The 1000 Souls (Book 1): Apocalypse Revolution

by Michael Andre McPherson

  The next item on the news was the stock market's increasingly wild gyrations, but Bertrand was no longer paying attention. He searched "Ripper murders" and came up with results, but they were all a few days old and all from Chicago. He was able to find a reference to a serial slasher in New York, but those articles were also out of date. He was just about to give up when a result got his attention with a tag line that didn't seem to fit the search. It asked: Has Your Soul Gotten Stronger?

  Bertrand clicked on it only to find the cheapest graphics right out of the nineties. A starry background made the purple text hard to read, even though the font was large. Cheesy music—the new age stuff you'd buy to soothe children to sleep—played in the background. Bertrand was about to click away, but the first line caught his eye.

  "The Ripper murders are the reason you are stronger."

  It went on to describe a new religion, one that believed there were only one thousand souls in existence, each soul spread between many humans. "Thus," said the author, "the one thousand became very diluted when the population of the earth exploded—each body containing only a tiny fragment of a soul. But for the first time in history, the process is reversing. Millions are dying, and each portion of the souls of those dying people flee to a living person. If you wonder why your soul feels stronger, it's because it is stronger. It is denser. The portion of your soul that you are a vessel for is larger than it has been for over two centuries."

  "Okay this is crazy," said Bertrand to the room. He was about to close the tab when the next line galvanized his attention.

  "Have you had a sudden panic attack recently?" the website's author asked. "Have you found yourself apprehensive for no reason, culminating into a surging heartbeat and unfocused terror, only to have it all end suddenly leaving you oddly stronger? These are the tell tale signs that someone whose body contains a portion of the same soul that your body contains has been murdered. When a person dies their soul portion should gently merge with the entire soul, a little bit entering each living human host. But in the case of a sudden and violent death, the soul-portion flees to the nearest human vessel containing a portion of the same soul. This increases soul density rapidly. That is why there are physiological side-effects.

  "The Ripper murders are so numerous and violent that many soul-portions must flee to living hosts."

  Bertrand sat back and shook his head. Just coincidence that this nut-bar was describing a simple panic attack and ascribing ethereal causes. The guy even called himself by a plural: Erics, saying that he was only one of many host bodies for his soul, thus the plural. It didn't seem to bother him that the other host bodies weren't necessarily named Eric. "I use the plural as a symbol of the multiple bodies that contain my single soul.

  Bertrand snorted and was about to click away, but his curiosity got the better of him and he found himself typing into the "Contact Us" form. "How do you know there are one thousand souls and not one million?" He sent the message and closed his laptop.

  The TV news was now dealing with the power outages caused by absenteeism at major power plants and whether this was an unannounced work-to-rule by the power workers union in advance of fall contract negotiations. Bertrand shut off the TV.

  Why didn't the news cover this evening's Ripper murder? Why send a news chopper and vans full of reporters and camera guys but not report it?

  Bertrand headed to his fridge for more beer but put the bottle back without opening it. He wanted answers. He wanted to prove to himself that the evening had not been some weird nightmare. There had been a crime scene, and Bertrand decided to go back and check it out, verify the police tape and the reality of a man's brutal murder in the absence of news coverage. He didn't have a gun, but there was a sheathed hunting knife in the basement, and Bertrand hurried to retrieve it. He slid it under his shirt and into the waistband of his jeans. Was he carrying a concealed weapon now? But Bertrand didn't care so much about the law—he had to go out tonight. He stood before his front door for a moment, summoning up his courage before he opened the door. Strange events had caused a strange reaction. He was afraid of the dark.

  Six - Skulking

  Bertrand had planned to walk north on his street, but the neighborhood seemed far more alive than it had during the day. A couple kissed passionately under a street light about a stone's throw away, and Bertrand didn't want to disturb their tryst, so he turned south instead. But at the intersection with Armitage, a half-dozen rowdy teenagers threw beer bottles at passing cars and shouted obscenities. Surely someone would call 911, but in the meantime Bertrand knew they were out of control and to be avoided.

