The 1000 Souls (Book 1): Apocalypse Revolution (10 page)

Should he run after her and drag her out of here? But then who would look like the freak according to the cops: the dancers or the apparently abusive boyfriend trying to drag his girlfriend out of a club against her will? If he had known that they were coming here—if he had known the place existed—he would have refused to join her. But then she might have gone alone. Bertrand had never imagined a place like this whenever Malcolm had spoken of going to Goth Knights.

Bertrand leaned back against one of the squared beams, which would have fit just as well in a nineteenth century barn. He surveyed the crowd, trying not to look like he was ogling the women and disgusted with the men. All were thinner and cooler and more violent than him. These people looked like they were into pleasure and pain in the right doses, even extreme doses. Most looked unlikely to ever complicate their lives with children or mortgages, and Bertrand fought envy: he wanted a family to replace the one he had lost, yet he also craved the freedom of the dancers, the lack of care about the end of the world that the male vocal kept singing about in ominous tones.

Bertrand started to tap his foot to the music. If he didn't miss his parents so much, if he didn't want to fill their house—now his house—with laughing voices, would he be more like the dancers, pushing off procreative chains so that he could live only for his own gratification?

He swayed his hips now, his arms starting to pump with the beat. He was dancing, mimicking some of the moves around him, yes, but dancing. Somehow being alone—without Joyce opposite him as mating rituals demanded—he could dance just for the sake of it, just to pretend he wasn't lonely in life and didn't care.

He watched the other dancers, trying to pick up ideas for moves that he could replicate even with his bulk. Did he look ridiculous? Probably. He was still an overweight computer nerd, and while his shirt didn't have a pocket protector for pens, it had a pocket that could accommodate one. His blue jeans might have been cool a generation ago, but in this crowd it was all about leather—or as an alternative, black jeans with strategic rips to show off bare flesh were the preferred denim.

A tall man in leather shorts danced in perfect sync with his spike-haired girlfriend, both of them sporting metal for jewelry, in his case a spiked dog collar and handcuffs hanging from his hip. The man spoke in his partner's ear, neither of them breaking the rhythm of their dance. She looked over at Bertrand and he expected to see her laugh at his awkward moves, but instead she licked her lips and grabbed at her crotch, thrusting in his direction in time to the music.

Joyce weaved through the crowd with two bottles of beer, holding them far out and high up so as not to get wet if she were jostled and they spilled. Bertrand stopped dancing, his ears burning as she approached. Had she seen him dancing? He didn't mind looking ridiculous to strangers, but Joyce was a prospective mate, or at least perhaps a friend with benefits.

"Thanks," Bertrand shouted. He concentrated on Joyce and ignored the suggestive dance moves from the stranger. "Here's to being ready for Judgment Day."

Joyce saved her voice and just tipped back the bottle, taking a drink. She let her arms rise to shoulder height and her hips began to sway, forcing Bertrand to either stand there looking totally awkward or resume his dance. She must have noticed him from across the bar.

Don't wimp out now. Bertrand began the challenging half-dance that involves sipping beer and trying not to splash too much, which meant their dance became more energetic as the beer went down, until the bottles were empty and Bertrand sweated profusely from the effort.

One song transitioned into another with no gap, and though it was very similar to the previous song, Bertrand used the change to take Joyce's empty bottle from her hand.

"My round," he shouted before heading for the bar. Now that he had a beer in him he didn't mind giving an extra glance at a topless woman, dancing with her hands high in the air to show off her small-but-shapely breasts, a tattoo of three drops of blood dripping around one pert nipple.

People crowded near the bar, but oddly most of them faced out watching the dancers and not in toward the mirror and the gleaming bottles of hard liquor arranged in front of it like colorful art. Bertrand had no problem squeezing past the people to get his elbows up on the polished wood, a twenty held conspicuously in one hand in hopes of flagging a bartender's attention. Bertrand had assumed it would be a long wait, but a topless young man sitting on a stool just few paces farther along the bar stubbed out his cigarette and stood. The collar on his neck trailed a slim chain and must have been more for effect, because it looked fragile enough to snap under any strain. The opposite end was locked to a pulley on rod a full ten feet off the floor, running the length of the bar. This would allow the man to walk up and down the length of his work space while giving the impression of captive servitude.

