Out of Darkness (Unclean Evolution Book 4)

by LC Champlin

  The task would require little time, since the people owned only what they could carry on their backs when they had evacuated. But their situation still rated better than remaining in the Bay Area, which now belonged to the cannibals if the government had refrained from sterilizing the area with ordnance.

  “Good luck. Dismissed.” The captain gave a nod before returning to his bridge.

  “It is a refugee camp,” Amanda snapped.

  “Considering our alternative,” Albin responded as he started toward the hatchway leading to the lower decks, “we should show gratitude. The latest developments leave them no choice, you are aware.” Still, the idea of living in a refugee camp for even a short time rankled.

  Kuznetsov eased closer until he transgressed Albin’s personal space. “Does this mean we can’t go home yet?” Anxiety made his face pale to the point he nearly blended in with the ship’s hull.

  Glancing at the civilians who accompanied them into the passage, Bridges joined the hardware engineer. “Are they going to use us for experiments, since they don’t know what caused the outbreak?”

  Shukla harrumphed. “They’re probably just going to forget about us. We’ll be stuck out there in FEMA trailers.”

  “I think,” Kuznetsov commented, “that we’ll be lucky if we have trailers.”

  Albin surveyed his companions. They considered him the leader, despite his desire to the contrary. But someone needed to see they returned to New York—or Washington, D.C., in Bridges’s case. As for Behrmann, she would go where the all-important story took her. The Musters’ final destination remained uncertain. If they did not obtain a safe haven before he departed, would they agree to accompany him? What if joining him placed them in more danger? His fingernails bit into the flesh of his palms as his fists clenched.

  ++++++++++++

  June 4, 2016—

  Hands cuffed in front of him and locked to a chain around his waist, ankles in shackles, Nathan stood before the tribunal. He kept his feet together, his hands clasped, and his gaze down. Look as unintimidating as possible. He’d trimmed his beard but left off the details of the goatee. No sense looking more like a villain than he already did.

  Behind the long table sat nine military officers in dress uniform. They had commandeered the chamber usually used for parole hearings. On the prosecution side, in front of the bench, sat Rodriguez and Washington. Their lawyers and witnesses kept them company. On Nathan’s side—well, he didn’t have to fight over space for his water glass. He and his attorney alone manned the defense’s castle. For two days—yesterday and today—Paul had stood in the breach for his client.

  An officer from the Army cleared his throat. “Nathan Benjamin Serebus, you understand the charges that have been brought against you, and you have heard the evidence for the prosecution and for the defense.”

  Nathan nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “Your attorney has presented a rather unorthodox plea bargain.” Unorthodox like the trial.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And now you wish to explain it further, is this correct? In essence, you wish to give a sort of closing remarks?”

  “A supplement to my attorney’s closing remarks.”

  “I suppose that’s admissible. You may begin.” The officer waved for the prisoner to speak.

  Nathan looked up from beneath his brows to meet the gazes of the judges. They represented most of the armed forces’ branches. “Thank you, sir. You have likely already made your decisions. I believe I can guess what most will be. What I offer you today isn’t excuses or even a request for mercy. I am offering you hope. Not just you, but the world. I am in possession of knowledge that few others are. That is, few who are willing to act for the good of humanity. With it, I can stop this cannibal plague.”

  One of the officers snorted, half in amusement, half in disbelief.

  Time to sell for his life. “For the promise of immunity, or of you dropping the charges, I will stop the plague.” His gaze held only confidence.

  “You’re quite the humanitarian,” scoffed the lead judge, a Marine officer in his fifties.

  “You really expected us to believe this?” an Air Force officer asked, incredulous. “I assume your attorney already advised you about the unlikelihood of the court accepting the plea deal?”

  “He did, sir, but I persisted. I want to help my country and my world. I know I’ve done wrong. I want to help rectify my mistakes. It won’t bring back the people who’ve died, but it will prevent more deaths. If I fail to follow through on my promise within the specified time period, I will give a full confession. You will have no difficulty in convicting me. That is, assuming I don’t kill myself first.”

