The 1000 Souls (Book 1): Apocalypse Revolution (21 page)

Sinclair gave a heavy sigh. "I won't, but you must understand, many of us are good cops and we resisted the infiltration as long as we could, but over the last month, cops who didn't go with everything have just disappeared. I played along, and when Simon and Julia came to me I advised them to do the same."

The other uniform, an Asian woman who had refused beer but accepted a glass of wine, had taken a seat on the couch next to Joyce. "We joined the Daylight Brigade," Julia said. "I signed a contract stating that I would take any and all orders from my captain regardless of whether I thought they violated people's rights. He told me we needed to step on the constitution a bit in order to save the city from a crime wave of serial killers."

"We all had to sign this contract," Sinclair said. "At first I didn't even think it was a big deal, but there are layers and layers. Some cops started only coming in for night shift and others got really cagey. By last month I knew it was bad, but the only cops left that I trusted were Gonsalves and Chen here."

Emile twisted open another beer, well on his way to drunk. "So why are you after Bert?"

"I'm not," Sinclair said. "But the cops are. Were you people out at all today? Didn't you see all the house fires that happened last night?"

"We noticed," said Bertrand.

"Right, then I shouldn't have to tell you that we crossed some kind of cusp last night. They hardly care if people see what's going on now except on the news—that they're still careful about. We jumped ship in the middle of the night because we feared for our lives. What we heard coming over the radio was good cops calling for help and night cops answering, and then nothing more from the good cops. We drove to one scene where some good officers were trying to stop a mob from burning a house. When we got there we saw night cops arresting the good cops and leaving the crowd to burn and murder. We had to just watch from up the street. Nothing we could do."

Joyce stood, and Bertrand knew her well enough now to know she was angry just by the stiffness of her movements as she walked to the wet bar to pour more wine. "Why couldn't you do anything," she said. "You're cops for fuck's sake. She turned from the bar to accuse Sinclair, sloshing red wine onto the floor. Bertrand jumped up and mopped the spill with a paper towel from a dispenser under the upper cupboards.

"By the time we knew what was going on," said Sinclair, "they owned the department. I don't know why daytime cops are going with them, but I can tell you that every one of them was an asshole or a creep long before this all began. It's like they seek out guys like that to join their side."

Bertrand threw the paper towel in a wastebasket. "So what brought you here looking for me?"

"We've been driving around all day trying to figure out what to do." Sinclair paused for a sip of his beer before he went on. "I've been on the force for twenty-five years, and suddenly, I'm afraid of cops. When we heard them talking about you on the radio, saw the news reports—"

"There are news reports?" Bertrand had never aspired to fame and was even less comfortable with infamy.

"Oh yeah. Something about you really concerns them. Their higher-ups apparently tried to kill you, but I guess that didn't go so well."

"Rumors of my death are greatly exaggerated."

"Funny. But as the three of us drove around I heard over the radio that you have a hidey-hole somewhere near your home, and they suggested doing a house-to-house search on your block, checking the basements. But I'd seen you up here, and I figured a smart man would hide in a dead man's house. So we tried next door, knocking and then entering through the back window, but that is a dead man's house. But from the backyard, Chen here smelled cooking from next door, and the
For Sale
sign has become synonymous with missing people. We figured we'd give it a try."

"Christ, I wonder how they knew I had a hide out."

"Oh that was easy. Your buddy Malcolm King told them."

"That son-of-a-bitch!" said Jeff. "I knew we should've killed him!"

"You should've," said Gonsalves. "He's all over the news, weeping about how you're in a sex cult that likes to cut people's throats and drink their blood, how he only escaped because some cops stopped by to check on a noise complaint about screaming."

"I will kill him." Bertrand wanted to fight, but there was no enemy to engage. "I'll drag his sorry ass into the sun and watch him fry."

"They're painting you with their brush," said Sinclair. "That's why I'm here. You've got them convinced that you're going to stir up some kind of trouble."

Bertrand reclaimed his chair and his beer and took a gulp. "I am. Starting tomorrow at four p.m. at McDonalds, I intend to make a lot of trouble."

