Day of Darkness

by LC Champlin

  “Are they going to keep us in the airport?” Bridges paused to half sit on the edge of the table, a position that lasted less than five seconds before he resumed pacing. “Are we going to have to sleep on airport chairs in the terminal?”

  “I wouldn’t know.” Albin closed his eyes. For the hundredth time since leaving Redwood Shores, Mr. Serebus’s bruise-marred visage appeared, radiating fury. How could they have spent eight years together, yet in the space of two days developed diametrically opposing views?

  “Albin.” Brows frowning, Bridges slid into the seat across from the attorney. “What are you going to do about Nathan?” The economist pushed back in his chair, balancing on its rear legs as he drummed the edge of the table with his palms. “Some people don’t want to be helped. I know you’ve been together for a long time, but maybe it’s time for you two to go your separate ways.”

  Perhaps I was a fool for ever trusting him. “One might believe he can tame a wild beast, but though he takes the beast from the wild, he never takes the wild from the beast. Eventually its instincts will win out, and it would tear him to pieces the instant he turns his back.” If Mr. Serebus wanted to style himself an alpha wolf, then he would face the hunter. What choice did one have when the beast turned savage?

  “I guess.”

  Albin pressed his index fingers into his temples to ease the headache. “Bridges, he told me I was his best friend aside from Janine, his wife. I need to consider what I should do. At present, however, I must consider our immediate situation.” He could not allow thoughts of Mr. Serebus’s mental break to impair his reason. They needn’t both go mad.

  The door opened, causing Albin, Bridges, and Judge to stand in expectation.

  “Sit,” Rodriguez ordered. No one moved.

  She stepped aside to reveal two men, one in his thirties and of Indian extraction, the other gray-haired and in his mid forties: Badal Shukla and Mikhail Kuznetsov, chief engineers in the employ of Mr. Serebus at Arete Technologies.

  Judge yipped at their arrival.

  When Shukla saw Albin and Bridges, a grin broke across his features. “Guys!” He leapt forward to shake their hands, then pulled Albin into an embrace.

  “Mr. Shukla, I am relieved to see you are well.” Albin smiled as he placed the software engineer at arm’s length again.

  Mikhail Kuznetsov glided forward to offer his hand. “Mr. Conrad, we were so worried.” One could almost view his gray hair, skin, and eyes as his revulsion toward his Motherland extending to the cellular level, causing a physiological rebellion at the idea of exhibiting even a hint of red.

  “I believe you were in more danger with the Red Devil Goats, Mr. Kuznetsov.”

  “The military rescued us expertly. I’ll tell you later, if you wish.” A hopeful smile accompanied the last sentence.

  “Of course.”

  “Where’s the boss man?” Shukla looked around the room as if his employer might hide in one of the corners. “He came with you, right?”

  Kuznetsov shook his head, giving his fellow engineer a look of disapproval. “I am fairly certain he will remain in the neighborhood, given what he’s done. He would be here with Mr. Conrad if not.”

  Shukla’s lip curled. “Look, Mickey, you don’t have to tell me yet again. The fact still stands that he was willing to risk his life to save my sister when we thought terrorists had her. I know I would have liked to shoot that asshole Ken in the face for making me believe Hemali was kidnapped.” Shoulders hunching, he punched his fist into his palm.

  “But Mr. Oshiro was going to—”

  “Gentleman.” Albin’s tone silenced them. “Mr. Serebus elected to stay in Redwood Shores. Mr. Bridges and I have accepted the government’s offer of safe keeping. I can only hope that Mr. Serebus returns to his senses and joins us.”

  “Wait a minute.” Shukla looked around the room again in case he had missed someone in the first sweep. “Where’s Josephine? Is she all right?”

  “Apparently,” Bridges responded, crossing his arms, “she decided his goals are a better match for her than ours.”

  Kuznetsov grew paler. “She stayed with him? But why?” He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. I’m just happy you’re here safely, Mr. Conrad.”

  “Mm,” Albin hummed.

