The 1000 Souls (Book 1): Apocalypse Revolution

by Michael Andre McPherson

  Ten seconds of absolute silence followed until finally Joyce broke it with a low whistle. "Wow," she said. "You guys can fill a football stadium and no one hears about it?"

  "You've no idea how powerful we've become. We're all over the world. Vlad says he's going to be a scourge on humanity for environmental crimes and corporate crimes and—oh I don't what else. But I heard him say that you humans are sinners and you need to be culled, and we're going to do it and you are all going to be our servants."

  "You're slaves," said Bertrand.

  "I mean the end of this era and the start of a new world order—one where you humans aren't at the top of the food chain."

  Sixteen - Gathering Disciples

  Bertrand kept his word over Jeff's objections, releasing Malcolm from the four-poster bed and ushering him down to the furnace room. They handcuffed him to the gas line.

  "You'll come back tonight for me, won't you?" Malcolm's buzz appeared to have worn off. "I'll need to eat eventually, or the bugs, they release some other drug, one that makes you very, very hungry."

  Jeff slammed the door to the little room. "Bastard. If he thinks I'll let him—"

  A flash of red light swept through the living room. Joyce—already at the top of the basement stairs—hurried to the front room, and Bertrand and Jeff hurried up the stairs to follow. They found Joyce standing to one side of the window, careful to ensure that her profile couldn't be caught by a flashlight.

  "Cops." She put a finger to her lips. "Just one car," she whispered. "And they don't look like they're in a hurry. Just sitting inside." She ran to the hallway and freed up St. Mike's leash.

  "Crap, this way, quick!" Bertrand led them through his kitchen and out the backdoor. He looked left and right, but the tiny backyard was empty. They hurried across and into his garage, but his Volkswagen GTI gave a double squeak as he pressed the key.

  "Sh-h-h-h!" hissed Joyce.

  "Get in." Bertrand didn't waste time blaming technology. Why was she always angry with him? He hurried to the end of the garage and reached up to pull the handle that would disengage the electric garage door opener. It was quieter this way, even if the power had been on. Bertrand had cursed sometimes in winter that his detached garage exited into an alley that was rarely plowed clear of snow, but today it meant they could leave without the police seeing them pull away. He slid up the garage door and hurried into the car. They were gone in moments.

  "Where to?" asked Joyce from the backseat, the big dog panting beside her.

  "I know a place, but I want to make sure we aren't followed first." He turned from the alley onto Armitage and headed away from his street, under the 'L' tracks and over toward DePaul University campus.

  "Does anyone smell smoke?" Jeff rolled down his window and sniffed. The acrid scent of burning wood and plastic filled the car. "There's a house on fire somewhere."

  "There!" Joyce pointed between them.

  Ahead and on their right, flames licked out of the upper-floor windows, and smoke leaked from under the eaves and out through the roof vents.

  "No fire trucks, but people." Bertrand slowed the GTI and shut off the headlights, driving only by the running lights. "What are they doing?"

  "I'm putting your parking break on a bit to turn off the day beam lights." Jeff pulled up the handle a notch or two making the dim head lights go out. The silver car would be difficult to see now, and Bertrand coasted to a stop a baseball throw short of the house and the cars that were skewed across the street in front.

  A crowd of at least thirty people had gathered around the house, some clumped near a side door and others near the front. The Victorian-era dwelling was of solid brick, but the bow windows were smashed, and as Bertrand watched in horror, someone from the crowd lit a Molotov cocktail and threw it into the house, its flames augmenting the fire that had already claimed furniture and carpet.

  Bertrand opened his door, but before he could reach back for his Glock, Jeff grabbed his arm and stopped him from leaving the vehicle.

  "This isn't the time, Bert. Look."

  A figure climbed out a second-floor window onto the porch roof, a man judging by the size and shape. He ran along the roof and jumped to the ground where the fewest people waited. He rose up to run but it was hopeless. The crowd rushed him, and even from the GTI they could hear his screams.

