The 1000 Souls (Book 1): Apocalypse Revolution (28 page)

"Good people. You must remember that I have made it my life's work to catalogue and recognize the 1000 souls. For this task I have prepared companies, three of them, each numbering near one-hundred people, and each company has roughly equal numbers of fighting souls: there are warrior souls, brave souls, selfless souls and ralliers. The ralliers are sometimes the most important, for when the battle is failing they will rally your troops to one last great effort that can win the day."

Bertrand wanted to believe, craved to believe, but he feared a dozen or so hopeless sheep would show up rather than the hundreds promised. "How can you be so sure?"

"My friend. I have been preparing for this since my own soul became mysteriously more dense over a year ago. When all of my followers experienced this to one degree or other, I understood the truth. Where were these soul portions coming from but other people, and why were the absorptions so obvious to the new hosts except because of violent death?"

Bertrand considered his options. "Do they have guns?"

Bertrand fought with the five-ton truck's gear shift, grinding the gears a few times before he was able to get the truck to roll forward. They'd found it parked along with three others at a public storage locker, a
For Rent $19.99
sign painted on each truck. Emile had liberated the keys by smashing into the office, waving at the dead surveillance camera. For once, a power failure had worked in their favor, and Bertrand wondered if the office's alarm system came back on when the streetlights popped back to life an hour later. A beautiful sunset painted high cirrus clouds pink and orange and finally red.

"You sure you can drive this?" Joyce belted herself into the passenger seat, her Uzi machine pistol on her knees. Emile had given her one quick lesson and four spare mags two weeks ago, but since then they'd lucked out into a house filled with boxes of ammo. Who had collected it and where that person went was a mystery.

"Well it's not exactly my GTI, but I'll do my best."

Bertrand had gotten used to a shotgun to go along with his Glock.

"Nice choice, Bert," Emile had said, pumping the slide and checking the breach. "This is a Winchester 1200 defender. I don't know who sawed the barrel short and put on the pistol grip instead of the stock, but it makes it a good close-quarters-combat weapon—like for up close and personal with bank security guards." He gave a smile. "I'm pretty confident it was never used in the commission of a felony, but I wasn't totally sure, which is why it ended up in the hot inventory."

"Why is the power up tonight?" Bertrand asked as he turned onto Sheffield to head back toward Old Town.

"Isn't it obvious? They need it for the streetlights, so that if people make a break for it from St. Mike's like they did that night at the community center, they won't be hidden by the dark. It's cloudy up there now." She leaned to the side to look up through her window. "We may see some rain before long."

Bertrand changed gears, gaining speed although he occasionally had to weave around abandoned cars.

"You'll have to teach me how to drive a shift," said Joyce. "I don't like being a passenger."

"Think of me as your chauffeur. So you need to talk to Bobs anymore or do you think we're all good?"

Joyce checked her phone. "No calls. Bobs said she'd call if anything important changed. I'd love to know what that little psychopath thinks is important and what's not, but at this point we're going have to take it on faith. You think she has a brain?"

"Everybody agrees that she was the savior at community center, and the rippers must think she's important if they pulled out all the stops like this. They must be after her."

"But do they even know she's there? They could be after you."

"They know we're around somewhere. Maybe they're taking out the church just in case. Maybe they're after Father Alvarez, although you could hardly see him in that YouTube video, what with him going around back and all. Maybe the rippers are just starting to get really hungry."

"Here, Here! This is Eugene."

"Oh shoot, yeah." Bertrand heaved over on the big steering wheel, but they were going a bit fast for the corner and the truck bumped up the sidewalk and back down.

"Okay, wait, wait. Stop here." Joyce lowered her chin to speak into a walkie mic that she had clipped to her jacket. "Emile, you there?"

"Go for me." Emile's voice came through the walkie earpiece that Bertrand had in his ear.

"Let us know when you're in position and we'll go. Jeff?"

"Slight complication." The sound of arguing voices in the background caused Bertrand and Joyce to exchange a worried glance.

"What's going on?" asked Joyce.

"Mike is walking up the goddamn street. He wants to talk to the cops."

"What? How does he expect to get through all the rippers?"