  The door opened again, admitting Officer Rodriguez. “I spoke with Director Washington.” She looked the group over, unimpressed with their presentation. “She doesn’t have time to talk with you right now. She doesn’t need to, either, she said. You’ll be permitted to stay here. We’ll put you with the other evacuees. It’s not going to be a four-star hotel, but apparently you think it’s better than Redwood Shores.”

  “Are we free to come and go?” Albin asked. The answer mattered less than he cared to admit.

  “We don’t have time to check you in and out whenever you think you need to go for a stroll. But you’re not prisoners,” she conceded. “And you’ll get rations. We’re not running a concentration camp. Hell, we don’t even want you around. And I’m not just speaking for myself.”

  Albin nodded as if she had answered with the utmost respect. “Thank you, Officer Rodriguez. We are grateful for the government’s protection.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I have to go, but one of my colleagues will escort you to your quarters.”

  She turned to depart, but paused. “You might be interested to know your hero from the neighborhood is here. The one who got his leg axed up.”

  “Jeremy Nelson?” Albin stepped forward. “May I see him?”

  “Fuck if I care. I mean”—her tone softened a fraction—“it’s not my call. But wait until morning; it’s past midnight now.”

  She handed them off to a young man in a dress shirt and slacks. He served as guide, taking them to a terminal. His torch’s beam swept over the dust tarps that stretched across the waiting area. They divided the gates into common rooms.

  “Damn it,” Bridges muttered upon seeing the layout. “I feel like a refugee.”

  “We kind of are,” Shukla responded. His characteristic joviality fled as the situation’s weight bore down upon him.

  Easing closer to Albin, as if the attorney’s presence could ward off the depression of the situation, Kuznetsov held a hand toward the nearest gate. “This is where they’ve been keeping us. It’s not so bad.”

  “Not so bad?” Shukla stared at him. “We haven’t spent even one night here yet, so I don’t think you’re qualified to leave a Yelp review. Shit, we have to go wait in line for our food, for the bathroom, for practically everything! Oh, and you can’t drink the tap water.”

  Their bickering continued as the guide led them to four cots. Albin dropped onto his bunk and lay back. Exhaustion obliterated consciousness.

  ++++++++++++

  Finding no sleep in bed, Nathan wandered back out to the front porch. It didn’t offer the chance of sleep, but it did provide better reception for the satellite phone.

  Hands shaking, pulse rising with every number he pressed, he dialed Janine’s cell. “Please let there be reception by now!”

  Half of a ring—“You have reached the voice mailbox of—”

  “Damn it!” His fist slammed into the porch pillar. “Fff!” Pain exploded around his chest—

  Doubled over, squinting against the torture, he punched in the Serebus family’s sat phone number. Maybe this time it would work . . .

  “Please leave a message after the beep.”

  “Why the fuck isn’t—”

  Beeeeep.

  “Janine, it’s me. Call me back at this number when you get this. I love you both.”

  He stared without seeing at the waxing moon. What good was phoning home if no one answered?

  Maybe later she would pick up. “But it is later.”

  Chapter 10

  Infirmary

  Wicked Game - Phillip Phillips

  That morning, before attempting to locate breakfast, Albin recruited a no
n-combatant government employee to guide him to the infirmary.

  They trekked down concourses, stairs, and back halls until they emerged on yet another terminal. The military had converted it into a medical facility. Room dividers separated sections of the concourse into patient areas, each containing ten beds.

  The guide handed him over to a young, blonde nurse in digital camouflage fatigues. Her name tape read O’Connor, and she wore the double bars of a captain. She led him to another sector of the infirmary. Beds lined the area, with their occupants sleeping or reading. Some stared blankly at the ceiling.

  Albin’s pace slowed. Barely four days ago, he had waited beside Mr. Serebus’s bed as the man regained consciousness after sustaining a collapsed lung.

  Overall, hospital bedsides conjured nothing but uncomfortable memories. He closed his eyes as the desert wind of his mental landscape howled over images of the past, stripping them of emotional content with sandblaster-efficiency. They sank below the dunes to wait for an opportune time.