  "I'll kill them." The monster of rage had risen in Bertrand, bringing with it the desire to fight, to be safe through battle. He wanted to shoot into the crowd, to drive them away from their victim, to rescue the man or at least ease his end.

  Joyce grabbed his shoulders and pinned him into his seat from behind. "Not now, Bert. There will be a time when I'll fight them right beside you, but I won't let you throw you life away for someone who's already dead."

  The rage burned even though Bertrand knew she was right.

  "Time to go. Just drive," Jeff said.

  Bertrand took a deep breath, watching as several dark figures detached and drifted away from the scrum around the man's body. Fire now owned the house, the upper windows the exit for roaring flames that pushed black clouds into the night, obscuring the stars while warm air caused the half-moon to simmer.

  Jeff and Joyce were right, but it didn't satisfy Bertrand to run away. It didn't feed his desire to do something about the nightmare. He put the car in reverse.

  "Live to fight another day." Joyce patted his shoulder. "I promise we will fight."

  They drove aimlessly for the rest of the night, arriving at three other fires, always lured there by the flames, always arriving too late to help.

  *

  Sirens greeted the sunrise, fire trucks emerging from their halls and rolling through the streets to douse the flames of hundreds of house fires, some of which had already burned low, while others had spread to neighboring houses. Only concrete and brick had prevented another Great Chicago Fire.

  The power came back on just before dawn, the streetlights powering up only to switch off even before the sun crested the rooftops. Bertrand weaved through cluttered streets on their way to Joyce's condo. Cars had been abandoned during the night without regard for proper parking etiquette. That their doors were left open indicated their owners had departed in a panic.

  Joyce and Bertrand made breakfast—greasy eggs and toast but no bacon, because it wasn't available at the grocery stores. Jeff took care of the coffee. St. Mike munched at a bowl of dog food before curling up to sleep on the living-room couch.

  "We need to warn people." Bertrand pushed away his empty plate. Should they do dishes? Would they ever come back to Joyce's house?

  "We need some sleep." But Jeffery stood and poured more coffee into his mug from the carafe. "If they're sleeping during the day, then we'll have to be up at night too."

  "We're gonna have to push hard for a few days." Bertrand added more sugar to his coffee. To hell with his waistline and his diet—he'd be lucky to be alive tomorrow. "Every person we get the word out to today is one more person who can help spread the word tomorrow. They've got to the ISPs, so Twitter and Facebook are going to be heavily edited if not just shut down. We need to get to people we trust as quickly as possible."

  "I trust Whitlock." Jeff leaned back against the counter.

  "Good. But don't go into work, just in case. It may take a while for them to figure out about Malcolm and Destiny, but I don't want you getting arrested. Get Whitlock to meet you somewhere public, and make sure that he's alone before you talk to him. Do it all by phone if you can."

  "What about you?" Joyce said. "Where are you going today?"

  "To get guns. I got a buddy who is already aware."

  "I'll come with you." Joyce stood, her hands on her hips as if daring Bertrand to say no.

  "Great. Anybody got a pen?"

  Joyce tossed him a pad and pen from the counter near her landline.

  "Thanks, we'll meet you at this address by sunset if we don't talk to you sooner." He scribbled down the address and passed it to Jeff, who frowned at the
piece of paper.

  "But this is just a little ways away from here. Why not just meet here?"

  Joyce glanced at the paper. "Hey, I know that address. Isn't that where that guy was murdered?"

  "It's next door. I was buddies with the owner until he bought it. The rippers got him for sure. I thought he was a bit of a conspiracy nut because he believed the government was in on it and all."

  "He was right, after all. But why here, then?" Joyce grabbed her coat from the back of her chair, a pink ski jacket that emphasized her hips and slimmed her waist.

  "'Cause he has a bunker in the basement that's very well hidden, and it's built to survive nuclear war. Better yet, he's got guns. Lots of guns. Best, he's got a For Sale sign on his front lawn, put there by ripper-sympathetic cops. They assume the guy's house is empty, so I doubt anybody will bother burning it."

