Wolves of the Apocalypse:
Behold Darkness
Book 1
By LC Champlin
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Wolves of the Apocalypse: Behold Darkness, by LC Champlin.
EBook published by Wulfram Cross Enterprises LLC, Blairsville GA, USA.
www.lcchamplin.com
© 2017 LC Champlin
contact@lcchamplin.com
Edited by Doug Harrison at Lucid Edit
Cover by me, since apparently if you want something done right, you have to do it yourself – even if you try to pay someone.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Special thanks to…
Dragon,
Scorpion,
Fish,
Bear,
and Slug
for helping make this series possible.
WARNING:
This book is intended for MATURE AUDIENCES due to-
Blood and gore
Strong language
Intense situations
Extreme violence
Mature humor
Sexual themes
Interested yet? Thought so.
Table of Contents:
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Chapter 104
Chapter 105
Chapter 106
Chapter 107
Chapter 108
Chapter 109
Chapter 110
Isaiah 59:8-10
They do not know the way of peace,
And there is no justice in their tracks;
They have made their paths crooked,
Whoever treads on them does not know peace.
Therefore justice is far from us,
And righteousness does not overtake us;
We hope for light, but behold, darkness,
For brightness, but we walk in gloom.
We grope along the wall like blind men,
We grope like those who have no eyes;
We stumble at midday as in the twilight,
Among those who are vigorous we are like dead men.
Chapter 1
Earth Shattering
Nightmare – Avenged Sevenfold
“NIGHTMAAAAAAAR—” RIIIIIIIIIIIINNNNNGGG! The St. Regis San Francisco Hotel fire alarm overpowered Avenged Sevenfold’s fury. Nathan Serebus’s ropy muscles locked his elbows, twenty-five pounds of dumbbell in each hand above him. He lowered them to his chest, sat up from the bench and set the weights aside before pulling the Bose buds from his ears.
“What in the—” he muttered, voice lost in the din. Fire alarm lights strobed across the fitness center’s weight cage and multi-function gym. He sighed as he hit pause on his phone’s music.
A voice over the loudspeakers announced: “A fire has been reported. It may affect your floor. Please proceed to the nearest exit. Do not use the elevators.”
Probably some millionaire playboy lit a cigarette in the residence levels while drunk off his ass—no, rear. No profanity, he’d promised Janine six years ago . . . but old shipboard habits died hard.
He swung off the bench and onto his feet, grabbed his water bottle and shoved it into a pocket of his black gym shorts.
The alarm paused again to replay the warning message.
Nathan wiped his tanned face and tar-black goatee with the bottom of his University of Alaska Anchorage tank top. “Better get a move on.”
His Skype call with Janine would have to wait, as would Davie’s bedtime story. The little wolverine would be pissed about not hearing the end of Ragnar and the Wolves, his favorite (but his dad’s least favorite) story.
Janine . . . Janine was already displeased with Nathan because he’d missed her presentation to the Manhattan Borough Board. She didn’t need him to be there, she simply believed that as CEO of Arete Technologies, he should make an appearance. Skill, not marriage, had earned her the PR and Marketing Liaison title: she could convince the board to buy Arete Tech’s dust bunnies, much less the company’s surplus servers.
Normally she shrugged off his absences, but her father’s latest seizure made her edgy. Nothing for it; the software development team needed Nathan to make the last arrangements for the technology summit this weekend. To make up, he’d take her to an extra sparring class at the dojo or to an NYU debate.
He had planned the summit months earlier. Maybe he should’ve called it in NYC. Let his Silicon Valley friends fly to his territory for once. But no. Better attendance on the Wes
As he made his way toward the exit, he raised his phone. For an instant, the blank screen reflected his features, ones that prompted second looks from the smarter sex. He woke the device and thumbed to Contacts, ICE Albin Conrad – Family. A thumbnail accompanied the number: a man with blond hair and blue eyes, near photonegative coloring of Nathan; narrow-featured but handsome; clean cut as a campaigning politician; and looking mildly perturbed. Albin couldn’t understand why Nathan wanted a photo or needed to use every one of his smartphone’s capabilities. Appreciation for technology highlighted the difference between Nathan’s master of computer science and Albin’s MBA plus his juris doctor.
The Call icon lit. Knowing Albin, he occupied his room fourteen floors above, reviewing paperwork minutiae Nathan would’ve cursed at.
