The 1000 Souls (Book 1): Apocalypse Revolution (23 page)

Barry looked up and down the table. "I'm a contractor and my specialty is student residences."

Bertrand nodded. So that explained the hardened muscles and the weathered skin. This man was used to life outdoors and around heavy equipment. Bert could easily imagine the hardhat over the bald head.

"A year ago I got a contract to build a residence for a little college up in Canada—they call them community colleges 'cause they're not really universities. Anyway, I guess I must've figured out about the vampires before the rest of you, 'cause I was having trouble getting crew, and I didn't like what the guys I did get were telling me. Most of them would only come up if they could bring their families.

"So I said sure, but then I noticed that no one seemed to give a shit about the job. I couldn't get inspectors to come out and look at the site. I couldn't get college officials at all during the day, and at night they were too busy to attend site meetings. No one cared. That was my big clue that this went way up the ladder."

"But you kept going?" Bertrand tried not to sound accusing, but he wished Barry had done something, had at least shouted the bad news from a street corner. How many people might still be alive if they'd known what was happening?

"I changed the project." Barry looked left and right to see if anyone understood his boldness. "I moved the building a mile west over an abandoned mine. It's a single ten-story building, but I've sealed in the windows of the bottom two floors, leaving only gun slits. It's like a giant medieval fortress."

"Why the hell build it over a mine?" asked Joyce. "Isn't that dangerous?"

"Oh, no." Barry laughed and shook his head. "This is Canadian Shield granite we're talking about, some of the oldest and stablest rock in the world. But the mine is the great thing: it's got an underground river running through a cavern down there, and I've already got one generator running, and I'm ordering two more as backups. The solar panels look nice and all, but in the middle of a Canadian winter I'm going to need something other than that."

"You've given up on the world," said Bertrand. "You think civilization is going to totally collapse and you've run for the hills."

A silent moment passed through the room as everyone digested the possibility that Barry was right and their world was ending.

"Buddy." Barry spoke gently, like a man explaining to his child that granddad wouldn't be coming for any more visits. "Society already has collapsed—even faster than I thought. You think I'd have let my daughter keep working at McDonalds if I knew she was in so much danger? When my wife got a hold of me around midnight last night and told me half the city was on fire—" His hands clenched, the knuckles whitening. "I kicked myself for the idiot I was not to get them up there sooner. I drove all night and through the morning to get here, and the only reason we're not on the road right now is that we can't make it up there before dark, and I haven't slept in thirty hours, but I tell you first light tomorrow—after I get whatever supplies I can—we're on our way out. I'm inviting you all to come with me. I could use some believers who've got guns."

Again, Barry had stunned everyone into silence.

Father Alvarez finally broke the moment. "Everyone must decide for themselves what is right. Of course I will be staying with my people, and I invite you all to spend at least tonight among us. Volunteers are at work in the kitchen downstairs right now to prepare an evening meal for after mass. We worship every day now, just before sunset to prepare our souls for the night."

Barry shook his head and put his arm around his daughter. "I'll be with my family tonight."

"You'll be isolated," said Bertrand. Couldn't the man see that they had to all band together now?

"I've got a bunker that I built under my house last summer. It's impregnable and it has secret tunnels that lead to exits away from the house. In fact, they could burn the house down on top of us and we could walk into the sun tomorrow. I'd invite you guys to join me, but I've already got four families coming to join us, including my son's family, who are on the road from Nevada right now."

Bertrand turned to Father Alvarez. "We'll take you up on it. We could use a safe harbor for tonight, and I need to make a plan." Bertrand looked to Jeff and Joyce for confirmation, and Jeff nodded.

"We do," Jeff said. "You're the leader of a movement after today."

Bertrand tired to doze in the pew, tried to pretend that he was asleep so that he wouldn't disturb the other nighttime residents of the church, but he was too afraid to sleep. He didn't fear for his own life, for he agreed with Alvarez that—for now at least—the church was too important a symbol in Chicago for the rippers to risk its destruction, but he did fear for those he could not save tonight.