  "Okay." Jeff shrugged into his thigh-length coat, a hi-tech, expensive affair designed for rugged outdoors travel, and while not camouflage, it was a dark green. Bertrand looked from one to the other.

  "We should get you a new coat," he said to Joyce. "One that's hard to see in the dark." He shrugged into his leather jacket.

  Jeff forestalled Joyce's response. "Let's cruise by your place and see if the cops are still there. If not I'll grab my car."

  "And if they are?" asked Joyce.

  "I'll grab someone else's."

  *

  The Chicago North Gun Exchange looked as if it had been through a riot. Shards of glass clung to the frames of the windows, but most of the crystal coated the sidewalk in front. Yellow police tape warned the curious to stay away, but no patrol car lurked in front and no uniformed officer waited at the door.

  "Sorry, Bert." Joyce actually touched him, squeezing his arm, which gave him a thrill despite the tragedy. "It looks like they got to your buddy.

  "They pick off the loners." Bertrand ducked under the police tape and walked through the open front door.

  "Bert, we shouldn't be in here. The last thing we need is to be arrested now." But she ducked under the tape all the same and followed him into the shop.

  The row of gun racks at the back sat empty, and the display cases were smashed, their guns also gone.

  Bertrand turned in a full circle. "Was it rippers or cops? I don't see any blood."

  A woman appeared in the doorway, her gray hair pulled back in a tight ponytail.

  "It was cops. They came for his guns." Petite, but seemingly tough and fearless, she stepped into the shop. She wore an apron and green gardening gloves, and in one hand she held a set of clippers. "Who are you and what do you want with Emile?"

  "I'm Bertrand Allan. Emile was giving me some gun lessons, and I promised him that when things fell apart I'd come and get him." But he had failed Emile, waited too long, and now the big man who had patiently taught him to shoot was dead.

  "Don't look so sad." A wry smile curled one side of her mouth. "Emile's not one to wait around to die. I'm Helen. You folks better come next door so that we can decide what to do. After last night, I doubt even my shop is safe."

  "You're from next door," Joyce said. "The flower shop."

  "Smart girl. That's right. Follow me, now. This is no time for gawking." She turned and ducked under the police tape, leading them to her shop.

  An electronic bell chimed as they entered the store, but that was the only nod to the twenty-first century. The flower display cases—mostly empty but for a few roses—would have fit nicely into a shop from the nineteenth century, the wood frames stained and polished, and the cash register looked too big to be useful, reminding Bertrand of one he'd seen in a small-town museum that had rescued knickknacks of their heritage.

  "Emile. We've got company, the good kind."

  A curtain behind the counter parted and Emile appeared—a sawed-off double-barreled shotgun in one hand. He actually looked as if he might have shaved in the last three days, but his eyes were bloodshot.

  "Bert. Good man. I wondered if they'd got you during the last week. Where've you been?"

  "Waiting too long. Things really fell apart last night, didn't they? It's like the rippers aren't worried about flying under the radar anymore. What the hell happened to your shop?"

  Emile rested the gun on the counter and practically growled.

  "Daylight raid by the cops, but lucky thing I got a buddy from my gun club on the inside who tipped me off to get the hell out, otherwise I think I'd have spent the night in jail for some bullshit paperwork infraction."

  "I think that would be a death sentence."

  Helen lifted a section of the wooden counter and walked over to Emile's side to open the till. "You bet it would've been. I bet no one is in any prison now. They've either been cut or turned into one of them vampires."

  "The rippers." Bertrand wanted to separate the real from the supernatural. No one should think that garlic or crosses or refusing to offer invitations to enter a home would keep them safe. "We have to go, and I was hoping you'd come with us."

  Helen slipped off her gloves and had begun to empty the register. "Yup, that's what we were figuring. We were just having a little debate about where to go."

  "Come with us," Joyce said. "Bert's got a place we can hide in tonight."

  "And after that?" asked Emile.

