by LC Champlin
“It’s just gonna go to waste.” Smiling, Badal shrugged. “I’ve been helping search the empty houses, and it looks like most people took their food or didn’t have it in the first place. They probably just go out to eat.”
“Well,” Jo began, tapping her chin in thought, “I guess we’ve got as much right, if not more, to what we find as other people do.”
Nathan nodded as he passed. “Precisely.”
Outside, he made his way to Stacy’s home, two streets northeast. She opened the door for him as he mounted the steps.
“Trade?” She asked, holding up a manila folder.
“Please.”
List papers and folder changed hands, then their receivers fell silent to read.
Humming in approval, Nathan flipped through the pages in the folder. Analyses of the data, possible uses, and bulleted lists filled a legal-pad worth of paper. “This is excellent. I want you and the other researchers to begin as soon as possible. The more we know about the cannibals, the more lives we will be able to save.” He looked down at her, holding her gaze. “Thank you for your diligence. You should be able to complete some of the experiments I listed”—nod to the papers in her hand—“by tomorrow afternoon. Keep me apprised of your progress.”
“We’re looking forward to it.” She beamed.
Chapter 28
Dangerous Business
Anthem of the Lonely - Nine Lashes
By the next morning, Thursday, Albin had completed arrangements for the expedition south to Seaport, where lay Kenichi-san’s office. Though not the inventor’s only installation in the Bay Area, it would prove the most promising in their search for him, according to Kuznetsov.
“You do not have to accompany me,” Albin reminded Bridges and Kuznetsov, who flanked him as they trooped toward SFO’s exit. “You are aware my errand will be dangerous.”
“So’s going out of your door,” Bridges drawled.
Hunching his shoulders, Kuznetsov adjusted the black, tactical backpack that had belonged to Mr. Serebus, and which the engineer had volunteered to carry. “I don’t know when the government is going to get us out, but it doesn’t look like it’s going to be soon. We’ll have time to talk to Mr. Oshiro and return. He and I left on good terms from the Oshiro.”
“On the topic of the Oshiro,” Albin began with a glance at the Russian, “you seemed eager to keep myself and Mr. Serebus apart while we were there, yet you did not mention that he tried to kill Kenichi-san. It fell to Bridges to inform me. Did you see the video footage as he did?”
Paling, Kuznetsov tucked his chin. “I am loyal to you.”
“If there’s another shot at being somewhere like the Oshiro, I want in on it,” cut in Bridges, ignoring his companions’ exchange. “I don’t mean I want to be a pawn in his game again, I mean the food, electricity, and private rooms. And beds. I can’t forget beds. Damn, my back is killing me.” Grimacing, he pressed his thumbs into his lumbar spine.
The trio nodded to the guard at the checkpoint as they passed. As in the days before the disaster, exiting the airport posed little difficulty.
Halfway to the Tacoma, a voice reached them: “Where are you people going?” Officer Rodriguez unsurprisingly interrupted their departure.
As she did not demand a halt, Albin continued walking. “To our vehicle, Officer. Are we being detained?” He glanced over his shoulder at the irascible woman.
Her brows pulled together over her sunglasses. “No, but you should think long and hard before you take off in the middle of a cannibal outbreak.”
Not breaking stride, Albin withdrew the truck’s keys. “Director Washington is aware of our decision. We are going to see an acquaintance in Seaport.” Hopefully.
“You people have friends?” She came abreast of them.
“Fewer than I at first thought.” The Tacoma waited ahead. He clicked the key fob, eliciting the double chirp common to Toyotas.
“It’s Kenichi Oshiro with ONI.” Evidently the Russian could not endure the strain of interrogation.
“What’s he got to do with anything?”
With the driver-side door open, Albin paused. “Perhaps more than we think, Officer Rodriguez. Good day.”
