Available Darkness Season 1

scrambling toward the back of the van.
    On the monitors he could see the four vans which had breached the motel’s parking lot.
    Abigail was behind him. “What’s happening?”
    “John has company,” he said as he bolted back to the front seat and gunned the engine. “We need to get back there now!”
    Abigail lurched forward as Larry hit the gas pedal. Fortunately she was wearing a seatbelt even though he hadn’t thought to tell her to put it on.
    “Who are they?” she asked, turning back and looking at the monitors.
    “It’s either the good guys or the bad guys,” Larry said, “my money’s on the bad guys.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “John has something that a lot of people want.”
    “What is it?”
    “A memory that he doesn’t remember right now,” Larry said.
    “So how can they get it from him, then?”
    “Because,” Larry explained in as simple as terms as he could, “they both have their ways of getting it.”
    “Why don’t you just let him give it to the good guys then?”
    Jesus, this girl asks a lot of questions!
    Larry sighed, trying to keep things simple as he raced down the dark street, keeping an eye out for cop cars, or more black vans.
    “Because the good guys aren’t necessarily the ’good guys.’ They’re just a little better than the bad guys.” Larry shrugged. “Maybe worse. The bad guys only want the information, but the good guys want to prevent the bad guys from getting it. And the only way to really do that is to kill John.”
    Abigail turned back to the monitors.
    “They’ve got an army,” she said, alarmed.
    “How many are there?”
    Abigail counted, “I see 12.”
    “Fuck,” Larry cursed as he raced down the highway, hoping he could reach the motel in time.

    * * * *

    Brock

    Brock’s squad flanked the outside of the boarded-up motel room doorway. Two agents were stationed behind the motel, though the only rear exit was a small bathroom window in each of the rooms.
    According to Jacob, their target, the feeder named John, was in a straight jacket and wouldn’t pose much of a threat. Still, in Brock’s experience, you could never be too prepared, especially if anyone else was with John.
    Brock’s men were each armed with a satchel of flash bang and tear gas grenades that would neutralize without killing. They were also equipped with M4A1 carbines to deal with anybody else that got in their way.

    * * * *

    John

    John cursed the jacket that was keeping him prisoner.
    He could feel the presence of the men surrounding the motel room, like a blind man sensing someone at the edges of his space. He could even hear some of them, anxious breaths and quickened heartbeats, though much of what he heard was lost in the din of his own internal cacophony of panic, anger, and hunger.
    Damn, the hunger!
    He saw in the monitors that they were wearing black body armor, enclosed masks, and were armed to the teeth. They were prepared for war, it seemed. While he had healed from the earlier gunshot, he wasn’t sure how he would stand up to a hailstorm of bullets. Perhaps he had a weak spot. If you could kill movie vampires with a stake through the heart or by chopping their heads off, perhaps he had a similar frailty? He already shared at least one Achilles heal with his fictional brethren — sunlight. So why not others?
    John then realized that most of the gunmen were positioned just outside the motel room he’d entered, not the adjoining room where he was now. He clumsily rose to his feet, though his upper body was completely restricted by the restraint jacket, and scurried to the door separating the two rooms. He pushed the door closed with his shoulder and sealed himself off in the secondary room. Unfortunately, the doorway between the rooms had two doors, one on each side, and he had no way of closing the other door. Certainly someone would notice the open door on the other side, then storm the adjoining room. At best, he was buying himself a few seconds. A few seconds to do what, he didn’t know, but a few seconds, nonetheless.

    * * * *

    Larry

    “Come on,” Abigail said from the back seat. She was nervously watching the monitor, her leg shaking a mile a minute, as the men in black assembled outside the motel room, large weapons raised and collectively aimed at the door.
    “I’m going as fast as I can,” Larry snapped, and indeed he was pressing the van to its limits. The speedometer was past the 100 mph listed on the dashboard and the entire van