  Stealing himself, Albin approached Jeremy Nelson’s bed. The man’s eyes were closed, but whether he slept or simply rested remained a mystery. A pulse oximeter clipped onto his finger tracked his pulse and his blood’s oxygen saturation. A bag of clear fluid, which read 0.9% Sodium Chloride, hung from a pole at the corner of his bed.

  Albin eased to Nelson’s left side. “Mr. Nelson? Can you hear me? It’s Albin Conrad.” The attorney assumed parade rest position, hands behind his back but twitching his fingers against his palm.

  Nelson’s eyes opened a crack as he frowned. “A-Albin?”

  Relief stilled Albin’s fingers. “How do you feel?”

  Nelson rolled over onto his elbow to glare at his visitor. “I feel like I want to see my son. I feel like I want to see my wife. I feel like I want to go home.”

  “Of course. That will come in due time.” All but the portion about his wife, whose contagion-riddled body the government had disposed of. “Zander is in the Singhs’ care. The Musters are also looking after him. We have told him that you will return soon, and that he will be safe in the meantime. He seems to have accepted this.”

  Nelson’s hatred crumbled into concern and longing. “Does he have Ashland?”

  “Ashland?”

  “His stuffed lion.”

  “Ah, yes, he does.”

  “And he’s doing well? He’s eating?”

  “He is young. Trauma is less difficult to handle at his age.”

  Nelson groaned in semi-relief. Then he froze. “What about Jen?” He struggled farther onto his elbow. “Is she—”

  Albin placed his hand on the injured man’s shoulder and pressed him down gently but firmly. “You require rest. You lost a considerable amount of blood.” He would have lost still more if Albin had not assisted in staunching the hemorrhage.

  “What the fuck about Jen!” He resisted, but only for a moment before collapsing.

  “The gang members who kidnapped you also attempted to kidnap Zander. Your wife attacked them. However, they retaliated.” Should he continue? It would take a toll on Nelson’s mental state, as well as his view of Albin, if the attorney revealed how Jennifer Nelson’s existence ended. Memories of bullets—his bullets—tearing her face apart filled Albin’s mind, engendering soul-sick nausea.

  “Jen is . . .” Nelson looked down with hollow eyes. “She’s dead, isn’t she.”

  “She did not die in vain.” Let Nelson believe his wife died fighting for their son. People needed their loved ones’ deaths to possess meaning, as if death ever held meaning.

  With a sigh, Nelson settled his gaze on the ceiling. “I hoped they would find a cure for her. I wanted to keep her safe until then.”

  Albin nodded. He should offer platitudes of comfort, but what good would that truly do?

  “Promise me, Albin, that you’ll take care of Zander.” Moisture glistened in the father’s eyes.

  “Soon you will return to him, or he to you. While you sustained an ax blow to the thigh, you are not in critical condition.”

  “Promise me.” Again Nelson heaved onto his elbow. “Keep him safe.”

  Albin nodded once more.

  Slumping back onto the pillow, Nelson turned his face away. “Leave me alone. I’m tired.”

  “I wish you speedy recovery, Mr. Nelson.” Without a backward glance, Albin strode out of the makeshift room.

  He turned the corner—and almost collided with a giant.

  “Easy there, friend.” Powerful hands caught his shoulders and guided him to the left. “Well, if it’s not Albin Conrad. I didn’t expect to see you here.” The ginger-haired man in camouflage fatigues and a disposable surgical overcoat grinned down at him. “Did you come to see your friend from the neighborhood? I hear he’s pulling through nicely. But you probably noticed that already.”

  “I—” Albin stepped back. “My apologies.” He looked up the ten centimeters required to meet the blue gaze of Lieutenant Colonel James Wozniak. “Thank you for seeing to Mr. Nelson’s injuries.”

  The Lieutenant Colonel, or Jim as he preferred civilians call him, let his smile fall. “What’s the matter? How’s Nathan doing? When you and I talked yesterday, you were concerned about his mental health.”

