The flat highway ran out before them, one of the Strykers that Bobs so coveted immediately in front, it's fifty-cal machine gun ready but unmanned in the cold wind. The three buses of Bertrand's little army followed the National Guard convoy in the relative safety of its wake.
"I guess we know why all those sunsets in October were so beautiful," said Joyce as they passed one of the blackened fields. "They were burning the harvest. They want people to starve."
"It's frigging evil," said Emile. In one of his many careers, he had spent time driving a bus, so he was their chauffeur. Bobs sat behind him with the gangly and eager Terry at her side. Bertrand had wondered if their relationship was sexual but didn't dare to ask. Maybe they were just friends. Maybe friends with benefits, sort of like he and Joyce.
"I think it's brilliant." Bobs stood up in the aisle to look through the front windshield, her blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail. "Not that it's good for us, but now we know why rippers are raiding grocery stores: they want to starve us into submission. This Vlad asshole sure knows what he's doing."
Emile glanced over his heavy shoulder at her and back to the highway. "Holy crap she's right. Why else would rippers care about food? They can't eat it."
"We need to make a plan for the winter." Bobs looked down at Bertrand. "And we'll need to think about the spring and how to farm the fields."
"Simple," said Bertrand. "We kill Vlad. We kill the rippers, and people will come back to the farms. There'll be money to be made."
"Gas will be a problem."
Bertrand fought down his frustration. Why did she have to be right? "We get power to refineries and they can operate. Aren't there millions of barrels in the country's strategic oil reserve? Besides, my biggest fear is that there won't be that many people to feed. How many have already died?"
Joyce shook her head. "No point in worrying about any of this until after tomorrow." She stood, pushing past Bertrand and heading for the washroom at the back of the bus. She had been frosty on the ride so far, shunning Bertrand's touch and staring out the window.
Bobs took her seat.
"So you're pretty famous now, what with all the speeches going viral. Even if the internet totally tanks, pretty much everybody in Chicago knows who you are."
"Yeah, well I'd rather be an unknown computer geek than have to live through this disaster." But guilt tugged at Bertrand's soul. It wasn't true. He had been more alive in the last three months than he had been since the funeral of his parents. It had occurred to him that if the rippers hadn't happened, he would probably have just continued down his road of boredom and self-pity until he ended up a recluse like poor Needleman, the first ripper victim that Bertrand had known personally.
"You were made for this," said Bobs. "We're going to need a strong leader back in Chicago after this, one who can make tough decisions through the winter. Are you that guy? I know people would follow you."
"I don't want to run the world. Maybe an election or something, but like Joyce says, all that can wait."
Bobs shook her head and leaned in Bertrand's direction, putting one hand on his shoulder. "We're going to need a hero to get us through the winter, someone to inspire people. I've been pumping you up to everybody 'cause I think you're that guy. You make things happen, like this. Big things. And you don't run and hide."
Bertrand looked over, enjoying the touch of her hand and her admiration, but uncomfortable that Joyce might emerge from the washroom to see him communing so closely with this elfin nineteen-year-old. Would she be jealous? "Funny, calling me a hero and all. That's what Erics called me, or at least he said I had part of the Dormant Hero soul. Weird concept, isn't it? I mean, thinking that someone else alive right now, seeing stuff right now, has part of your soul."
Bobs let go of Bertrand's shoulder and sat back to cross her arms under her small breasts and stare ahead at the Stryker. "It's bullshit. I took that asshole's test and he doesn't know anything, sure as hell not about me."
"What did it say?"
"Like I said, bullshit. Way off the mark."
"Well he's making this whole thing a lot more possible. When we link up with him and his people, we'll double our numbers if he's not exaggerating, and he says he'll fight right into the center of the goddamn mountain with us."
Bobs looked over and rolled her eyes. "How can that doddering old fool be any good with a machine gun? The recoil would shove him back on his ass with the first shot. He may show up and all, but I guarantee that old fart won't be fighting."