Calling . . . Jamming the phone to his ear, Nathan waited. “Come on, hurry up!” No ringing. And . . . no reception, data, or Wi-Fi. Perfect.
Nathan snarled and hit End. Ah, for the days of receivers you could slam! Back then, when you hung up it was a communication in itself, capable of a range of emotions, but mostly rage. Now the best he could do was clip the phone inside his waistband.
He grabbed the exit’s handle, just as a string of automatic-weapon fire punctuated the alarm’s clamor. He threw himself back and landed on his stomach, hands over his head. “Oh ffffuck!”
Chapter 2
Bullet Time
I Just Wanna Run – The Downtown Fiction
Combat breathing took over. Instinct made Nathan scramble, bent double, to the gym’s rear. Cover, cover, he had to find—Why did all the equipment have to be damned plastic! No defense. Then let offense be the defense.
He halted at the nearest treadmill, grabbed its strut, screwed his Nikes into the carpet, and heaved with all his six-feet-two-inches of muscle and adrenaline. The machine growled away from the window.
The last rays of day mingled with the gym’s fluorescents to illuminate the machine’s thick power cord. He yanked the plug out of the wall. Then he turned to the treadmill, braced a foot against the motor housing while wrapping the cord around his arm, and pulled until veins stood out on his forearms. Crack!
“Finally, a use for these stupid hamster wheels,” he hissed, cord in hand.
From the free weight rack he grabbed a ten- and a three-pounder.
More gunfire—and screams. They sounded closer, on his floor. But buildings skewed sound, so he couldn’t tell for certain. He crouched. One, two, three, four. He counted as he inhaled. Hold for four. While his sympathetic nervous system calmed, he knotted the cord’s end around the ten dumbbell. Being proactive kept fear at bay. A tug on the cord proved its security. He tied the three-pounder on the other end. Improvised nunchucks complete.
With the three-pounder in his left hand, the cord wrapped around his wrist, and the ten dangling from his right, he headed for the back door.
He should call 9-1-1 when he found cell reception. Wait, the data and networks worked fine an hour ago. Did the towers malfunction, or suffer sabotage?
Fucking—damn it! The bastards were making him break his no-profanity promise. It would have to wait until this shitstorm subsided.
Two bursts of gunfire, then yells from right outside the main entrance. Get Albin and get out.
At the door, Nathan pressed an ear to the cherry paneling. The steel between the wood dulled the hall’s sounds. Dropping to one knee, he pushed the door open a crack. Gray Employees Only doors stared back. The green exit sign on the left marked another cherry door.
He slipped out, just as the other gym door slammed.
“Get down!” yelled a gunman.
Cold filled Nathan’s gut. Had they seen him? He peeked out the exit, which opened at a right angle to the gunman’s entrance. What a ridiculous floor plan!
To the right and ahead ran carpeted halls, their walls the color of dying moss and glowing in luxury hotel lighting designed to calm. Cherrywood doors and overpriced art helped guests rationalize shelling out over $500 a night for a bed and the opportunity to spend even more on amenities.
The fire alarm continued to blare, so no elevators functioned. Stairs. At least the addle-brained designers had put the stair door on his right. He sidled out, shoved open the first fire door, then the second.
Fourteen stories of battleship-gray stairs awaited, if Albin hadn’t started down. “I never should’ve agreed to the nineteenth floor. ‘Great view, just like home,’—my ass.”
How long had the alarm been ringing and hot lead spraying while he was pumping iron to the battle songs of Death Metal? The first gunshots had sounded distant, but since the building’s skeleton of concrete and steel dampened the sound, he could only guess at their origin.
With the ten-pounder in his left hand, he bounded up the stairs. He slowed near the sixth floor landing: gunmen could burst through any of the doors.
Slam! The fourth floor fire door. Savior or slayer?
Nathan reached for the handle, but the door crashed open before he could touch it. A yuppie, pale as a sheet and in gym clothes, stumbled out. The man’s eyes bugged out at the sight of Nathan’s raised dumbbell, but momentum and panic drove him on.
Nathan grabbed for him. “Stop! There are—” The idiot plowed past.
“Fuck!” Nathan took a step after, but the yuppie rounded the staircase and disappeared.
Then: yelling, gunfire, screaming.