++++++++++++
Raising a hand to shade his eyes from the morning sun, Nathan surveyed the fleet: two pickups, a minivan, and an SUV. Their owners and passengers finished preparations for departure, loading weapons and bug-out-bag essentials.
“Once you’ve completed the checklist, let’s get started,” he announced. “We have a full day ahead of us, and I want to make the most of the light.”
The researcher Nancy glanced at him as she checked her backpack. “Are you sure this is enough people?”
“If we need more, we’ll radio. It should be enough for a scouting trip.”
She paused. “Are you sure this is really necessary? Shouldn’t we contact the government again and urge them to bring supplies?”
Another one for the dependence camp. He shook his head. “Our supplies won’t last much longer. We need to move while we still have options.”
“Mm.” The thin line of her lips made her disagreement clear.
Josephine walked among the vehicles, speaking with the expeditionary team’s members. When she reached the end of the line, she waved to Nathan. “Everybody’s ready.”
“Let’s go.”
The team rolled out. Loto’s Sierra, which the new regime had commandeered after repairing the tire, led the way with Nathan at the wheel. Josephine rode shotgun.
“I don’t know if these people are ready for this,” she started as she watched the vehicles in the rearview mirror. “But I suppose we don’t have much choice.”
Nathan chuckled. “A few days ago, you had never fired a weapon. And today you have multiple confirmed kills. The people will step up if they want to live on more than the occasional fish or can of pet food. That should be enough motivation for anyone.”
The team headed down Redwood Shores Parkway, then across the Belmont Channel via Bridge Parkway. The area’s businesses offered little in way of food. Would that the upscale neighborhood had deigned to include a second grocery store or—heaven forbid—a Wal-Mart. Scouts had reported that Nob Hill Foods held nothing but empty shelves. Even the gluten-free bagels had found forever homes.
Thus, restaurants presented the best opportunity for finding food. The team needed to reach the eating establishments before other scavengers arrived.
The fleet pulled into the first restaurant on the list, a low building with gray siding. Minstral Restaurant and Bar, read the sign in a fashionably messy font. According to the A-frame board outside, it served New American and Mediterranean food. More fish. Wonderful. But it also boasted an array of wines. If any remained, they would make an excellent bartering commodity.
The vehicles formed a line like squad cars at a crime scene. The drivers and passengers exited but remained behind their doors for a moment as they scanned the area. As no threat presented itself, they approached the restaurant.
“I’m still not sure this is right,” Nancy had the audacity to suggest even as the younger members of the group put their frustration to work by breaking the window with sledgehammers.
“Yet you are here,” Nathan observed, giving her a half smile.
“It’s where I need to be.”
Chapter 29
Step into the Road
It Has Begun - Starset
Driving from the San Francisco International Airport brought the unease a swimmer feels when floating farther and farther from a boat in open water. Their likelihood of returning quickly and safely decreased in proportion to the kilometers they traveled from the government’s base.
In the backseat, Judge whined beside Bridges. Whenever they slowed, she would bark at tympanic-membrane-rupturing volume. She had grown more restless since they arrived at SFO, and this expedition only increased her disruptive behavior. No doubt she had begu
n to miss her handler.
“I don’t want to sound pessimistic back here,” Bridges ventured, scratching behind the German Shepherd’s ears, “but this seems like a long shot. Even if Ken is here, what are you going to say to him? He doesn’t seem the type to care about helping us, but I suppose he might want revenge on Nathan for trying to kill him and then almost burning his house down.”
Albin reserved his comments, which would have consisted of, A shot not taken is always missed, and, Vengeance is a fool’s game.
In the passenger seat, Kuznetsov drummed his fingers on the center console. “Mr. Oshiro would not spend time on revenge.”
Albin glanced at him. “Rather than vengeance, he will instead be interested in continuing the game he began. He will not turn down playing Faithful Dark by acting as a ‘dark god.’”
“As long as he doesn’t send us on a wild sister chase again,” Bridges muttered.