"All right," shouted Emile, only to be shushed by Helen. "What? Oh right, low profile. I just can't help it. I can't wait to fight."

"You'll get a lot of fighting in the next few days, I think." Sinclair didn't look excited about the prospect. In fact he looked very weary. "I suspect that we'll all be fighting for our lives."

Bertrand opened his eyes, but it was still so dark in the basement that only lumps on the floor indicated the location of his sleeping companions. Helen and Julia Chen, the uniformed cop, had been given the honor of the couches in the bomb shelter, and Emile snored away on the rec-room couch, leaving the rest of them to find space on the carpet, using blankets and comforters from Nolan's linen closet to soften their rest.

What was happening out there? The fridge in the wet bar hummed away, indicating that even though the lights were out, the power was back on. Bertrand rose quietly, retrieved his Glock from the end table and padded up the stairs. He listened carefully at the steel door before he slid back the bolt and crept into the kitchen.

A peek beyond the living-room drapes proved that the first blush of pre-dawn, a faint purple, teased the horizon and played tricks with the eyes. Was it really less black or was it false dawn? How long could the rippers stay out at night?

Bertrand crept up to Nolan's office and booted the dead man's Mac. Nolan had given Bertrand the password—tommYgun—so it was no problem to get online. Bertrand first checked his Facebook account, but like last week, none of his friends from university had posted any updates. They had all vanished, either because they couldn't get online or because they were dead.

He went to Twitter next, and a different world spoke to him through a shallow code. If you knew anything about the rippers it was easy to decipher.

Had some tasty that put up a fight, big guy but down all the same.

Get ur share?

Two times.

Glutton.

Another back and forth caught Bertrand's attention.

Fodder is getting smarter. Waiting for us in basement with firepower. Bugs saving me.

Hit?

Leg.

By tomorrow full heal if u r new. If old, already fixed.

Newbie.

By tomorrow.

So Malcolm hadn't lied: the bugs could fix them. Bertrand Googled bugs but only the standard Wikipedia entries came back—nothing unusual. He tried hybrids and got electric cars; he tried vampires and got only Count Dracula references—all the websites related to modern vampires had vanished. Nolan's blog had vanished.

He checked his e-mail and found one from Erics of the 1000 Souls religion. The subject line read, "They came for you." Bertrand opened it.

"I believe you are a very strong soul, and I am confident you are still alive, otherwise I would not have seen your picture in the news. You have yet to take my test to determine your soul, but I have extrapolated based on your actions, and I believe you are the 'Dormant Hero,' a very special soul. This soul is shared by people who lead ordinary lives until presented with extraordinary challenges, when they rise up to fight. It may be that you will be called upon to lead the resistance against the rippers, unless someone else with a portion of this soul has already taken on that burden. Have you begun to gather disciples? Have you begun to speak before crowds? I have an extensive network of followers, people who believe in both in 1000 Souls and the rippers. If I am correct in my deliberations, you are the first person with the Dormant Hero soul to step forward to meet this crisis. You must contact me so that I can aid you."

Bertrand's fingers paused over the keyboard. Could he trust this guy? All he knew about him was that he had a lousy website and a new-age religion, yet he had followers, and Bertrand needed followers. He couldn't just Twitter or Facebook or rely on any other social media sites. He needed another avenue to reach large numbers of people.

"Today I speak at McDonalds at four p.m." He added the address. "Only tell followers that you trust—true believers."

Bertrand again deliberated for a time before he sent the e-mail.

He'd either just made a big mistake or cunning move, but he wouldn't have to wait long to find out. In eleven hours he would know the truth about Erics of the 1000 Souls.

The large yellow generator behind the restaurant—one big enough to be built into a trailer—roared at full throttle, a white noise the drowned out the chatter of the crowds that pushed toward the front entrance of McDonalds.

"Wow." Jeff patted Bertrand's shoulder. "You the only speaker here today?"

"As far as I know. Dude, there must be hundreds."

The restaurant was packed, but still people pressed close, gathering in large groups around the front and side doors, even around the drive-through window. The rear door of the restaurant opened and Alison—the same young cashier Bertrand had helped—now waved them inside. "Quick," she said. "Mr. Morley is worried they'll riot if you don't speak soon. My dad's speaking now, but most of them say they came to hear you. I don't know how they all heard."