Unwilling to look over the railing and risk getting blown off, Nathan yanked the door open and lunged through.
Ears ringing from the shooting, he took a right and sprinted down the hall. He couldn’t think about the victim who probably just got a closer look at his own guts than he ever wanted. Nathan needed to keep running.
One slip and they’d chase him down like wolves after a caribou. The temperature dropped ten degrees at the thought. Jaws, panting, growls. They’re coming for me! He shook the thought—and memories—from his head.
The sixth floor hosted half the spa, which housed the Infinity Pool, steam rooms, saunas, and whirlpool. Because he hated the chlorine baths hotels called pools, this floor had remained a mystery.
The fire door to the stairway at the other end of the floor thudded closed.
They didn’t identify themselves as police, meaning he’d landed in an active shooter situation. Hide, run, fight, went the government recommendation. Hiding in a hotel proved exceptionally difficult, as most doors stayed locked. He needed an employee access card, but as none dropped out of the clouds, he’d make do: the spa.
He headed for the white double doors, and from his pocket he whipped out two black keycards, one to his room and one to Albin’s, from his back pocket. The odor of Vicks or similar spa crap stung his sinuses. He slid his room card into the reader. Red light. “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding! How many hundred bucks and—” He jammed Albin’s card into the slot. Green light.
Inside, on the left, glowed the blue Infinity Pool. On the right lay the spa’s hospital-white, black-trimmed entry room, where guests began their “fabulous sojourn of indulgence and relaxation.” He’d read the website description to Albin in a lisping accent during the drive from the airport, courtesy of the St. Regis Bentley. Albin deadpanned that it sounded perfectly suited for Mr. Serebus, assuming it contained a shooting range, the latest in computer systems, and Mrs. Serebus.
Suddenly Nathan went deaf—no, not deaf, the fire alarm had stopped. The emergency response teams must have cleared the alarm.
A heartbeat later, the lights died. Darkness pressed in on him, tried to steal the air from his lungs. He grabbed for his phone. The emergency lights came up, transforming the reception room’s atmosphere into one more appropriate for the nightmare he’d blundered into.
Even if the ERTs had arrived, the silence gave the hotel occupants a false sense of security. The E lights should tip people off, but with spoiled rich fucks, you couldn’t ta
ke common sense for granted.
Fortunately, at this hour most people had better places to be, so few guests would need to be evacuated. The spa had closed earlier, and the employees seemed to have left.
Since no staff member arrived to escort Nathan to the “luxe locker rooms,” he barged through the women’s-side door. The gunmen, if they’d seen him, wouldn’t think to look for him here.
He’d give the shooters a minute or so, then return to the stairs. Albin being Albin, he had likely already reached the bodyguards’ rooms, assuming they hadn’t come to him first.
Bodyguards. What a pointless expense. Then again, you never knew what nutjobs would show up at a summit: Greenpeace maybe, or . . . an anti-processor group? Now, after spending all day tripping over the bodyguards, he actually wanted them. Damned irony.
The main door hissed open and closed. No rest for the hunted. His lip curled, resentment chasing away the fear that gnawed the edge of his mind.
He forged deeper into the women’s area, past the showers, into an anteroom with doors marked for the steam room, sauna, and hot tub. He ducked through the closest door, marked Jacuzzi. A glass and brushed-aluminum railing bordered the square pool. Chlorine tainted the air, made his eyes water.
Shoving his water bottle between door and jamb, he put his back to the wall adjacent to the entrance and gripped the ten-pounder with both hands.
One, two, three, four. Hold.
If his shoulder blades pressed any harder into the wall, they’d leave dents. Control yourself. Fear makes the wolf bigger than it is. He didn’t often picture himself in a terrorist attack, but when he did, he looked badass: tricked out in 5.11 Tactical BDUs and body armor, complete with goggles, helmet, and hard knuckle gloves. Gym clothes never appeared. An assortment of weapons always accompanied his fantasy: Kimber Raptor II 1911s, one for each leg; KA-BAR knife; M48 Tactical Tomahawk; AA12 shotgun across his back; and M246 SAW rifle on his shoulder. And he couldn’t forget copious grenades and ammo. Dumbbells and his Krav Maga skills didn’t cut it.
The door opened again, and boots thudded outside. A crash, then rustling, panting. What in hell? Footsteps too light to belong to his pursuers padded on the tile.