in government quarantine.”

  “We are of like minds, for the moment at least.”

  “A rare event, huh?”

  “Your assistance was greatly appreciated.” He shifted his position as a magazine in his vest pouch dug into his ribs. “You performed remarkably well.”

  “What was I supposed to do?” she retorted with a sly smile. “Curl up in the fetal position? Thank you, Mr. Conrad,” she added.

  “Please, call me Albin.” He maintained his customary neutral expression.

  ++++++++++++

  A ten-yard section of the concourse rumbled and shivered as the concrete collapsed, dragging the protesting steel roof with it like a lowering gangplank.

  Nathan began to slide across the roof. Through a superhuman effort, as if in a paralysis nightmare, he forced his right arm to move, his hand to grab a joint in the metal. Just . . . hold . . . on. Left arm, go. “Erf.”

  The gangplank went vertical. His legs and lower torso now dangled over the bridge’s wreckage. Get to the bend in the walkway, to its ledge. Rotating his shoulders into their sockets, tensing his abdomen, he attempted a pull-up—and nearly passed out in a wave of blackness as pain blossomed over his body.

  Thud. Thud-thud. More critical structure fell. The roof vibrated just before each thud.

  Steel gave way behind as rivets popped and seams tore. If any floor remained, he could perhaps swing into the walkway. Right. He couldn’t even pull himself up. The floor would probably collapse under his weight anyway.

  If he wanted to live, he needed to push through the pain. If only he could get enough air.

&n
bsp; Chapter 95

  Flight of the Valkyries

  Fiction – Avenged Sevenfold

  The roar of rotors grew. Downwash forced Albin to close his eyes and avert his face against the storm of grit. The noise and wind increased. He risked a glance. The Black Hawk hovered just beyond the southern guardrail. The door slid open.

  “Get up and get in!” Officer Rodriguez? “Now!”

  In the distance, the second Black Hawk sped southward, probably transporting Murphy for emergent medical care. Relief warmed the pit of Albin’s stomach as he pushed upright. Beside him, Behrmann regained her feet. They pounded toward the chopper and the DHS officer, who waited in its doorway. A harness secured her to the arm and winch that jutted from the aircraft.

  Albin leapt into the Black Hawk, Behrmann on his heels. The instant both of them entered, Rodriguez signaled for the pilot to ascend. “Get to the bridge before it’s gone!”

  Bracing himself against the seats, Albin leaned toward the door for a better look at the walkway. His mouth went dry and his stomach clenched around his spine at the sight: Almost collapsed, only a five meter section of bridge remained. From the ragged end dangled Mr. Serebus, while cannibals milled below.

  “Sit down while I snag your partner in crime,” Rodriguez commanded, motioning Albin back. He retreated three centimeters. Shaking her head, she turned back to her task.

  “Don’t worry, he’s in good hands,” Behrmann reassured him, belting in.

  Albin gave her a look of skepticism.

  The chopper maneuvered to hover over the bridge. A member of the Black Hawk crew in the forward seats stood and clipped a second harness to the carabiner. The cross on his uniform marked him as a combat medic. His comrade, another medic, watched from behind his helmet’s mirrored visor.