Day of Darkness

by LC Champlin

  “But not on the residential streets?”

  Albin held up a hand to silence Bridges. “That is not why we have come. Officer Rodriguez, I wish to re-enter the government’s custody. I will accept their offer of transport to a safer location, as Director Washington promised us before the fiasco at the Belle Air Elementary.” How long ago that seemed, though only two days had transpired since he and the others had first taken shelter with the government. At that time, it appeared he and Mr. Serebus could do without them. But no substitute existed for armed guards and the blessing of the Department of Homeland Security.

  “You what?”

  “Mr. Serebus now pursues different goals from us.”

  “Well.” She blinked. “I’m sure Director Washington will have something to say about it.”

  “I will accept her judgment.” He would accept it as long as it facilitated his goals.

  “Fine. You people are my responsibility, at least partly. You can ride in the back”—she jerked her head toward the rear seat of the patrol car—“or follow us. Decide, because we’re leaving. Now.”

  Uncertain, Bridges rubbed the back of his neck. “Josephine is still in the neighborhood. She went to speak with Nathan. Maybe she got tangled up with those cannibals. She doesn’t have a vehicle like we do.”

  “Mr. Bridges,” Albin interposed, “she is aware of incident command’s location. Also, she is every bit as ingenious as you at escaping dangerous situations.”

  “Speaking of which.” The color in Bridge’s face turned to ash as he pointed behind the police cruisers.

  At the same instant, Judge began barking from the Tacoma.

  All heads turned in the direction. The five cannibals from Marlin Drive approached at a lope, using the shrubs as concealment.

  Rodriguez shouldered her MP5, while her partner and the two civilians presented semi-automatic handguns. “Take them down.” The order had barely left her mouth when she fired two rounds into the chest of the nearest cannibal. Her third bullet destroyed the back of the creature’s skull in a geyser of blood and brain matter, completing the Mozambique Drill of two center-mass hits and one head shot.

  The cannibal stopped, tottering. Then it dropped like a corpse cut from the scaffold.

  The police officer released three shots as well, but only one impacted, striking the left thigh of his target. Aside from a momentary stagger, the monster continued its charge, oil flying from its maw.

  Meanwhile, the other three cannibals moved in a flanking maneuver, two to the left and one to the right. Their group organization evolved with each encounter, it seemed.

  The front sight of Albin’s SIG Sauer P250 snapped into focus over a cannibal on the left. He took up the slack in the trigger. The shot broke, punching a neat hole between the eyes. The slow, heavy round tore through the occipital lobe, carrying brain matter with it and reducing the threat to a heap of meat.

  Bridges loosed a series of rounds. Two struck a cannibal in the torso. Then its head snapped back, ending the charge forever. The killing blow originated from Rodriguez.

  The remaining two fell under the lead storm from other law enforcement officers, who had deployed their weapons at the first gunshots.

  When the pack’s threat ended, the scramble for the vehicles began, as did the caravan to the incident command center.

  Cold swept over the desert of Albin’s mental landscape. Mr. Serebus had made his choice, and he would soon discover the consequences thereof. Fiat justitia, let justice be done.

  Chapter 5

  Not a Democracy

  Somewhere Only We Know - Keane

  No rest for the wicked or for the leader, and Nathan fit both. Rather, he did according to Albin’s definition, even if it made no damn sense.

  “Thank you for coming, everyone,” Nathan addressed the crowd of Redwood Shores residents from the back of a GMC Sierra. His resemblance to a politician courting the Common Man made his skin crawl as if maggots burrowed beneath it. He didn’t need to campaign, though; they already regarded him as sheep regarded their shepherd. He would have to turn them into wolves if they wanted to survive this hell—and if he expected them to do him any good.

  “We suffered a great tragedy today with the death of Carolyn Blum. She was a true leader, and her sacrifice will not be forgotten. Her right-hand leader, Amanda Muster”—he motioned for her to climb into the truck bed beside him—“will make an excellent replacement. I will also be here as adviser while we make sense of all this.” The same type of “adviser” Putin had been to Dmitry Medvedev before resuming the role of president. While Amanda proved capable, she lacked Nathan’s experience with the cannibals, terrorists, and government. Besides, he owed the neighborhood; they had helped him retrieve the ReMOT. They also offered the chance to develop the research files pertaining to the cannibals.