How many were being attacked right now? How many quotas were attained as rippers converted humans into more rippers? How many murders would that mean for the future? He turned onto his back and stared up into the darkness, the candlelight of the church failing to illuminate the delicate gold and blue of the ceiling. How many people had knives at their throats right now, just as Malcolm's knife had been at Bertrand's throat?

He couldn't let it go. He had to act. Right now. Wasn't that what the crowd had been chanting? Isn't that what he believed?
Right now
. Bertrand shifted quietly to sitting, noting that Joyce and Jeff slept deeply, Joyce closest to Bertrand and Jeff farther along the pew. Emile, one pew up, wasn't snoring for a change.

Bertrand stood and headed down the aisle, tiptoeing carefully past bundled sleepers on row after row of pews, many of them with sleeping bags and pillows and foam mats to soften their rest. Father Alvarez had run the heating at full blast while the power was on, but it had failed shortly after dark, so now the cool fall night seeped into the church. Bertrand's lined leather jacket had helped keep him warm, but it stopped at his waist, leaving his legs cool—aggravating his insomnia.

Bertrand reached the front door of the church only to find Father Alvarez sitting in a chair, his rifle across his knees and a bible in his hand. It wasn't the same old rifle as before, but a modern M-16 as far as Bertrand could determine. Another man dozed on the opposite side of the door, a shotgun on his lap. A candelabra on a low table beside Alvarez provided sufficient light for reading, and he turned a page in study, but an incautious shuffle from Bertrand caused him to look up.

"I am sorry not to be able to offer you better accommodation." Alvarez closed his bible and sat back in the chair. Bertrand tried to picture this middle-aged man as a young Contra in Nicaragua: smooth the face, dress him in green uniform, make him skinny and imagine him walking through a tropical forest with that rifle over his shoulder. He could just build the picture, but not the intent to kill. This was a man of God.

"You've been very generous." Bertrand's heart rate increased. He wanted to hurry out the door and into the night. "But I'm called to work."

"What work do you refer to?" Alvarez stood and slung the rifle over his shoulder, putting his back to the door.

"There are people out there who will die tonight, but I might be able to save someone."

"If you go out these doors—if that is what propose to do—it could very well be your death of which you speak."

"You believe in God, Father, so you gotta believe that I'm part of the plan. I can't stay in here. I need to fight."

"I will not let you go out alone."

A bump and a curse in the dark caused Bertrand to turn. The large bulk of Emile shuffled down the aisle, coming to stand by Bertrand.

"He won't be going out alone, Father." Emile turned to Bert. "I can't sleep anyway, so if you're going to pick a fight, I'll go with you."

Bertrand actually didn't want Emile to go along, fearful that the big man would slow him down, but it was already crazy to be going outside at night. To refuse an offer of assistance would give Alvarez more of a reason to dissuade him from leaving the church.

"Okay. You're in, but you better keep up."

"Where would you go and what would you do?" Father Alvarez crossed his arms and continued to block the way.

"I'm going to find someone whose house is besieged by rippers, and I'm going to save them." Bertrand stared defiantly at Alvarez.

But Alvarez was not so easily cowed. "How would you save them?"

Emile drew his .357 and held it up, barrel aimed for the ceiling. "With guns."

Alvarez studied them closely, and Bertrand could sense an internal debate.

"If we can save one person tonight, isn't that God's work?" asked Bertrand.

Father Alvarez nodded. "But I will come with you."

"But Father—"

Alvarez gave a short angry shake of his head and held up one finger in instruction.

"I was a Contra, a guerilla soldier. You have no idea what you need to do or how you need to attack. You will let me come with you, or I will not let you go without a very loud argument, one that will bring the rest of your friends here to talk sense into your head."

"All right. But promise me you'll be careful."

Father Alvarez smiled. "How could I make such a promise when I have just agreed to go to at your side to war?