"His badge."

"Shit, shit, shit!" Joyce looked like she wanted to punch the dashboard. "He's going to totally blow the element of surprise."

Bertrand ground the truck into gear. "Should I go?"

"No! Wait. We don't even know if the Erics people are here." She keyed the walkie mic again. "Everybody just hold on. I'm going to call Bobs."

Joyce pulled out her cell again and hit a speed dial. "Bobs? Joyce. Listen, our cop friend, Detective Sinclair, is walking up the street to try and talk to the cops. Don't shoot him as he comes through the rippers okay? What? Because he's got plainclothes cop written all over him: ten-year-old suit, gray overcoat, bald head, pot belly, okay? Tell your buddies not to shoot him."

"What if we're all wrong about him?" Bertrand drummed on the steering wheel with his fingers. He wanted to drive in and fight right now. His heart pounded in his chest, and the excitement was his new drug, that feeling of stress relief, of doing something to fight all that was going wrong. "What if he's bent too but he was spying on us all this time."

"He didn't come across that way to me, and he's shot a lot of rippers in the last two weeks. I'd say he's living in denial. He just doesn't want to admit that so many cops have gone over to the other side, are taking orders from bloody murderers."

"We should just push in now and fight."

"We will, but I just want to give him a second to see if they'll talk to him. Any delay gets us another minute closer to sunrise."

"But they were there in daylight."

"It's not the cops, it's the rippers I'm worried about. Bobs said the police line is pretty thin, which makes me think they're running short on daytime people. But behind the police line is a huge crowd—got to be rippers—mostly in front of the church. They must have planned this, because they're not from around here and they assembled pretty fast. They're waiting for an orgy of murder, otherwise they'd all be off getting their nightly feed somewhere safer."

Bertrand gunned the engine. He didn't want the air brakes locking just when they were ready to go. He flipped on the wipers to remove a light drizzle. "Hey, look!"

A man with a white armband came hurrying down the street. He ducked under the running lights and hurried up to Bertrand's side, waving his right arm to attract Bertrand's attention to the white band, which had the number 1000 scrawled across it with bold marker. When Bertrand nodded, the man grabbed a hold of the mirror and stepped up on the running board so that they could talk.

He was young—that was Bertrand's first thought as he rolled down the drizzle-coated window—shaving yes, voting maybe, legal drinking age ... no. Blue eyes, eager and excited, met Bertrand's.

"The 1000 live on," said the young man as his greeting. "I'm Murray—the captain soul. Are you Mr. Allan?"

"Yes, but dude, I thought there would be a hundred of you here."

"Closer to a hundred and fifty, but there are rippers everywhere so I've been keeping them in the basements and undercover. Don't worry, they're assembling in the laneways now, and I've been messaged by B and C company captains. They're moving out behind your other trucks now. You scatter the rippers and deal with the cops, and we'll come in shooting. Do all your people have armbands?"

Bertrand held up his right arm to show off the white bandage he'd wrapped around it. Joyce had scrawled the number 1000 on it for him earlier, her minimal perfume teasing Bertrand's nostrils. He had averted his eyes so that she wouldn't think he was looking down her top while she wrote the number.

"Great." Murray jumped down and raised one fist in the air. "The 1000 live on! They can't kill our souls." He ran up the street and into an alley.

"Crap," said Bertrand.

"Are they going to be any good?" Joyce opened her phone to check for messages.

"They're going to be great because they think they're all immortal. I just hope they aren't too reckless."

"I'm calling Bobs. She must have someone in the church tower who can tell us what the hell is going on ... . Hi, yeah, so can you see what's going on. We're all ready here. Okay great."

Joyce looked over at Bertrand, relating what she was hearing over the phone. "The rippers let Mike through, he's right in front of the church holding up his badge. Okay, they're taking him into custody with a couple of swat-type guys. Right, that makes sense. Good. They're walking him to the command motor home in the northwest parking lot. No wait, they've stopped."

The dull crack of a gunshot reached Bertrand's ears.

"NO! Fuck! They just gut shot him and they're handing him to the crowd! GO! GO! GO! Everybody go!"