  The crowd murmured as Amanda took Nathan’s hand and scrambled up onto the tailgate. Some clapped, others looked down as they remembered Carolyn. The college president had run the neighborhood well during the last few days, but that had not saved her from the infected rebel Eduardo, or Esau Seir, aka the Red Chief of the Red Devil Goats.

  “If we live in fear, hiding in our homes and waiting for starvation or looters,” Nathan continued, “then we’re already defeated. We are Silicon Valley. The world owes us its gratitude for all we’ve given it. If anyone can turn an obstacle into an opportunity, it’s us. We are Silicon Valley. We are Redwood Shores!” He raised his fist like a UFC champion. And indeed, God had saved his life, choosing him to be His conqueror. Like Nebuchadnezzar bringing his rule to Nineveh, Nathan had not come as a prophet preaching repentance, but as the new leader, one who would bring peace—his kind of peace.

  Scattered applause greeted this. Amanda gave her support as well, encouraging the audience.

  “Go Redwood!” someone cried. Other shouts of team spirit followed. Excellent.

  “Now, Amanda will speak with you about how we’ll proceed. Everyone has skills—” Nathan broke off as two figures hoisted themselves up to look over the fence at the southeast end of Keelson Circle. Pale faces regarded them with bulging eyes. Their hair fell in tangles, with oil dripping from their mouths and slicking the locks into tendrils like the tentacles of an octopus. The name Dalit referred to the unclean caste in the Hindu culture. Since their bodily fluids passed the contagion through even intact skin, they lived up to their name.

  Sssssaaaahhh.

  The hiss brought every hair on Nathan’s body erect. The faces vanished, then three cannibals launched over the wall as if on stuntman wires. A blink later, the remaining two scrambled over. Since when could they leap like jungle cats?

  “Never let a crisis go to waste,” he breathed. One thing about this disaster, crises came at five-minute intervals. Or less. Sometimes they overlapped. Good news for someone who knew how to leverage them.

  “Josephine.”

  She hopped onto the Sierra’s bed with him. “Do we shoot them?”

  He shook his head, attention on the creatures. “Everyone, return to your homes. If they charge you, be a Matador and step aside. Go!” He thrust his hand behind him as if to push the people into their houses with willpower while his glare held the cannibals at bay.

  They needed no second urging.

  Dropping his voice, Nathan explained, “We need our own army. This worked for the Goats, and it will work for us.” It already had worked for him, but Amanda didn’t know that. She didn’t know anything about his previous alliance with the Goats. In her eyes, he had ridden in as a knight in acid-wash jeans to rescue Redwood Shores from the mercenaries.

  “What do you mean?” asked Amanda. “How are the affected—”

  “I get it.” Josephine began scanning the area. “I suppose we could use the Nelsons’ garage.”

  “Good idea.” Nathan glanced at the house, which sat across from the Musters’. “Jeremy won’t need it for a time.” Not until he returned from wherev
er the government had decided to medevac him to. “Zander is staying with the Singhs. It’s already been used for holding cannibals, you’ll recall.”

  ++++++++++++

  Albin guided the Tacoma along Redwood Shores Parkway, following the flashing lights of Officer Rodriguez’s cruiser. In the rearview flickered more blue lights, the last of the law enforcement presence in Redwood Shores.

  “Do you think Redwood will be all right?” Bridges wondered as he gazed out at the office high-rises.

  “I sincerely wish I knew.” Keeping the annoyance from his voice proved difficult. “Mr. Serebus is a capable leader, but I do not know how well he will function in his current state of mind.”

  “He doesn’t have many people there who can fight.”

  “Perhaps the government will be able to spare a few units if the situation deteriorates.”

