The 1000 Souls (Book 1): Apocalypse Revolution (19 page)

"Serial killers." Bertrand took deep breaths to calm. Sensei Fish would chide him for allowing emotions to cloud his judgment and impair his fighting edge.

"Yes." Malcolm was still oblivious to their judgment. "I supposed serial killers would make good brids. I mean they're totally free when it comes to other people's pain."

"God you're evil," said Jeff. "We should just leave him here guys, let the sun purge the bugs right out of him."

"Hey wait, no! You guys promised me! That's why I'm talking, and you know there's still a lot more I could tell."

"Then tell," Joyce said. "Tell us everything."

"Not tonight. I don't trust him." Malcolm nodded in the direction of Jeff. "You put me in a basement and keep me safe through the day, and I'll tell you more tomorrow night."

"No way." Jeff sliced the air with one hand for emphasis. "You tell us everything now or—"

"Answer one more thing tonight and I'll put you in my basement," said Bertrand. "There're no windows in the furnace room."

"Depends on the question."

"Hey, you don't have a choice unless you want to greet the sunrise from the middle of my street. Why do some people, cops, Destiny—people like that—why do they help you?"

"Vlad set it all up. They're people who were given the choice: evolve now or evolve later and live in luxury. Vlad says they're special, because they're willing to wait and work for their reward. He has whole squads of people who are trained to find and turn recruits for the Daylight Brigade. They hold everything together for us during the day, but they're a hard personality type to find. There's never enough of them. The boss'll be totally pissed that you guys killed Destiny."

"You killed her!" Jeff raised his revolver and pointed it at Malcolm. "I shot her, yes, but she'd still be alive if you hadn't put a knife to her throat and bled her out. How would your boss feel about that? I'm sure we could get word to him via the internet."

"Please no!" Malcolm shouted. "He'd impale me for that. No, I'm not kidding. He'd put me on a spike and let me die a slow death. We watched it in a football stadium one night, all of us summoned to see what happens to traitors and people who break his laws."

Ten seconds of absolute silence followed until finally Joyce broke it with a low whistle. "Wow," she said. "You guys can fill a football stadium and no one hears about it?"

"You've no idea how powerful we've become. We're all over the world. Vlad says he's going to be a scourge on humanity for environmental crimes and corporate crimes and—oh I don't what else. But I heard him say that you humans are sinners and you need to be culled, and we're going to do it and you are all going to be our servants."

"You're slaves," said Bertrand.

"I mean the end of this era and the start of a new world order—one where you humans aren't at the top of the food chain."

Bertrand kept his word over Jeff's objections, releasing Malcolm from the four-poster bed and ushering him down to the furnace room. They handcuffed him to the gas line.

"You'll come back tonight for me, won't you?" Malcolm's buzz appeared to have worn off. "I'll need to eat eventually, or the bugs, they release some other drug, one that makes you very, very hungry."

Jeff slammed the door to the little room. "Bastard. If he thinks I'll let him—"

A flash of red light swept through the living room. Joyce—already at the top of the basement stairs—hurried to the front room, and Bertrand and Jeff hurried up the stairs to follow. They found Joyce standing to one side of the window, careful to ensure that her profile couldn't be caught by a flashlight.

"Cops." She put a finger to her lips. "Just one car," she whispered. "And they don't look like they're in a hurry. Just sitting inside." She ran to the hallway and freed up St. Mike's leash.

"Crap, this way, quick!" Bertrand led them through his kitchen and out the backdoor. He looked left and right, but the tiny backyard was empty. They hurried across and into his garage, but his Volkswagen GTI gave a double squeak as he pressed the key.

"Sh-h-h-h!" hissed Joyce.

"Get in." Bertrand didn't waste time blaming technology. Why was she always angry with him? He hurried to the end of the garage and reached up to pull the handle that would disengage the electric garage door opener. It was quieter this way, even if the power had been on. Bertrand had cursed sometimes in winter that his detached garage exited into an alley that was rarely plowed clear of snow, but today it meant they could leave without the police seeing them pull away. He slid up the garage door and hurried into the car. They were gone in moments.