The slam of the bathroom door prompted her to stand to Joyce back her seat, but in the aisle, Bobs turned to Bertrand and spoke quickly as Joyce made her way up from the back if the bus. "Anyway, you need to think more about what your role is going to be in our new world order, because we're going to have one no matter what."
But as Joyce took her seat and settled down to snooze, Bertrand found he couldn't imagine anything beyond a battle at Cave Mountain.
*
Bertrand sensed a change, the bus slowing and turning, stopping and starting, but he was reluctant to open his eyes. The last 24 hours had provided an opportunity for sleep that most of them hadn't had in weeks, and as anxious as he was to get to the mountain before his quarry could run, Bertrand had found it easy to slip away into a world where he and Joyce lived in his house, a child in the baby room, a roast in the oven, his Glock on the bedside table.
That incongruity caused him to open his eyes. Jeff now drove while Emile snored several seats back. The midday sun bathed him in light that didn't reach deep into the bus. Ahead, a four-lane road led through a small city, and unlike other towns they had passed through, people lined the sidewalks here, many waving white flags with a black "1000" overtop of an infinite loop. They cheered as the bus passed, their numbers guiding the way to their rendezvous with Erics.
"Holy crap." Bertrand stood carefully, trying not to disturb Joyce's sleep, and moved to stand beside Jeff. "He wasn't kidding when he said that he controlled Billings. The whole city follows him."
Bobs lurched up and crowded the aisle so that she could look ahead through the windshield. "You should wave, Bert. Erics has been telling them you're their hero. Wave to them."
Bertrand began to wave. Did he look like the Queen? How did she do it all the time? But Bobs wasn't satisfied, and she rummaged under Bertrand's bus seat, standing up with his Winchester. "Hold this up," she said. "Like this, by the slide."
She folded Bertrand's hand around the gun before he could protest, and he held it up as she indicated, making the gun the top of a T with his arm.
"Who the hell are you?" asked Joyce, sitting up to stare both at the crowds, Bertrand and lastly Bobs. "His publicist?"
"I've got an entire mountain to encircle." Bobs glared at Joyce. "Do you how big those things are? Have you ever been out in the mountains? I need bodies. We're going to need to find all the exits from this mine if we're going to trap him in it, and since this thing was abandoned over a century ago they won't be easy to find."
"Since when are you the boss of this operation?"
"Since I'm the one who knows what the fuck I'm doing."
"Enough!" shouted Bertrand. "We're almost there. Corner of 28th and 2nd. See that weird white tent-like thing over the intersection: that's where he said we'd meet him."
The city was flat, but a sharp ridge rose on the horizon on the far side of town like a promise of more mountains to come. At the junction of two downtown roads just ahead, an artist's tribute to the mountains lofted above the intersection. Despite Bertrand's description of it being "tent-like," it was a permanent construction of white metal tubing rising from three street corners and sweeping up to the fourth like a smooth mountainside of white canvas that laced between the support structures. It looked unlikely to provide much shelter for the intersection in winter, since the panels made no attempt to form a perfect roof, but it was interesting in an artistic sense and brought a definite presence to the otherwise unremarkable street.
Crowds were held back by police barricades, but the men and women who patrolled them wore white headbands with the 1000 Souls logo in the center of their foreheads. In the middle of the intersection stood twelve very old people, eleven of them in white robes that billowed in the wind and would have fit well in a biblical movie, but the man on the far side of the circle, Erics, still wore his three-piece suit. A red container of gasoline sat on the road in front of each person in the circle.
Jeff eased the bus to a halt and opened the door, by now everyone on board awake and gawking, many pushing into the aisle in anticipation of disembarking and stretching.
"Wait just a goddamn second," said Bertrand to no one in particular. "I don't like the feel of this, and what's with the gas cans."
"We're trapped." Joyce stood, forcing Bobs over in order to get close to Bertrand. "If we need to move these buses in a hurry we can only do it if we run over a bunch of people."
Jeff shook his head. "I think they're friendly, but I don't think we should all just go pouring off the bus."