  In fact, the whole city seemed to hum more than usual for a quiet summer night, and the traffic noise of fast engines, car horns, booming music and distant sirens all blended together. Distant shouts mingled, some just raucous, like those of the teenagers, but others sounded frightened, maybe even like distant screams.

  Time to be invisible. Time to do the unexpected. Bertrand crossed to Needleman's house, surprised that someone had set a For Sale sign on the front lawn and replaced the screen door. Needleman had heirs? Bertrand couldn't recall Needleman having any visitors from friends or family. The front door proved to be unlocked, perhaps because the mysterious heirs didn't have the key and had correctly judged that there was nothing worth stealing. Bertrand crossed through the house quickly, relying on moonlight and his knowledge of the geography of his own house, the mirror of Needleman's, to guide his steps.

  The back screen door had not been repaired, so Bertrand opened it slowly, careful not to dislodge the remaining shards of glass and announce his presence. To whom? Bertrand eased the door closed behind him and walked down the steps and stood under the 'L' tracks. The weak street light in the alley on the far side of the tracks did little to illuminate under the 'L,' thus leaving Bertrand in darkness. He was invisible. Now if he could just be silent.

  He headed north, weaving a path around cars parked under the 'L', slipping briefly into the alley whenever his way was impeded by a fence, but returning to travel under the 'L' as soon as possible. A train roared overhead, allowing him to run, the slap of his running shoes buried by the noise of wind, steel wheels and electric motors. He slowed back to a stealthy walk after it passed. Only once, when a window clicked open in one of the houses that backed onto the 'L', did Bertrand wonder if he'd lost his mind. What if someone saw him skulking along like this? Would they think he was crazy or worse, a criminal?

  But Bertrand felt safe under the tracks, off the main routes and invisible from prying eyes—dangerous eyes. He remembered the words of the young officer, Gonsalves: "We can't protect you anymore." If teenagers could drink beer in public and throw the bottles at passing cars with impunity, he was certainly correct. There was a breath of anarchy in the summer air.

  When Bertrand reached Webster, he had to turn right to get back to the crime scene, and that meant he had to walk a short distance on the sidewalk like a normal person. He had walked only a few paces along Webster when he was presented with the first puzzle: the street was clear and open for traffic. Where were the police cars and the news vans? Okay, maybe the news people had moved on to more exciting crime scenes, but shouldn't there be at least one police car parked on the street, keeping an eye on the crime scene while it was processed?

  But the street was empty, and the parked cars sat waiting for morning and their owners. No police cruiser lurked among them. It got stranger as he approached the house: it was dark. Where was the crime-scene tape? A square sign on the front lawn caught Bertrand's attention, and he hurried forward because he couldn't believe what he saw, until he was close enough that even in the streetlights he could read it: For Sale.

  "What the—" Bertrand let his breath out in a gush. Just like Needleman's, only there couldn't have been time to alert the next of kin, contact a real estate agent and list the house, even if the police had somehow processed the crime scene in record time. Bertrand slowed to a stop in front of the house, but he didn'
t want to linger until someone came along and noticed his bizarre interest.

  What about the back door?

  Bertrand opened the latch of the gate and made his way to the brick wall, scaling it just as awkwardly as before, even though he didn't have to rush this time. He crept along to the backyard, staying close to the wall of the house to hide in its shadow. Was he out of his mind? What would someone think if they saw him, a fat computer nerd creeping along in the dark? Would they assume he was a thief or just plain high?

  He peeked around the corner, expecting to see crime-scene tape and perhaps a bored police officer guarding the broken window, but the deck was empty. Only the two chairs that no longer tipped against the patio table—the ones he and Joyce had occupied—proved to him that he had been there just a couple of hours ago. He moved into the backyard proper, climbing the steps to the deck in disbelief. A new sliding glass door now sealed the back of the house.