  “Maybe. I remember hearing the story about an incident that happened during Hurricane Katrina in New Orleans. A man called 9-1-1 and told the dispatcher a group of people was trying to beat down his door. In the background you could hear them banging and yelling. He said he had a gun. There were gunshots. He was shooting warning shots, but the people kept hammering. He begged the dispatcher to send someone to help . . .” He gulped as his eyes went glassy. “But the dispatcher said, ‘I’m very sorry, sir, but we don’t have anyone to send.’”

  Albin’s attention remained on the parkway. The lead vehicle banked right, taking the ramp to the Bayshore Freeway. “What happened to the man?”

  “I can only guess.”

  “We are not in his position. If Redwood Shores is, it is the path they chose and must now tread.”

  “Did they choose it?”

  The question’s intensity elevated Albin’s pulse. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel as the convoy proceeded along California’s longest highway. The authorities had reserved a lane for their own use. The other lanes, all south-bound now due to contraflow, resembled a car park with every car in the Bay Area in attendance.

  “What’s that up there?” Bridges pushed higher in his seat to see past the police and military vehicles. The convoy approached the sprawling cloverleaf interchange for CA-92, which ran east-west.

  Judge pressed her head between their seats, ears erect.

  Albin lowered the side window and leaned out. In the distance, figures moved among the cars. None of the people climbed atop the vehicles in the manner of cannibals, however.

  The convoy’s lead vehicle halted. Albin’s hundredth check of the mirrors provided no more information than had the ninety-ninth. Stopping in this situation, with danger from every direction, did not bode well.

  Shouts joined the din of honking cars. “It’s going to be a mob.” Bridges paled, his hand twitching toward the CZ 9mm pistol at his appendix area. “Shit, now we’re stuck.” He twisted around to squint behind them. “We’re boxed in.”

  A voice over a government vehicle’s loudspeaker rang above the cacophony: “Return to your vehicles. This lane is for official use only. If you do not move, you will be arrested.”

  A series of gunshots cracked. Both men stared ahead, not breathing.

  Chapter 6

  Mob Rule

  Seven Devils - Florence + The Machine

  Bridges spoke first: “Do . . . do you think that was the police, or the military?”

  “Does it matter?” Albin drew his SIG Sauer, placing it in the cup holder on his right. Bridges too presented his pistol.

  Ahead, Officer Rodriguez and her driver stepped out of their vehicle, weapons drawn.

  “They’re going out there?” Bridges shook his head as he spoke.

  “If they do not move the convoy, we become a target.”

  The officers advanced, keeping a low profile. The military would likely take the lion’s share of the crowd-control duties.

  “Hey.” Bridges reached into the back seat. Judge licked his arm as he did so. “Nathan left this.” When he straightened, he brought an AR-15.

  “I’ll consider it his farewell gift.” Albin relieved Bridges of it, sliding it in the passenger-side footwell.

  “I need to see.” Bridges rolled down the window. He pushed his shoulders through before pulling himself up to sit on the door.

  “Well?”

  “There’s a mob around the head of the convoy. There’s a car in the street. Soldiers are pushing it away with that armored transport thing—”

  “The Stryker armored personnel carrier.”

  “Right. There are people coming onto the road. They’re leaving their vehicles.”

  “Brilliant.” Albin massaged his temples as the coals of pain burned behind them.

  “There are some Soldiers and police getting out of vehicles.”

  Albin grasped his pistol as he pushed the door open. Grimacing as a gust of humid, smog-laden air struck him, he climbed into the bed of the truck. Ten vehicles ahead along the convoy, scores of drivers gathered around a car that had attempted to take a shortcut through the government lane. Other drivers copied its maneuver while the Stryker pushed the sedan toward the edge of the lane.

  Several angry San Franciscans stormed toward the line of police and military that guarded the convoy’s flank. The government officers attempted to send the people back to their vehicles, but as with most riot-response efforts, this only inflamed the situation.

  Then bottles, debris from the road, and whatever the civilians could lay hands on began raining down upon the officers. The defenders retreated to their vehicles, which emboldened the semi-sentient mob organism.