"I'll go." Bobs started to push past Bertrand. "I want to talk to this asshole anyway."
"No way." Bertrand blocked her path. "I arranged his help and I'll go out."
"Not alone," said Jeff.
Several voices chorused agreement and offered help, but Bertrand turned to face the interior of the bus and put up his hands to quiet everyone. "Calm down! I'll just go and check things out with Jeff and Joyce. Everybody else stays on the bus for a minute. Emile, walkie back to Martin and Barry and tell them to keep their people on the buses for a couple of minutes."
Bobs started to argue but Bertrand shook his head. "Don't be offended, but I need a leader here in case everything goes sideways. Everybody's used to you shouting orders anyway, so just chill, okay?"
Bobs folded her arms but looked satisfied. "Okay. Until you get back on the bus, I'm in charge."
That wasn't what Bertrand meant, but he decided this was not the time to dicker about their fluid command structure. He headed down the stairs to a rock star's welcome. People shouted and cheered and pushed against wood barricades and the Erics pseudo-cops, who struggled to hold them back.
Bertrand started to approach the circle of twelve, embarrassed that he had forgotten to put the Winchester down before he got off the bus. Wearing a Glock and carrying a shotgun didn't seem appropriate when meeting the old man who had helped save St. Michael's Church.
Jeff—still wearing his Ruger in his holster—moved to Bertrand's left and Joyce to his right. Bertrand noted that she had brought her Uzi, slung over her shoulder by the strap. How did they look, all of them armed as if going to a gunfight instead of meeting with friends.
Erics put up both hands, palms out, to indicate that Bertrand should stop. If anything, the curious man looked more eccentric in person, his beard whiter and longer than the distorted Skype video had given the impression. His suit was more frayed than Bertrand had imagined, but it was clean and pressed, as if Erics had dropped out of the workforce in the eighties but kept the trappings. He supported himself with the elaborately carved wooden cane, which looked as if it may have started this new role as a piece of driftwood before an artist got to work. His disciples—the eleven others in the circle—were a mix of ethnic backgrounds. Some were black like Erics, several were white, at least one man was possibly middle-eastern and two were Asian. All were old, and all looked very determined, their jaws clenched, their eyes paying no attention to Bertrand or the crowd, instead looking into the center of the circle at a painted infinity symbol on the pavement.
When Erics spoke, it was immediately clear that he wore a microphone connected to a live public address system.
"The time of great trial has arrived."
The crowd fell perfectly silent. Oddly, the street behind the circle as far as the eye could see was empty of people, the Erics pseudo-cops holding the crowd away from it.
"We can't attack until tomorrow morning," called Bertrand. Why was Erics holding him back? Why weren't they meeting for a council of war, and why was Bertrand's heart beating so slowly and distinctly, heavy pounds that threatened chest pain? It reminded him very much of his panic attack in the road outside of Needleman's.
"What's this all about?" Joyce asked Bertrand. Her hand pressed her chest.
"You are the three," said Erics. "The three souls that always come together in times of need." He pointed to Bertrand. "The Dormant Hero."
The crowd suddenly roared its approval.
Erics put his hands out again, a gesture so similar to what Bertrand had used to quiet the people on the bus that he wondered if he was being mocked, but there was no slyness in the old man's face.
"For years, even generations, you go about life as an ordinary man, but in times of upheaval you rise up to lead and to fight and sometimes to die for the cause."
Bertrand didn't like the last part. To die for the cause? His heart pounded in his chest, his blood throbbed through his veins. What was happening to him? Was it some kind of gas—hypnotism? Was he under attack?
Bertrand looked left to Jeff, whose forehead had broken out in a sweat in spite of the crisp fall air. He looked right to Joyce to see that her eyes were wide and that she had swung the Uzi down.
Erics pointed to her next. "The Angry Captain. A natural leader who charges at the front but languishes as a ruler."
"What the hell does that mean!" shouted Joyce over the cheers of the crowd.
Erics pointed to Jeff. "The Dependable Rogue, a soul who will reject positions of authority yet wields great influence in all decisions."