Morley hurried back when he saw them but gave Gonsalves and Chen in their uniforms a suspicious stare. "I thought you said no cops. Who invited them?"

"I did," said Bertrand. "I trust them. Not all the police have been turned by the rippers."

Morley gave a curt nod, but frowned at the uniformed officers nonetheless. "You better come up to the front," he said to Bertrand. "Who is this Erics friend of yours? I thought there'd be about thirty people here—people I trust. I can't guarantee your safety with all these people. One creep with a gun and you're a dead man."

"We don't live in a safe world anymore."

Morley snorted. "We never did."

Yelling came from the front of the kitchen. "You got to gather into fortresses to protect yourselves," shouted a man who stood on the counter facing the crowd. He was thick and balding, but he had the big shoulders and arms of a man who'd grown through his prime years doing heavy labor. "You need weapons to combat the vampires."

Bertrand had planned to let the man speak for longer, but he couldn't let that go. "They're not vampires!" he shouted.

The man on the countertop turned, revealing a wide face and sharp blue eyes. "You're Bertrand Allan? I'm Alison's dad, Barry St. John. Come on up! I'm just the warm-up." He held out one hand.

The moment of truth. Only once in his life had Bertrand ever spoken before a large crowd, and that was to give a speech to convince people to vote for him for student council president—a hopeless task, since he wasn't one of the cool kids. Why he had tilted at the windmill he had never been able to say, except perhaps that a girl whose attentions he had craved had told him it was a great idea.

That day he had trembled before the crowd, and he hadn't believed his own speech that claimed he could do more for the school than his oh-so-popular preppy opponent.

But today he believed what he had to tell people. He knew he could offer them more than meaningless slogans with no real promises or solutions. Was Erics right after all? Had he really changed in the last few months because others were dying—others with a portion of the same soul? Had his soul gotten denser?

Bertrand accepted Barry's helping hand and climbed onto the counter, expecting the man to continue speaking for a time, but he jumped down on the kitchen side of the restaurant, leaving Bertrand alone.

"Are you the Dormant Hero?" shouted someone. Others called out similar questions, forcing Bertrand to hold out his hands to quiet the crowd.

What should he say? For a moment, the panic of stage fright started to well up, but Emile's gruff voice intruded. "Just tell them the truth, Bert. They're ready to hear it." He stood beside Alison's dad, looking up at Bertrand, ready to support him.

"I'm Bertrand Allan, and I'm here to tell you that we all need to be heroes now." He took a breath and waited to hear shouts of derision or disbelief, but the crowd waited in desperate silence. His confidence began to build.

"We are on the cusp of the greatest tragedy of humanity, but don't be fooled by talk of vampires. These rippers do drink blood, yeah, but they're not like the vampires of horror movies. They don't fear crucifixes or religious objects. Holy water won't hurt them. They don't need an invitation to enter your home and garlic doesn't faze them a bit."

"But they do drink blood?" shouted someone, a question more than a statement.

"Yes! Like the Chicago Rippers, they will cut your throat with a knife and they will drink your blood, but they have a disease, a plague that they spread by intentionally infecting people. They force some to drink their blood, and that spreads the parasites into the body."

"Why would they do that?"

"Because they're building an army and they intend to take over the world. They want to reengineer society so that people are slaves, forced to donate blood to an elite of rippers. They will allow only those to live who are cattle for them, to provide them with food."

"Bullshit." The shout came from the back of the room, but the crowd grumbled and turned to accuse the shouter rather than to challenge Bertrand.

"If you think I'm full of it then take a walk tonight after sunset," shouted Bertrand. "Unless you're in league with them, part of their Daylight Brigade, you'll be bleeding to death in a few minutes. I've spoken with a ripper face-to-face, and but for these two people," he said, pointing to Jeff and Joyce, who stood at the far end of the counter but on the kitchen side, "I would be a dead man. A woman I trusted came for me in daylight, holding me up until after dark when her ripper friend could come around."