  “Idiots,” murmured Bridges, shaking his head. “If the government doesn’t have a lane, emergency vehicles can’t—”

  “I am aware, but they are not.”

  A three-round burst rattled from one of the vehicles at the head of the convoy. One of the rioters staggered backward as red mist puffed from his back. He slumped against a car, leaving a trail of blood on the side panel as he slid to the ground.

  No one noticed, for noise, fear, and confusion decreased the other rioters’ awareness.

  However, the sound of gunfire stimulated the pack-hunter mentality of the government personnel. Two reports sounded in a double-tap, likely from a handgun. Another rioter stumbled.

  This finally gained the writhing humanity’s attention. They shoved to retreat, but those in the rear, ignorant of what transpired, refused to give ground.

  As the shots elicited more from the officers and Soldiers, chaos swept through the mob. Many fell under the weight of their herdmates’ retreat.

  Meanwhile, the Stryker completed its mission, clearing the lane.

  Nearer the convoy, vehicles inched as close to the car in front of them as possible. Some of the occupants abandoned their vehicles in favor of fleeing the mayhem on foot.

  Four cars ahead of the Tacoma, Officer Rodriguez and her partner held their ground as the mob shifted like the sea at high tide.

  A section broke from the mass’s perimeter. Eyes wide, faces flushed, the escapees dodged southward, toward the rear of the convoy. They wore the baggy clothing common to gang members, but that meant little, given current styles. They worked their way around the far side of the vehicles, avoiding the attention of Rodriguez and her driver.

  Pistol in hand, Albin dropped to the ground on Bridges’s side of the truck, keeping the vehicle between him and the approaching rioters.

  “I’m coming.” Bridges pulled himself out of the vehicle to land behind Albin.

  “Officer Rodriguez!”

  The officers barely glanced in Albin’s direction, but the possibly gang-affiliated rioters ducked lower behind the vehicles.

  As Albin and Bridges rounded the rear of the squad car, the mob splinter rushed from between the vehicles to ambush the officers. Some attackers carried baseball bats, while others wielded liquor bottles and tire irons.

  The officers turned just as the first thug charged toward Rodriguez’s p
artner. The police officer’s shots went wide, but he managed to sidestep the first tire-iron strike.

  Rodriguez brought her MP5 to bear and fired. The assailant staggered. His friends paid him no heed. No doubt they had treated themselves to copious amounts of illicit drugs now that the end of the world had arrived.

  Several cars behind the gang members, a group of law-abiding citizens sprinted from the chaos. The officers opened fire on the thugs, but since flesh posed little hindrance to 9 mm rounds, a number of bullets continued their flight. Several of the refugees staggered and fell as lead struck them. Screams and cries filled the air, worse than the hisses of cannibals.

  The police officer reloaded. Apparently spotting movement behind, he swung about to level his weapon at Albin and Bridges.

  “Down!” Albin bore the shell-shocked Bridges to the pavement, landing atop him. Hopefully Albin’s bullet-resistant vest would protect them both.

  “Not them!” Rodriguez’s voice rang. “Conrad, Bridges, get back in your vehicle!”

  Albin raised his head enough to see over the squad car’s bonnet. “Behind you!”

  She pivoted in time to bring the butt of her MP5 across the jaw of a rioter. Unfortunately, the “attacker” belonged to the group of civilians fleeing from the mob. During the chaos, he had evidently grown disoriented.

  He struck the ground with a thud. The family behind him—a woman with her young boy and girl—screamed. The girl dropped her stuffed unicorn as she fled into the stalled traffic.

  “Get in the vehicle!” Rodriguez roared, waving her charges and her partner back.

  Behind her, one of the thugs struggled onto his knees. Blood soaked his T-shirt, yet he dragged a pistol from behind his back.

  Albin raised his SIG Sauer, finger tightening on the trigger. The shot cracked. It struck the assailant in the fatal triangle between eyes and nose. The target dropped, his brainstem, and thus his nervous system, ceasing to exist.