  Who had paid for that and how had they found a company willing to come out so quickly, so late at night? He tried to peer through the new window, but the heavy drapes were drawn and the house was dark. Was there still blood on the floor?

  Bertrand considered calling Detective Sinclair, considered asking him why the police were hiding the fact that this house was a crime scene. But what would the man say? Can't talk about an on-going investigation.

  Bertrand went out of the yard the way he'd gone in, scrambling over the brick wall, but he just couldn't go home. He had to confirm that this hadn't all been a twisted nightmare. He didn't have Joyce's number, or he would have called her to ensure he hadn't lost his mind. But even if he did call her, what would he say? Do you remember that guy with the chunk of his throat cut out? His house is for sale—maybe it'll be a good deal after the blood is cleaned from the floor.

  The neighbor's house presented an option, but he was unsure about ringing the doorbell of a man who had presented a shotgun earlier, for no apparent reason. Yet, the man had seemed more terrified than crazy. Perhaps he had seen the murderer. Had he already talked to the police?

  Bertrand walked slowly up the front steps to the clapboard house, summoning the courage to press the button under an intercom speaker. Odd for a house to have one like this, and it looked brand-new.

  "Who is it?" asked a male voice, a low voice that fit the big man in the bathrobe.

  "Hi, my name is Bertrand Allan. You saw me go through your backyard earlier this evening." Bertrand's ears burned with his embarrassment. What could this conversation possibly accomplish?

  "I'm armed. You and your friends stay away. I know what you are and I'll shoot the first bastards who crosses my doorstep."

  "Jesus Christ, dude." Bertrand backed up a step. "All I wanted to ask was when the cops left, 'cause it's totally weird that they're gone and there's nothing on the news. I mean, it's as if your neighbor's murder never happened." Bertrand backed down the stairs now. This had been a bad idea, and the sooner he got away from this nutbar, the better.

  "Wait a second," the voice whispered over the intercom.

  Nothing happened for a pregnant minute, and Bertrand backed farther away from the steps of the house. Finally the door opened, and the same unshaven man—the brown bathrobe wrapped around his wide waist—brandished a shotgun at Bertrand. "Say Jesus's name again."

  Bertrand considered telling him where to go, but the shotgun riveted his attention. Fear can make people do crazy things, and this man looked terrified, his eyes wide, shifting left to right to check for threats in the street.

  "Jesus Christ," Bertrand said. "Has the world gone mad?"

  "Make the sign of the cross."

  "Come on, dude. I just want to go home."

  "Make the sign of the cross or I'll blow you away right now!"

  There's no arguing with fear. Bertrand had to think to remember the routines of his childhood, before his parents had decided that church wasn't essential to his upbringing.

  "In the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit. Look, can I go now. I'm really, really sorry I bothered you. I just thought maybe the police had said something to you."

  The gun didn't waver but the man's face relaxed a bit.

  "Like why they're covering up a murder."

  "Yeah. Like that."

  "You better come in."

  "No." Bertrand stepped back, preparing to turn and run.

  "You'll never make it home." The man raised the shotgun. "I'm your only chance. Get in here now before she comes around and kills us both."

  "Who?"

  "Rose. My neighbor, Rose. Now get in here, quick!" The man looked up and down the street in panic, as if a pack of wolves might come dashing along, hunting the unwary.

  His fear was infectious. Bertrand looked up and down, but even though the street was empty, the sounds of the city seemed even more pronounced. Distant sirens, shouts and running feet. Was that a scream a few blocks away? Bertrand took a deep breath and hurried up the stairs in into the man's house. Oddly, despite the gun and the craziness, it seemed safer than walking home in the dark.

  Seven - Haunting

  Bertrand placed his hand to his stomach, hiding the bulge of the hunting knife in his shirt. Not that a knife would be much help against a crazy man with a shotgun, but it was the last option for Bertrand if things got violent.