"Where to?" asked Joyce from the backseat, the big dog panting beside her.

"I know a place, but I want to make sure we aren't followed first." He turned from the alley onto Armitage and headed away from his street, under the 'L' tracks and over toward DePaul University campus.

"Does anyone smell smoke?" Jeff rolled down his window and sniffed. The acrid scent of burning wood and plastic filled the car. "There's a house on fire somewhere."

"There!" Joyce pointed between them.

Ahead and on their right, flames licked out of the upper-floor windows, and smoke leaked from under the eaves and out through the roof vents.

"No fire trucks, but people." Bertrand slowed the GTI and shut off the headlights, driving only by the running lights. "What are they doing?"

"I'm putting your parking break on a bit to turn off the day beam lights." Jeff pulled up the handle a notch or two making the dim head lights go out. The silver car would be difficult to see now, and Bertrand coasted to a stop a baseball throw short of the house and the cars that were skewed across the street in front.

A crowd of at least thirty people had gathered around the house, some clumped near a side door and others near the front. The Victorian-era dwelling was of solid brick, but the bow windows were smashed, and as Bertrand watched in horror, someone from the crowd lit a Molotov cocktail and threw it into the house, its flames augmenting the fire that had already claimed furniture and carpet.

Bertrand opened his door, but before he could reach back for his Glock, Jeff grabbed his arm and stopped him from leaving the vehicle.

"This isn't the time, Bert. Look."

A figure climbed out a second-floor window onto the porch roof, a man judging by the size and shape. He ran along the roof and jumped to the ground where the fewest people waited. He rose up to run but it was hopeless. The crowd rushed him, and even from the GTI they could hear his screams.

"I'll kill them." The monster of rage had risen in Bertrand, bringing with it the desire to fight, to be safe through battle. He wanted to shoot into the crowd, to drive them away from their victim, to rescue the man or at least ease his end.

Joyce grabbed his shoulders and pinned him into his seat from behind. "Not now, Bert. There will be a time when I'll fight them right beside you, but I won't let you throw you life away for someone who's already dead."

The rage burned even though Bertrand knew she was right.

"Time to go. Just drive," Jeff said.

Bertrand took a deep breath, watching as several dark figures detached and drifted away from the scrum around the man's body. Fire now owned the house, the upper windows the exit for roaring flames that pushed black clouds into the night, obscuring the stars while warm air caused the half-moon to simmer.

Jeff and Joyce were right, but it didn't satisfy Bertrand to run away. It didn't feed his desire to do something about the nightmare. He put the car in reverse.

"Live to fight another day." Joyce patted his shoulder. "I promise we will fight."

They drove aimlessly for the rest of the night, arriving at three other fires, always lured there by the flames, always arriving too late to help.

Sirens greeted the sunrise, fire trucks emerging from their halls and rolling through the streets to douse the flames of hundreds of house fires, some of which had already burned low, while others had spread to neighboring houses. Only concrete and brick had prevented another Great Chicago Fire.

The power came back on just before dawn, the streetlights powering up only to switch off even before the sun crested the rooftops. Bertrand weaved through cluttered streets on their way to Joyce's condo. Cars had been abandoned during the night without regard for proper parking etiquette. That their doors were left open indicated their owners had departed in a panic.

Joyce and Bertrand made breakfast—greasy eggs and toast but no bacon, because it wasn't available at the grocery stores. Jeff took care of the coffee. St. Mike munched at a bowl of dog food before curling up to sleep on the living-room couch.

"We need to warn people." Bertrand pushed away his empty plate. Should they do dishes? Would they ever come back to Joyce's house?

"We need some sleep." But Jeffery stood and poured more coffee into his mug from the carafe. "If they're sleeping during the day, then we'll have to be up at night too."

"We're gonna have to push hard for a few days." Bertrand added more sugar to his coffee. To hell with his waistline and his diet—he'd be lucky to be alive tomorrow. "Every person we get the word out to today is one more person who can help spread the word tomorrow. They've got to the ISPs, so Twitter and Facebook are going to be heavily edited if not just shut down. We need to get to people we trust as quickly as possible."