Ahead, a sign announced the presence of an outlet mall. Hold. Braking, Albin spun the wheel to the right, taking the vehicle onto the side road that led to the shops.
“What’s going on?” Bridges braced himself between Judge and the door.
Albin gave a thin smile.
After he pulled into the car park, he stopped in front of a motorbike-accessory store. Pulling the AR-15 from the footwell, he turned to his companions. “Come.” He handed the carbine to Kuznetsov.
“Where are you going?” the gray man asked, accepting the firearm by reflex.
“This isn’t really a time for shopping, is it?” But Bridges exited with Judge, his shotgun in hand. “There are other looters here, you know.” He nodded to the vehicles that sat about the lot. “I’ll stay here on guard.”
Albin and Kuznetsov approached the building, weapons ready. Glass shards covered the concrete outside the store, originating from the top panel of the door. Albin eased the door open, avoiding the direct line of fire from inside.
He swung in, pistol up. Figures shifted in the rear of the shop. They ducked behind racks of apparel at the newcomers’ arrival.
“Cross me and I will kill you,” Albin advised. “And I will enjoy it.”
Four older teenagers edged toward the rear exit, armloads of leather departing with them.
“This isn’t really my style,” Kuznetsov whispered as he cast a doubtful glance at a rack of leather trousers.
“Style will matter little when a cannibal attempts to sink its jaws into your extremities.”
Looking ill, Kuznetsov shuffled through a rack of chaps. “I guess I could make it work.”
++++++++++++
The Redwood Shores residents split up to investigate the restaurant. Four went around to the left, four went to the right, and two readied themselves at the front door. Nathan and Josephine joined them. Three more guarded the vehicles.
Everyone wore nitrile gloves and various forms of plastic ponchos. Safety glasses normally used for woodworking or chemistry projects completed the personal protective equipment. They looked ridiculous, but safety trumped style.
Point position went to Kennedy, a college student who enjoyed video games, Airsoft, and paintball. And who used far too much product to perfect the bounce in his chestnut hair.
Nathan eyed him, ribs aching and annoyance simmering. As mentally satisfying as it would feel to kick the door down, physically it would be hell. Having an injured man lead the charge did not benefit the pack, either. Thus, he took rear guard.
Dirk, the other member of the entry squad, had martial arts experience and acted as one of Redwood’s combatives instructors. In this environment, the twenty-something would serve mainly as a hand-to-hand fighter against any humans they encountered.
They stacked before the door. Ready, set, breach! Though they’d had little time to practice clearing buildings, they performed well. If only Albin—No. No more thoughts of how things would improve if the backstabber had remained loyal.
The dark restaurant opened around them. Tables and chairs filled the front half and the halls that branched from either side to encircle the checkout counter and kitchen at the center. The team moved toward the rear, padding on the hardwoods.
Stillness filled the place like fog, thick and stifling. Something shuffled in the back, behind a door marked Employees. A clatter followed.
Nathan gave Dirk and Josephine a nod of reassurance. Kennedy needed no encouragement as he prepared to open the door. Flashlights ready, weapons up. One to the right, one to the left, until the quartet filed through.
“Get on the ground!” Kennedy roared.
Where—There, two people loading supplies into packs. They dropped their gear and began yelling, hands up to ward off the presumed attackers.
“On the ground!” Nathan ordered. “Now, or I’ll shoot!” Bingo. Everyone spoke Glock. “Cross your ankles, arms out, backs of your hands on the ground. Don’t look at me.” Frightening them off would have sufficed, but why waste a crisis?
The Redwood group pulled interlocked zip ties from their pockets. Kennedy’s yelling, as well as his covering them with the late thug’s AK, kept them submissive.
The people on the floor cowered, unaccustomed to others screaming at them or pointing weapons in their faces. These people did not hail from the rough streets of Daly City or the gun-running land of Oakland.
Only after the two looters lay on their bellies, bound hand and foot, did Nathan and his pack fall silent.