  Helen beat Bertrand to a reply. "After that, my good man, we will see what the day brings." She walked over to a display case and opened it, removing the last four roses. "Couldn't get any more flowers anyway." She retrieved the shears and snipped the flowers short, carefully removing the thorns. "None of my suppliers answer their phones or e-mail anymore." She handed one to each of them. "My last customers." She removed her apron and slipped into a crinkled leather jacket that hung down to her knees, placing the rose through a button hole. "I'm really going to miss this place, but we've got work to do."

  Her expression was more of one going on a short trip than abandoning her livelihood, her lower lip firm. She took the flower from Bertrand's hand and threaded it through a buttonhole on the pocket of his jacket.

  "Lead on." She gave Bertrand's chest a firm pat.

  *

  Father Alvarez shook his head at Bertrand's invitation. He stood in front of St. Michael's, all the big doors open wide to accept people who hurried into the church with blankets and sleeping bags. Some carried rifles. Joyce and the others had split up to clean out the grocery stores of anything left on the shelves, all promising to meet at Thomas Nolan's house.

  "I don't need to go with you," said Father Alvarez. "Christians from all over Chicago have been invited to spend the night. This church is now a true sanctuary, and it's open to anyone who fears for their lives. We even have Muslim, Hindus and Jews who will share our home tonight, just as the synagogues and mosques and temples all over Chicago will harbor local Christians tonight."

  "But you're sitting ducks." Bertrand stood by the statue of St. Michael. "The rippers know you're here and they'll come for you."

  "Not tonight, I think. Have you watched the news? They still wish to present the illusion of status quo, that everything is normal and the power failures are simply a side effect of adding wind and solar power to the electrical grid, a problem they promise will soon be solved. It is one thing to burn down a home, but another to burn down a prominent land mark." He waved up to the tower of the church.

  "Your call. But I think people need to hunker down out of sight. Fortresses can be encircled and besieged. We need to be hidden and to strike out like a guerrilla army—like the Contras."

  Pain flashed across Father Alvarez's face, and he heaved a deep sigh.

  "This is a terrible type of war that you don't understand. You have no idea the horror that comes with being a guerrilla fighter."

  "No, I don't. That's why I need you."

  Father Alvarez looked up at the statue, silent for so long that Bertrand wondered if the man was in prayer.

  "Tomorrow we will speak more on this," he finally said. "But tonight I must prepare this san
ctuary, even if I make it into a fortress to protect my flock. Come by the rectory at noon and we will consider what we can do against this scourge."

  *

  The scent of frying steaks greeted Bertrand as he slid open the back door of Thomas Nolan's house. The carpet under the dining-room table—the one that had hidden Nolan's blood—was gone, and the wood floor had been scrubbed clean.

  Bertrand's salivary glands went into overdrive at the smell of the cooking, and he headed straight for the kitchen with his burden of bags of groceries. Helen was once again in an apron, but this time she had a spatula in one hand rather than pruning shears.

  "There you are." She turned back to the stove, where thick steaks sizzled in two iron frying pans, but Bertrand thought he caught a look of relief. "Should be cooking these on the barbecue outside, but I was overruled by that fat tyrant downstairs. He's worried about attracting attention. Set the table would you?" She leaned over from the stove to shout through the open basement door. "He's finally here. Come up for dinner!"

  Joyce was the first to pound up the stairs, taking them two at a time. "Where the hell have you been? It's almost sunset."

  "My car's full of groceries, and I stopped at a McDonalds this afternoon to—"

  "You've eaten already?" asked Helen.

  "No. It was business. I'm scheduled to speak there tomorrow. The manager's a believer and he wants to help get the word out."

  "What makes this house so special again?" Jeff climbed the stairs with less haste than Joyce.

  "Did you find the bomb shelter?"

  "No," came Emile's voice from the basement. "And we looked in every fucking closet and cubby hole down here."

  "It's behind the fridge back in the wet bar. There's a panel that slides back."

  Jeff raised his eyebrows. "I missed that." He turned and went back down the stairs.

  Bertrand opened a cupboard and found a stack of plates.

  "You keep me posted from now on, Bert." Joyce gave him one angry frown before grabbing stack of glasses. "Think of me as a coordinator. We all have to know what's going on."