  “He is—”

  “Colonel! You’re needed, sir.”

  The surgeon turned at the summons. “Coming. Damn,” he muttered, “I could really use a Mountain Dew.” Then he looked back at Albin. “We need to discuss Nathan. Look me up later today.” He gave Albin’s shoulder a reassuring pat. “Hang in there, okay?”

  “Of course.” Though it seemed he did so by his neck.

  Chapter 11

  Off the Grid

  I Wanna Go Higher - Halcyon Skies

  “I believe that covers all the relevant topics.” Nathan slapped the rolled-up agenda on the palm of his hand, smiling at his new heads of research and development. Amanda had used her skills in employee selection to perfection when she assembled this group.

  They occupied the Musters’ backyard—some standing, some seated in an assortment of lawn chairs that they had brought. The late-morning sun warmed them as a breeze brought the sea air to land.

  “Dennis, you are in charge of building the desalination systems and seeing that people are able to purify their tap water.”

  The lanky, balding engineer nodded.

  “Laura, you will compile a list of everyone’s supplies.”

  A smile from the petite older woman, who acted as department head in one of the country’s largest shipping-logistics firms. She would make a fine quartermaster.

  “Steve, you’re overseeing strengthening the roadblocks.”

  The contractor crossed his muscular arms over his chest. “Got it.”

  “And last but certainly not least, Stacy, you are going to consult with your fellow scientists and engineers for locations where we can develop the Goats’ files.”

  “I’ve spoken to a few people already.” Her mass of brunette curls bobbed in a nod. With high cheekbone and a ready smile, she resembled a younger version of Betty White.

  “Excellent.” At last, back in the role of CEO. Leading the community resembled leading Arete Technologies.

  Blast, how did his company fare? No doubt Janine manned the helm with skill the equal or even superior of his. As head of public relations, the responsibility fell to her if Albin could not fill his role as second-in-command.

  The gathering broke up, and Nathan started toward the Acura. After climbing in, he set off for Marlin Park.

  Thus far, his plans proceeded well. The Redwooders had stepped up. It helped greatly that their lives depended on their performance. However, the man who could offer the most assistance to the neighborhood had deserted.

  A growl escaped Nathan as he dug his nails into the steering wheel’s leather. “How could he do this to me? We’re family.” Not by blood, but that didn’t make a person family. “How can he leave at a ti
me like this? I’m trying to save these people. No, I’m trying to save the fucking world! Why didn’t he say anything earlier?”

  Ahead, the guards moved the roadblock vehicles.

  The situation resembled arguments with Janine, when she would accuse him of a crime he had allegedly been committing for ages, but she’d never mentioned. Despite his flaws and her standards, Janine and he always came to terms—quite agreeable terms, normally.

  With a sigh, Nathan pulled onto Marlin Drive.

  But what about Albin? What if he didn’t return? A wave of heat washed over Nathan. No, he had to return. What would he do without Nathan?

  “The neighborhood needs you, Albin. I need you.”

  Nathan parked in front of the basketball court at Marlin Park. He swung out and proceeded toward the soccer field that abutted Belmont Channel.

  A group of twenty people, paired up in two rows, occupied the grass. They practiced striking with the heels of their palms. When they finished, a new class would arrive. In the hour or two that they spent here, they would learn enough combat techniques to stand a chance against attackers, both human and cannibal. They would learn more tomorrow.

  During World War II, Krav Maga’s founder Imi Lichtenfeld had taught Jews techniques to address their situation. Likewise the instructors here would focus on the most useful skills for the new world.

  Nathan headed toward Amanda, who strolled along the perimeter of the class. She offered correction as she went. She had absorbed his few Krav lessons quickly, thanks in part to the self-defense classes she’d taken in the past. Three other instructors wandered among the students. These people possessed experience in martial arts and so served as teachers for and advisers on the curriculum.

  “Nathan!” Her face lit up. “I think we’re doing pretty well. This is the second class of the day. We’ve given them homework, too.”