Nathan made his way around in front of the pair, which presented them with the conundrum of looking at him or at the others after hearing multiple times not to look at anyone.
“It’s all right,” he began, raising his hands in a show of goodwill. “We’re only here looking for food, as I’m sure you are. But tell me”—he crouched beside the closest captive, a brown-haired young man who glared back—“where are you from?”
“Why? So you can demand a ransom for us and steal everything while you’re there?”
“We don’t steal. When everything settles down, we will happily reimburse this restaurant for our meals.” A smile accompanied his words.
“Where are you from?”
“Ah-ah!” Wagging his finger, Nathan shook his head. “I asked first.”
“I’m a reporter with ABC Action News,” Josephine volunteered as if engaging a witness to a story. “We’re not here to hurt you. Now, where are you from?”
Confusion passed over the captive’s face. “Uh, Redwood Shores.”
“So are we!”
“You are?” asked the other captive, a young woman with dark hair tied in a pony tail.
Jo nodded. “We’re from the southern half, across the Belmont Channel.”
Her fellow captive relaxed a fraction. “We’re from this side.”
“It seems,” Nathan slid in, “we’ve had a bit of a border skirmish.”
“We thought this would be a good place to find food. We’ll have to start breaking into homes if the government doesn’t help—”
Dirk’s radio crackled: “We ran into some company.”
Chapter 30
Pillage
Renegades - X Ambassadors
Albin adjusted his sunglasses as he stepped from the clothier. He turned, the leather long coat shifting about his ankles, and regarded his reflection in a window: black from head to toe—from the motorcycle boots to the denim trousers to the button-down dress shirt. They represented a vast improvement over the clothes designed to convey the image of an unassuming metrosexual.
He adjusted the coat, pushing it aside to test the access to his sidearm. The leather gloves made referencing the weapon with his fingers cumbersome, but he would adjust.
“My,” Kuznetsov remarked as he exited a casual-clothing store several meters away. Looking Albin up and down, the Russian gave a slow nod of approval. “It’s a bit darker and edgier than I thought you’d choose, but it fits our situation. I’m glad you didn’t get anything with spikes, though.”
&nbs
p; “Your approval means a great deal to me.” Sarcasm oiled the words. “I see you’ve selected a suitable level of protection.” He nodded to Kuznetsov’s black chaps. A red leather jacket with white stripes across the shoulders completed the biker ensemble without advancing the image of a Hell’s Angels member.
In the car park, Bridges pushed away from leaning against the truck. “My turn.”
He returned several minutes later with armored racing pants and a blue, fringed jacket with inset flame pattern along the arms and across the back. “Like it?” He made a fist, exhibiting his hard-knuckle gloves. “I think we look good enough to meet a dark god like Ken.”
The rest of the drive proved tedious, a combination of detours and obstacle-course maneuvering. Fortunately, most of the traffic remained on the highways, escaping the city. Where the evacuees planned to go remained a mystery likely even to them. Traveling one to two hundred kilometers outside the city may have offered a chance earlier, but now hotels would have no vacancies. Few friends would take in others when it meant losing food stocks. Disaster brought either the best or the worst out of humankind.
At last the Tacoma reached the industrial park of Seaport. Shops and businesses encircled the peninsula’s tip, with the Pacific Shores Club as the crown jewel. It occupied the center as befitted its status. Corporate offices grew around a central courtyard, which dwarfed the car parks. The manicured grass, along with the club’s two baseball fields, proved a welcome change from asphalt.
“There.” Kuznetsov pointed to a building on the right. Aqua-colored glass formed the four-story walls, matching the horizontal green stripes that demarcated the start of each floor. White uprights separated banks of windows and held a framework of steel. The letters O-N-I dominated the office’s fore. Though keeping the building modern, Kenichi-san hinted at his Japanese heritage by installing a Shinto shrine arch over the sidewalk to the main entrance.