"What can I get you tonight?"

"Hey, how about a couple of Sam Adams." Bertrand pointed to the bottles with the Sam Adams logo, sitting in a glass-doored fridge, but his eyes strayed to the man's pierced nipple. He couldn't help himself. "Didn't that hurt?" Bertrand pointed at the nipple ring.

"Yeah, of course." He pulled out two bottles, popping off the lids in turn with an opener. "Stuff like that really hurt before I became a brid, but it's just one of those pains you have to live through until evolution. You coming up soon?"

"Not yet." Bertrand watched closely to see if he'd answered correctly. Joyce was right, this club was the centre of something, perhaps a cult.

The bartender placed the beers on the counter and Bertrand slid the twenty over, waving away the change in his confusion as he tried to interpret their conversation.

"Hey, thanks." The bartender opened the till to deposit the twenty and retrieve his healthy tip. "When you do come up you're gonna love it. I mean, the change really hurts and at first you're just so sick, but wow!" He slammed the till and leaned on the bar so that he could get close to Bertrand. "It's way better than sex every time."

"Great." Bertrand picked up the bottles to hide his confusion. What were they talking about? "I can't wait." He fled back to Joyce but his unease had tripled. He leaned into Joyce, who was still swaying but slowed her dance to accept the beer.

"Do you know why someone would call themselves a brid?"

Joyce shook her head. "Who said that?"

"Bartender."

"Hot," said Joyce. "I'd like to work out with him sometime—just kidding. He's got to be at least two years younger, and even then he's way out of my league. I'll ask him about the brid thing when it's my round. Come on, let's dance again. Maybe the song is right. Maybe it is the end of the world. Might as well go out dancing."

Bertrand danced, letting the shame of his belly and his awkward moves wash away with the beer, allowing him turn and jump and swing his arms. Today he was alive and he loved life. His parents were a distant memory in this club, so out of the context of his regular routine. There were no reminders. The male vocals—backed up by a woman singing a middle-eastern influenced wail—sang about Armageddon. The song actually had understandable lyrics, and Bertrand began to sing along as he danced, his poor singing easily buried. "
Armageddon, Armageddon, dancing on the slopes of Armageddon.
"

The pack of the crowd became denser as the dancers crushed their way, some disturbance of the far side of the room requiring more of the club's square footage, perhaps a fight.

A firm bottom rubbed against Bertrand's, prompting him to turn and look over his shoulder. The same spiky-haired woman who'd gestured obscenely at him before licked her lips. They were now hip-to-hip and she cupped his bum as they danced.

Bertrand tried to shift away while Joyce frowned at them. She bent over to retrieve her bag, which she'd left on the floor near the post where Bertrand had staked out his territory earlier. Was she jealous and getting ready to leave? Bertrand wasn't sure about that—Joyce was the one who'd made it clear this wasn't a date, and certainly he was doing the opposite of flirting with this strange woman.

"I gotta have him," shouted the woman. "I need it bad and I can't wait."

Bertrand tried to move away. Was she talking to him?

An arm clamped around his chest and a hand grabbed first at his hair, pulling his head back, but when his hair proved to be too short to hold, the hand switched to his forehead. It was the boyfriend. With great strength, he held Bertrand close to his chest and tilted Bertrand's neck back, exposing his neck.

"Fuck off!" Bertrand struggled in the grasp, but others in the crowd grabbed his hands while others shouted, "No, not here you assholes!"

A monster rose up in Bertrand's chest, a desire to fight. The enemy he had been looking for since Needleman's death had finally shown itself. Bertrand lunged and bucked against the grip, stomping on a foot, driving his elbow into a stomach, but there were too many of them.

The woman punched him in the stomach and then slipped a short, wicked knife from a hidden pocket of her shorts.

"Don't forget to leave some for me, Baby!" shouted the man who pinned Bertrand.

"Share!" shouted a man who now held Bertrand's right arm. Several around them now began to chant the same. "Share! Share! Share!"

"I will!" The woman stepped forward, the knife coming up to Bertrand's throat. She grabbed his shoulder to steady him as she aimed for his jugular.