Father Alvarez could move very quickly for a man in his late forties. He had led them to a side door of the church and they had slipped out, Alvarez warning the volunteer guard to lock it behind them and not let them in until sunrise, to prove they were not infected. Bertrand had chosen their destination: Oz Park, named for Wizard of Oz, because author Frank Baum had lived nearby at the turn of the twentieth century. The rectangle of green sat flat in the middle of their dense residential neighborhood, but it had baseball fields and playgrounds. Statues of Dorothy, the Scare Crow, the Cowardly Lion and the Tin Man dotted the park, but Bertrand wanted it for the baseball fields—big open spaces that would allow him a clear sightline to approaching threats, even in the dark.

Far to the south, the office towers of the Loop blazed with light, proving that the power outage was restricted to outer neighborhoods. If it weren't for the light of the moon, Bertrand's sortie would have failed, as he had underestimated just how black night was without streetlights. When a heavy cloud blocked the moon, the three had to halt for fear of running into unseen objects like utility poles or garbage containers, leaving Bertrand with a new understanding of dark.

Emile caught up to them at the edge of the park, gasping for breath even though their jog had been slow. "What are we looking for?"

"Be quiet. We're here to listen."

The three stood in the center of a baseball field, back-to-back and silent.

The murmur of a city in agony floated through the park. At first it seemed like the innocuous hum of traffic, but attention to individual sounds proved otherwise. A car sped out of control and crashed, it's occupant—or perhaps people near it—screaming hysterically. Distant gunfire cracked, followed by panicked shouts. Running feet, maybe several, came from the east side of the park—not joggers, but people running in a life-and-death race.

The same sounds repeated, sometimes nearer and sometimes farther. People were being hunted and murdered. Now they just had to choose whom to save.

"Over there," whispered Emile, pointing to the east. "There's a house just at the edge of the park that's in trouble. Hear it?"

Teenage voices sang and taunted, and a young woman's voice shouted defiance.

The superhero inside Bertrand begged to attack.

"Let's go." He ran in the direction of the shouts, intending to charge straight out of the park, across the street and into the rippers. But before he reached the edge of the lawns, Alvarez caught up with him and grabbed his arm, yanking him to a halt near the statue of the Scarecrow, who looked rather roughed up, as if the monkeys had made a pluck or two at his metal stuffing.

"Two minutes of reconnaissance and preparation can save many lives," said Alvarez, moving to block Bertrand's path.

Emile puffed up, wheezing and out of breath. "He's right, Bert. Going in there shooting may feel good, but let's not just spray and pray."

Alvarez gave a curt nod to Emile and turned back to Bertrand. "First we must decide where to rally if it goes badly."

Bertrand took a deep breath to calm his frustration at the delay. "How about by him." He pointed his Glock at the Scarecrow.

"Good," said Alvarez. "The Scarecrow will be our rallying point, our fall-back position in success or failure. Now, we approach slowly, spread out so that all three of us cannot be taken out in a single burst of machine gun fire or from a single grenade. Do you understand this? The different vantage points will also help us locate enemies who may be behind cover. Are you ready?"

"Bummer that I don't have my walkies," Emile said. "Next time."

"We will watch one another for hand signals," said Alvarez. "Now we can go."

They spread out, putting several car lengths between them, with Bertrand on the point as they moved toward the edge of the park. The power failure worked in their favor now, for the teenagers attacking the house were lighting Molotov cocktails, which placed them in the light while leaving Bertrand's little squad in the dark.

The house itself might once have been ordinary, for it was brick painted white, semi-detached and very old, occupying the corner lot of the street that dead-ended at the park, but someone had made some odd adjustments. The ground-floor windows had been bricked in—the cinder block used by an amateur in haste oozed mortar, now dried and solid. The front door had an extra door of solid iron bars, roughly installed without regard for appearance. The bars of this door were clearly designed to protect the front door from a battering ram like the kind police might use. The second floor windows were smashed, little more than black openings making the house appear to have two square eyes over a mouth blocked shut.

Three teenage males danced to music in front of the fire, more of a war dance than a mating dance with lots of whoops and aggressive gestures. Two waved Molotov cocktails back of forth, creating flaming torches that couldn't last.