  The officers exchanged looks.

  The Air Force representative spoke first: “I don’t think—”

  The lights went out. Darkness enveloped the windowless room like a palpable presence.

  Chapter 29

  Unexpected Calls

  Lonesome Dreams – Lord Huron

  June 3, 2016—

  The off-boarding went well, with the Navy endeavoring to keep families and even neighbors in close proximity to one another. Albin and his companions rode the same watercraft into the harbor. From there, school buses transported them to a field of military tents.

  Overall, the tents offered acceptable shelter. In the meantime, Marines worked to construct long-term structures. Albin, Bridges, the engineers, and four other men shared a tent, while Behrmann, the Musters, and a few other females from Redwood Shores occupied another in the women’s section of the camp.

  The shelters provided more room than had the bunks on the ship. Never had Albin thought he would consider a cot in a tent an improvement over his previous accommodations.

  After stowing what little gear he possessed—namely an extra change of clothes and the Bible—in his foot locker, Albin emerged from the tent into the evening air. Rows of shelters lined the field to the left and right, front and back.

  He proceeded to the common areas, where Amanda approached from the direction of the women’s tent. He nodded in greeting. “Have you received any word from your acquaintances regarding shelter?”

  “Not yet, but hopefully soon.” Her smile failed to hide her anxiety. “The power is still out in some areas. Other places have been hit by the infection, or are closed off because of wrecks on Highway 101.”

  “I see. Keep me apprised of developments.” What more could he say?

  “Have you heard anything more about Nathan? Where they’re holding him, maybe?”

  “I am still endeavoring to discover his location. The officers here are distracted by preparing the camp. Perhaps tomorrow I shall make progress.” Time slipped away. The government may have already conducted Mr. Serebus’s trial.

  ++++++++++++

  June 4, 2016—

  The next morning, after a fitful night’s slumber, Albin ventured on a stroll about the compound. While the scenery here offered diversion, it could not match the views from the Pacific coast. But the military prevented their charges from venturing from the encampment to witness said views.

  What must the city of Fort Bragg think of the evacuees, who paced behind the quarantine signs and chain-link fence? Did the locals resent the outsiders, or worse, consider them plague carriers? Or did they feel pity for the displaced Bay-Area residents?

  As he returned to his tent, a young Marine approached him. “Albin Conrad?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “There’s a call for you, sir. It’s from someone named Neil Crevan. It’s at the command tent.”

  Albin stared, mind going blank for a moment. “Pardon me, but did you say Neil Crevan?”

  “Yes, sir. He asked for you specifically.”

  ++++++++++++

  June 4, 2016—

  Everyone in the court began murmuring. The emergency lights of the Exit sign clicked on. An alarm began to bleat. With it, a red light beside the emergency floods p
ulsed, washing the room in crimson. A fire? An escape?

  Nathan remained still.

  “There’s been a failure in the facility’s computer system,” a male announced over the intercom. “The electronic locks have been opened.”

  Nathan’s heart thudded a double-tap. Open? That sounded like a system breach rather than a failure.

  “All guards are to report to their stations with riot equipment. We have reports of escapes in pods A, B, C—”

  “What the hell is going on?” Washington demanded as the officers snapped similar questions.

  The correction officers stepped in as the four token DHS grunts closed around their compatriots. The guards herded Nathan and his attorney toward the opposition’s side of the room.

  “It’s 1980 and the Penitentiary riot all over again,” Rodriguez snarled. “I’m sure as hell not getting tortured to death.”

  Nathan’s mouth went dry. During that riot, the inmates had taken over the prison for thirty-six hours. The day and a half provided ample opportunity for the depraved fuckers to mutilate and / or kill scores of guards and prisoners. It required the National Guard to step in before authorities could regain control.

  The backup power kicked on, with minimal lighting. The red warning lights continued to strobe.