Bertrand fought for his life, struggling and twisting, the monster in him surprising those who held him even though it failed to break their grip. Where was Joyce? Did they have her too? Oddly, as the knife approached, Bertrand discovered he could bury his fear and channel it into anger. He'd never felt so strong, so capable of resisting to the very end of his life without surrendering. He continued his fight to the death.

A
snap
and a sharp pain—a vibrating shock—on Bertrand's shoulder broke his concentration on his struggle. The women with the knife collapsed on the floor, jerking spasmodically as if in an epileptic fit. There was another snapping noise, and a new shock radiated through Bertrand's back where it was in contact with the man who held him prisoner.

The room tipped away, and Bertrand couldn't free his arms to save himself from the fall. His head slammed the wood floor, dazing and confusing him, only the body underneath cushioning his fall and sparing him other injury.

People screamed and let go of him, which allowed him to turn and shove up to his hands and knees, fighting to regain control of his muscles. Why wasn't his body obeying commands? Why was it hard to breathe?

Joyce's shout penetrated the throbbing music. "Get up, Bert. Quick! We have to get out of here!"

A hand heaved under his arm, pulling and struggling to help him rise. He fought his spasmodic muscles into a semblance of control and staggered to his feet. Joyce held his arm and brandished a wicked-looking Taser at a circle of angry faces, several of the dancers now brandishing short knives and one man aiming a handgun.

Joyce kept turning them, hauling Bertrand around with her to threaten different parts of the crowd. "Stay back!" she shouted. "Stay back or I'll put forty-thousand volts through you!"

On the floor near them lay the man and the woman, both still writhing. When it looked like the woman might gain enough control over her muscles to crawl, Joyce lunged in, leaving Bertrand to stand on his own, and tasered the woman again with a snap of the weapon. The woman screamed and convulsed, the word "Bitch!" the only clear curse.

Joyce grabbed Bertrand's arm. "Crap, we're so doomed. I'm sorry, Bert."

Bertrand shouted more for the crowd that threatened them than to Joyce.

"Well we won't go down without one hell of a fight!" He felt a thrill—a relief. After years of loneliness and purposelessness, after months of sensing an enemy but not being able to bring it to battle, he could finally do something. He could take as many of these cultist sickos with him as possible. They might drink his blood in the end, but not without a price. He was free to fight.

He pulled away from Joyce's grasp and put his back to hers so that they faced opposite sides of the threatening circle of people. "I can stand!" he shouted to her, putting up his fists as Fish had taught him, one by his hip, the other extended to hold back his opponent. "You wouldn't have another of those Tasers, would you?"

"No. I'll do my best with this one."

"Try and cut a path through to the stairs. I've got your back."

The music shut down as if the power had failed, but the disco balls and the lasers proved this wasn't the case.

A loud voice called from the bar: "Wait!"

Several more voices took up the call, and the young bartender, trailing his broken chain from his collar, came rushing into the circle, brandishing a sawed-off shotgun, taking up a position with Bertrand and Joyce, his back to them and the gun threatening the crowd.

"The boss says wait!" He shouted. "Everybody just fucking chill. No evolutions in his club! Clear over there. Here he comes!"

Several people looked where the bartender had gestured with the shotgun. Three big men in heavy black cloaks parted the crowd, shoving and pushing those who were slow to clear. No one argued or complained, and the people closer to the circle had enough warning to draw aside, creating a human-walled corridor.

The bodyguards took up positions on either side of the path they had cleared, staying back with the circle and not threatening the three in the center. A man walked between them, obviously the boss.

His height didn't exactly proclaim his authority, for he was a little on the short side, but he walked with an air of confidence—a man used to command. His stocky build spoke of tough old muscle, a life of hardship, but it was his face and his eyes that demanded unflinching attention.

His clothes were modern and black—not the garish apparel of many of the dancers—and they spoke of modesty and practicality. His cloak, however, was a total anachronism from the dark ages, a garment for drafty dwellings and bitter winters, with a hood hanging back that could be pulled up against the wind. His mustache also didn't fit the scene, a huge and rich handlebar, elaborately curled and waxed. Gaunt cheeks weathered by sun and wind framed his face, but his green eyes captivated Bertrand's attention. The man's left eye twitched involuntarily as he regarded them.