Bertrand popped the clutch as if it was his GTI and nearly stalled the truck, but after a few bumps and burps it rolled down the street, gaining speed fast. Parked cars and houses blurred past, the wet street reflecting the lights and making it obvious where the crowd waited.

"Not too fast, Bert." Joyce leaned forward so that she could look into the passenger side mirror. "Wait for a second so they can get in behind us. I think I see them."

Bertrand desperately wanted to charge to Sinclair's rescue, but he knew Joyce was right, so he geared down and applied the breaks, checking his side view mirror at the same time. The red light from the break lights illuminated dozens of people rushing into the street behind the truck.

"Here we go, Bert." Joyce checked her seat belt. "Whatever you do, remember to be ruthless and don't stop. They're multiple murderers and they're planning the massacre of hundreds of families, so you can't worry if a few of them end up as bugs on the radiator grill."

He had agreed with Joyce's plan of attack, but the reality of it dawned on him now. He'd have to repress years of driving instincts that demanded he not crush pedestrians.

"Right." He looked over, suddenly afraid for her. "Take care, right. I'd really be sorry if you weren't around."

Joyce turned her attention to Bertrand for a moment, her cheeks slightly red in the dashboard lights. "Likewise." Her cheeks got redder. "I mean about you. I'd really miss you, so just don't get shot."

Hundreds of human shapes hung out on the street ahead as if waiting for a music festival to begin. A quick check of the mirror proved that the Erics people now ran in two lines behind the coasting truck.

Several faces in the crowd—made paler by the headlights—turned Bertrand's way.

"Now!" shouted Joyce into her walkie and to Bertrand. "Everyone give it all you got, now!"

Bertrand changed gears and flattened the accelerator. The truck's diesel engine roared as they rushed the crowd. Too late, the rippers realized that Bertrand had no intention of stopping, and at the last second panic ensued as they trampled one another to get off the street. One man waited too long, his wild eyes bright in the headlights—a true Mohawk and garish jewelry proclaiming him a counter-culture rebel. He disappeared below the hood, and the truck didn't even bump.

A skirmish in the parking lot on Bertrand's left caught his attention—rippers fighting at one another for a piece of a victim, unaware of the new threat. "There!" he shouted, turning into the parking lot. Faces now turned their way as the headlights yanked their attention. They looked so normal, some even surprised, others angry.

"Don't you dare stop, Bert. Mike's dead. You go for that command bus! You stick to the plan."

Bertrand wanted to stop, to get out shouting and clear them away from Sinclair, but she was right. He screamed in rage and frustration as they passed close to the frenzy. More rippers got in the way, but Bertrand repressed the urge to swerve and plowed right through, several bodies slamming off the grill of the truck, and judging by a bump, at least one fell underneath. Machine gun fire rattled out, and Bertrand heard it through his earpiece and through his unaided ear in a weird stereo. Someone with an open walkie mic was already shooting.

"Here we go!" Bertrand shouted, slamming on the brakes too late. The tires locked and slid on the wet pavement, and the truck carried on without stopping. One officer opened the door of the mobile command center, saw them coming and ducked back inside, slamming the door as if it could protect him from the truck. Bertrand burst out laughing at the absurdity, at his fear and the cop's, at how they were about to affect each other's lives so dramatically even though they'd never met.

The truck smashed into the command mobile home, glass shattering and metal rending, the five-ton pushing the mobile unit several feet farther into the parking lot. The seat belt strap snagged Bertrand's shoulder and the air bag exploded into his face. He lurched out of the air bag and looked over at Joyce, who gave him one wild glance and reached for her seat belt.

"Remember they're murders!" shouted Joyce at Bertrand and into her walkie. "Go! Go! Go!"

She jumped from her side of the truck and Bertrand jumped from his, the Winchester in his hand. He pumped a round into the chamber before smashing a small window in the command center— a window higher than his head—with the barrel of his gun. He tossed in a tear gas canister, one from Emile's 'hot' supply under Helen's flowers.

Gunshots, three round bursts, came from the other side of their five-ton.

"Joyce!" he shouted, forgetting the walkie. He turned.