  “Let’s go.” The guards waved their charges out the exit.

  Rodriguez and her three comrades surrounded the prosecution, with two officers in front, two in the rear.

  “I hope you don’t expect me to run in these,” Nathan grated as he half kicked, clanking the ankle chains.

  Washington turned to glare at him. “Take the ankle restraints off but leave the rest.” Meaning his hands cuffed to the chain around his waist.

  Nathan gritted his teeth, biting back a retort. The guards removed his ankle manacles—better than nothing.

  The group trundled down the hall, and then down a flight of steel stairs. Through doors and passages, until they might have entered the Mines of Moria for all Nathan knew.

  The red lights still strobed and the alarm screeched. Gunfire thumped, distant. Luckily the guards knew where to go to avoid the sections that prisoners had overrun. Would the gangs fight each other, or would they put differences aside to face the correctional officers?

  “Wait here,” one of the COs ordered the group as they halted in a hall that resembled every other passage they’d taken: off-white, claustrophobia-inducing, concrete. “We have to make sure it’s safe.” He and his colleague ducked out a steel door ahead, closing and locking it behind them.

  Wait, this didn’t feel right—

  “I can’t reach anyone on the radio,” one of the DHS officers reported to his director.

  “I’m not surprised.” Her eyes narrowed.

  “Does anyone know where we are?” Paul asked, fidgeting with his cufflinks.

  No, this didn’t feel right at all.

  The red-gold eyes opened in the back of Nathan’s mind. In the strobing lights, the faces of the prosecution turned pale. Like cannibals. In his peripheral vision, they bore more than a passing resemblance to the unclean monsters. The Dalits, the terrorists called them. No. He shook his head to dismiss the images.

  A door slammed open behind them. Nathan whirled, as did everyone else not already facing rearward. A gang of four inmates charged into the hall. They carried makeshift weapons: pipes; a chair leg; a rolled up, sharpened magazine. Hispanic, covered in gang tattoos, they grinned as they regarded the outsiders. The criminals had a score to settle. And they’d settle it with anyone not in their brotherhood.

  “Fuck, now we got some fun!” the lead bastard crowed, showing a gold-toothed grin. “You.” Pipe pointing at Nathan—“Get over here, amigo. Hey, look happy.” The gangster spread his arms. “You can join in!”

  Chapter 30

  Unlikely Allies

  Gladiator – Zayde Wolf

  Never let a crisis go to waste. Nathan ducked across to the gang members, even as the DHS officers made a grab for him.

  “I need a weapon.”

  “How you going to use it?” The lead thug gestured to the cuffs.

  “How are you going to unlock my hands?” Nathan raised his bound hands as much as the belt would allow.

  In the next heartbeat, he swung a low hook punch into the man’s rib cage. Even in chains, he could manage the blow, throwing hips and weight behind it.

  The fucker dropped, curled around his side.

  Nathan slammed a roundhouse kick into the nearest thug’s knee. Cartilage snapped. A second kick crunched the prey’s windpipe like a soda can.

  Nathan shoved past the two remaining scumbags. He pressed himself in the alcove of the nearest door.

  Bawling commands, Rodriguez and the other officers raised their weapons.

  When no gunfire blazed, he peeked out. Click-click-click—The officers had employed their Tasers. When the inmates collapsed, the grunts proceeded to cuff them.

  “Well done,” Nathan congratulated as he emerged from the doorway and started toward the jackboots. Keeping close to the wall carried him past the subdued convicts.

  “Not bad yourself,” Rodriguez allowed as he came to her side.

  “Now what?” he asked the assembled.

  A door farther down opened. Four men in riot gear marched into the hall. Guards. Hopefully. If not, then they belonged to the bastards who’d attacked the convoy.

  “Come on!” They waved for the group to join them.

  Having no choice, the outsiders obeyed. The escorts led them down stairs and passages, into the secured lower sections of the prison, where no breach had occurred.