  The big man slammed the door, leaving them in darkness alleviated only by streetlight washing in through the living room windows, turning furniture into shadows.

  "What's your name again?" The shotgun was leveled at Bertrand's chest.

  "Dude, please put the gun down, okay. My name's Bertrand Allan, and I'm not the Chicago Ripper." Bertrand held up one hand—palm out in surrender—and hoped that the man wouldn't notice that his other hand was over his stomach.

  "Chicago Ripper?" The man gave a derisive snort. "You believe that crap? This way, quick." He waved the gun down the hall. "We have to get into the shelter."

  "No." Bertrand backed up a step into the living room, his heart really pounding now. He would have to fight. "No way. You're crazy."

  "I'm trying to save your life. We're in danger every minute we're up here, but Rose doesn't know about the shelter. We've got to lock ourselves in until morning and then I swear by God I'll let you go."

  Running feet on the sidewalk outside and a scream forced them both to turn to the bow window. A dark figure ran past, closely followed by several more.

  "What the hell is going on?" Bertrand forgot about his knife as he stepped toward the window, pulling aside the sheer curtain to get a better look at the pursuit.

  "I'll leave you to die if you don't come now."

  The man backed down the hallway, opening a door. Pale light leaked up a set of stairs. Bertrand considered his options: run into the street to try and help someone who was being chased by thugs and was probably three blocks away by now, or follow the crazy man with the shotgun into his basement. There was no point in trying to run to the rescue tonight, because he could never catch those people, and even if he did, what could he do against several assailants, even with his knife? Besides, Bertrand craved information and this strange man knew something. "Okay, I'll go to the shelter or whatever, but stop pointing the gun at me, and at least tell me your name."

  "Thomas, Thomas Nolan, and I'm sorry but you have to pass the human test before I trust you. Don't worry, it's nothing weird. You go first."

  Bertrand headed down the stairs, finding a basement from the seventies lit only by a couple of nightlights, one plugged into a socket above a wet bar, another at the bottom of the stairs. The wood paneling, shag carpet and bar stools in front of the Formica counter all looked new, even though they must be forty years old. Someone had taken very good care of this house. The couch and an armchair were squared and small, designed for the healthier backsides of the twentieth century rather than the large behinds of the twenty-first century.

  Nolan moved past Bertrand to a fridge against the wall behind the bar. He gave it a mighty shove and it rolled to
one side, revealing more paneling from the seventies, but he placed the flat of his hand against the wood and simply slid it aside. A door that could rival a bank vault was hidden behind, except that it looked homemade, welded in the back of a shop or a garage and brush-painted gray. Nolan pushed on it—there was no handle—and the heavy door swung inward, allowing fluorescent light to spill out. Nolan waved the shotgun at Bertrand."Get inside."

  Bertrand found a room not much bigger than a walk-in closet. Narrow couches ran along each wall, and a small beer fridge sat between them at the far end, above it a very modern flat-screen was tuned to CNN, but the mute was on. Racked guns occupied every available space on the walls above the couches. There were shotguns, handguns and full-auto assault rifles. Uh oh. Maybe the guy was totally crazy.

  "Help yourself to a beer and grab a seat."

  Beer. God, he needed one, and if he was going to die he didn't have to worry about losing weight. Bertrand headed straight for the little fridge and found it full of Budweiser. He pulled two cold cans out and turned to find Nolan shoving the door closed with his shoulder—a door that looked about two feet thick. "What the hell is this place?"

  "Bomb shelter. Three-foot thick concrete walls, built down here around the Cuban missile crisis by the guy who owned the house before me." Nolan pushed four heavy bolts—as thick as baseball bats—straight into a concrete wall. "I always thought it was funny, a good man-cave and all. Kept it a secret from everybody but Stan 'cause of the gun collection."

  Nolan turned, putting his back to the door and drawing a heavy breath, the shotgun again pointing a Bertrand. "Have a drink. You can put mine down there." He nodded down at a little end table by the right side couch.