"I like a good drink too," called Jeff. He turned to Bertrand. "Look, I'm suddenly not feeling well and you look pasty as hell. I think we should get back on the bus and book. Something's really weird."
"Your souls will need to be dense for the struggle in the mountain," said Erics. "Your souls must be the strongest they can possibly be, so we have gathered together four of each people who host portions of your souls. We share the same soul, Bertrand Allan. You and I."
He pointed at Bertrand and back to himself.
"I am too old to fight in the mountain with this old host body, so my portion of the soul must join with your body, with your very dense portion of the Dormant Hero."
Now the crowd fell silent, breathless.
Erics voice softened and he sounded apologetic. "So that my soul portion does not dissipate to all the hosts of the Dormant Hero, it must be a sudden and violent and painful transfer. Our soul-portions must flee to your three bodies." He gave a pained smile. "This will be difficult for all of us."
Bertrand adjusted the 12 gauge in his hands, taking a hold of the pistol grip with his right and the slide with his left. "You're right, Jeff." Bertrand's voice carried far in the silence. "We need to get out of here. Let's just back up slowly."
Erics smiled again, and for a moment Bertrand saw a reflection of his fear, his chest pain. What was the nutbar doing? Now Bertrand was sure this man was a lunatic. Before he could back up, Erics and his eleven followers suddenly bent over and picked up their red canisters of gasoline.
"The 1000 live on!" called Erics, his voice booming over the crowd.
He upended the container and fluid gushed over him, soaking his suit and plastering his beard to his face and his chest—flattening his long white hair. The container wasn't even half-full, so this only took a few seconds.
"The 1000 live on!" shouted the other eleven, upending their plastic containers and soaking themselves. The stench of gasoline wafted through the air.
The eleven disciples blinked and wiped the gas from the eyes, but kept their focus on the infinity symbol in the center of the intersection. Erics, however, carefully drew a long barbecue lighter from his jacket pocket as if merely producing a fine cigar for a smoke. He looked straight across the circle to Bertrand. "Prepare yourself. I am coming to you now."
Bertrand's heart clenched, a tetanic contraction that could only be a heart attack. It robbed him of
words, of actions and of hope.
Erics snapped the lighter. The fumes did the rest, bringing the tiny flame from the lighter to Erics's clothing and hair. A whoosh pushed heat across the circle in Bertrand's direction.
But while Erics cried out, his actions were controlled and prepared. He raised his flaming arms to form a T, the fingers extended to point to each of his disciples on either side. All eleven now raised their arms into the same T formation with military precision, as if they were graduates of some bizarre training. The flames at the end of Erics's fingertips leapt to the follower on either side, rushing around the circle to ignite all eleven followers until the circle of twelve burning humans was complete. It held for a full, prolonged heartbeat before it broke as people fell to twist and scream and burn. Only Erics still stood, and keeping his arms still stretched out, he brought his palms together in front, his fingertips now pointing straight at Bertrand.
Bertrand's heart let go, giving a heavy beat and another. He could breath and move. And Erics was dying a horrible death. There were no burn units or paramedics that could save him or his followers. Bertrand suddenly knew that all he could do to help was to bring about a faster end to Erics's life.
He raised the Winchester and fired across the circle, hitting Erics in the chest and dropping him to the ground. Rage and fear and anger now flamed in Bertrand's chest. How dare this man put him in this position, make him a killer of humans? Bertrand stepped toward the circle, firing at the flailing and ruined people. Jeff's Ruger shot on his left and Joyce's Uzi fired three round bursts on his right as they advanced, the reek of burning flesh and hair now choking the square.
Brains and blood splattered the pavement, and part of the canvas awning above melted and fell, dangling over the street and twisting as the flames from Erics licked at the white material.
Bertrand stopped shooting and backed up in case more of the awning caught the flames, but it was over. The twelve lay dead, charred bundles and twisted lumps of flame scattered roughly in a circle on a pavement.
The 1000 Souls (Book 1): Apocalypse Revolution Page 28