"I trust Whitlock." Jeff leaned back against the counter.

"Good. But don't go into work, just in case. It may take a while for them to figure out about Malcolm and Destiny, but I don't want you getting arrested. Get Whitlock to meet you somewhere public, and make sure that he's alone before you talk to him. Do it all by phone if you can."

"What about you?" Joyce said. "Where are you going today?"

"To get guns. I got a buddy who is already aware."

"I'll come with you." Joyce stood, her hands on her hips as if daring Bertrand to say no.

"Great. Anybody got a pen?"

Joyce tossed him a pad and pen from the counter near her landline.

"Thanks, we'll meet you at this address by sunset if we don't talk to you sooner." He scribbled down the address and passed it to Jeff, who frowned at the piece of paper.

"But this is just a little ways away from here. Why not just meet here?"

Joyce glanced at the paper. "Hey, I know that address. Isn't that where that guy was murdered?"

"It's next door. I was buddies with the owner until he bought it. The rippers got him for sure. I thought he was a bit of a conspiracy nut because he believed the government was in on it and all."

"He was right, after all. But why here, then?" Joyce grabbed her coat from the back of her chair, a pink ski jacket that emphasized her hips and slimmed her waist.

"'Cause he has a bunker in the basement that's very well hidden, and it's built to survive nuclear war. Better yet, he's got guns. Lots of guns. Best, he's got a
For Sale
sign on his front lawn, put there by ripper-sympathetic cops. They assume the guy's house is empty, so I doubt anybody will bother burning it."

"Okay." Jeff shrugged into his thigh-length coat, a hi-tech, expensive affair designed for rugged outdoors travel, and while not camouflage, it was a dark green. Bertrand looked from one to the other.

"We should get you a new coat," he said to Joyce. "One that's hard to see in the dark." He shrugged into his leather jacket.

Jeff forestalled Joyce's response. "Let's cruise by your place and see if the cops are still there. If not I'll grab my car."

"And if they are?" asked Joyce.

"I'll grab someone else's."

The Chicago North Gun Exchange looked as if it had been through a riot. Shards of glass clung to the frames of the windows, but most of the crystal coated the sidewalk in front. Yellow police tape warned the curious to stay away, but no patrol car lurked in front and no uniformed officer waited at the door.

"Sorry, Bert." Joyce actually touched him, squeezing his arm, which gave him a thrill despite the tragedy. "It looks like they got to your buddy.

"They pick off the loners." Bertrand ducked under the police tape and walked through the open front door.

"Bert, we shouldn't be in here. The last thing we need is to be arrested now." But she ducked under the tape all the same and followed him into the shop.

The row of gun racks at the back sat empty, and the display cases were smashed, their guns also gone.

Bertrand turned in a full circle. "Was it rippers or cops? I don't see any blood."

A woman appeared in the doorway, her gray hair pulled back in a tight ponytail.

"It was cops. They came for his guns." Petite, but seemingly tough and fearless, she stepped into the shop. She wore an apron and green gardening gloves, and in one hand she held a set of clippers. "Who are you and what do you want with Emile?"

"I'm Bertrand Allan. Emile was giving me some gun lessons, and I promised him that when things fell apart I'd come and get him." But he had failed Emile, waited too long, and now the big man who had patiently taught him to shoot was dead.

"Don't look so sad." A wry smile curled one side of her mouth. "Emile's not one to wait around to die. I'm Helen. You folks better come next door so that we can decide what to do. After last night, I doubt even my shop is safe."

"You're from next door," Joyce said. "The flower shop."

"Smart girl. That's right. Follow me, now. This is no time for gawking." She turned and ducked under the police tape, leading them to her shop.

An electronic bell chimed as they entered the store, but that was the only nod to the twenty-first century. The flower display cases—mostly empty but for a few roses—would have fit nicely into a shop from the nineteenth century, the wood frames stained and polished, and the cash register looked too big to be useful, reminding Bertrand of one he'd seen in a small-town museum that had rescued knickknacks of their heritage.

"Emile. We've got company, the good kind."