  The guards directed them into one of the CO preparation rooms, where the officers would gear up to deal with threats or investigations. Lockers ran along the wall, and a table and chairs for briefings occupied the center.

  Breathing hard—more from the excitement than the physical exertion—Nathan leaned against the wall under the watchful eyes of the guards.

  “Serebus,” Washington barked, stalking toward him. “You were on our side during the altercation.” She halted a few yards distant to eye him. “You could have gone with them. At the least, you could have had revenge on us—on me.”

  “Director, revenge, as they say, is a sucker’s game.” Devoid of emotion, he released a sigh through his nostrils. “You’re simply doing your job: you’re attempting to keep the people safe. I don’t agree with how you do it, but your intention is in the right place. I want to help people too. I was serious when I said I will stop the plague if you give me my life back. Life for life. I made mistakes, but I’m prepared to pay my debt to society in a way that’s more constructive than sitting in a cell while the world burns.”

  She regarded him, thoughtful. “That’s the first reasonable thing I’ve heard out of you. You could have escaped after your convoy was hit, too. But not only did you help Officer Rodriguez, you turned yourself in. Again. I don’t know why the attackers didn’t kill you and her like they killed everyone else, or why they didn’t abduct you like they abducted Birk—”

  “Victor Birk?” Nathan’s head jerked up. Not Lexa Birk, presumably.

  She folded her arms. “You weren’t supposed to be on his convoy, but there was a last-minute change in the itinerary.”

  “By whom?” Whoever altered the travel plan might offer a clue to the identity of the attackers.

  “That’s classified.” For now.

  “Everything interesting is, it seems.”

  She sighed. “I’m not often wrong, do you hear me? And I’m still not wrong.” Righteous furor glinted in her beetle-shell eyes. “But I think you can be useful for once in your life. I’ll speak to the officers on the tribunal. In light of your apparent change of heart and your actions, we may be able to come to an agreement. But if you fail”—she stepped forward, inches from butting chests with him—“know I will have your head on a platter.”

  “Such is the reward
for all prophets who bring bad news.” Wry smile.

  ++++++++++++

  Albin followed as the Marine walked to the command tent. What did Neil Crevan want with him? Moreover, how did Crevan know Albin’s location? Evidently the man boasted connections within the military. Did he also know how Janine, his daughter, fared? Did she and her father remain in New York? The news broadcasts painted a grim picture of the city, but the upstate regions fared better.

  At the command tent, the Marine directed him to one of several computers on a table. Albin took the indicated station. On the screen waited a video communication program similar to Skype.

  He slid the cursor to hover over the On hold button. Muscles tense, he paused. Did he want to face Crevan at the moment? No. He had not wanted to interact with the man for several years. But the Irishman had contacted him for a reason. In the present state of affairs, one did not contact an evacuee in a military camp simply to discuss the weather and one’s health. Though with Crevan, the topic of health, or the lack thereof, would require a lengthy account.

  Releasing a deep, slow breath, Albin clicked the connection button. Neil Crevan’s drawn, aged face appeared onscreen. His watery green eyes burned with a feverish intensity that his daughters green eyes shared. His red hair had turned grey two decades ago before mostly deserting his scalp save for a few staunch wisps. His sharp cheekbones stood out like a mummy’s after his recent decline in health. His company had lost the lawsuit—or more accurately dropped it after paying Arete’s legal fees—against Arete Technologies for the alleged meddling in stock prices. The stocks’ decline had in a roundabout but calculated way lost Crevan the contract with Doorway Pharmaceuticals. This in turn caused, according to the old man, his latest downturn in health.

  “Albin, my lad, how are you.” Crevan grated. He did not ask questions; even when he uttered phrases other people would consider a question, he meant it as a statement at best and an order at worst. “I hear you were almost killed. You look like you’ve recovered, but it’s taken a toll.” This from a man who appeared more cadaverous than most exhumed corpses?