The 1000 Souls (Book 1): Apocalypse Revolution (20 page)

A curtain behind the counter parted and Emile appeared—a sawed-off double-barreled shotgun in one hand. He actually looked as if he might have shaved in the last three days, but his eyes were bloodshot.

"Bert. Good man. I wondered if they'd got you during the last week. Where've you been?"

"Waiting too long. Things really fell apart last night, didn't they? It's like the rippers aren't worried about flying under the radar anymore. What the hell happened to your shop?"

Emile rested the gun on the counter and practically growled.

"Daylight raid by the cops, but lucky thing I got a buddy from my gun club on the inside who tipped me off to get the hell out, otherwise I think I'd have spent the night in jail for some bullshit paperwork infraction."

"I think that would be a death sentence."

Helen lifted a section of the wooden counter and walked over to Emile's side to open the till. "You bet it would've been. I bet no one is in any prison now. They've either been cut or turned into one of them vampires."

"The rippers." Bertrand wanted to separate the real from the supernatural. No one should think that garlic or crosses or refusing to offer invitations to enter a home would keep them safe. "We have to go, and I was hoping you'd come with us."

Helen slipped off her gloves and had begun to empty the register. "Yup, that's what we were figuring. We were just having a little debate about where to go."

"Come with us," Joyce said. "Bert's got a place we can hide in tonight."

"And after that?" asked Emile.

Helen beat Bertrand to a reply. "After that, my good man, we will see what the day brings." She walked over to a display case and opened it, removing the last four roses. "Couldn't get any more flowers anyway." She retrieved the shears and snipped the flowers short, carefully removing the thorns. "None of my suppliers answer their phones or e-mail anymore." She handed one to each of them. "My last customers." She removed her apron and slipped into a crinkled leather jacket that hung down to her knees, placing the rose through a button hole. "I'm really going to miss this place, but we've got work to do."

Her expression was more of one going on a short trip than abandoning her livelihood, her lower lip firm. She took the flower from Bertrand's hand and threaded it through a buttonhole on the pocket of his jacket.

"Lead on." She gave Bertrand's chest a firm pat.

Father Alvarez shook his head at Bertrand's invitation. He stood in front of St. Michael's, all the big doors open wide to accept people who hurried into the church with blankets and sleeping bags. Some carried rifles. Joyce and the others had split up to clean out the grocery stores of anything left on the shelves, all promising to meet at Thomas Nolan's house.

"I don't need to go with you," said Father Alvarez. "Christians from all over Chicago have been invited to spend the night. This church is now a true sanctuary, and it's open to anyone who fears for their lives. We even have Muslim, Hindus and Jews who will share our home tonight, just as the synagogues and mosques and temples all over Chicago will harbor local Christians tonight."

"But you're sitting ducks." Bertrand stood by the statue of St. Michael. "The rippers know you're here and they'll come for you."

"Not tonight, I think. Have you watched the news? They still wish to present the illusion of status quo, that everything is normal and the power failures are simply a side effect of adding wind and solar power to the electrical grid, a problem they promise will soon be solved. It is one thing to burn down a home, but another to burn down a prominent land mark." He waved up to the tower of the church.

"Your call. But I think people need to hunker down out of sight. Fortresses can be encircled and besieged. We need to be hidden and to strike out like a guerrilla army—like the Contras."

Pain flashed across Father Alvarez's face, and he heaved a deep sigh.

"This is a terrible type of war that you don't understand. You have no idea the horror that comes with being a guerrilla fighter."

"No, I don't. That's why I need you."

Father Alvarez looked up at the statue, silent for so long that Bertrand wondered if the man was in prayer.

"Tomorrow we will speak more on this," he finally said. "But tonight I must prepare this sanctuary, even if I make it into a fortress to protect my flock. Come by the rectory at noon and we will consider what we can do against this scourge."

The scent of frying steaks greeted Bertrand as he slid open the back door of Thomas Nolan's house. The carpet under the dining-room table—the one that had hidden Nolan's blood—was gone, and the wood floor had been scrubbed clean.

Bertrand's salivary glands went into overdrive at the smell of the cooking, and he headed straight for the kitchen with his burden of bags of groceries. Helen was once again in an apron, but this time she had a spatula in one hand rather than pruning shears.

"There you are." She turned back to the stove, where thick steaks sizzled in two iron frying pans, but Bertrand thought he caught a look of relief. "Should be cooking these on the barbecue outside, but I was overruled by that fat tyrant downstairs. He's worried about attracting attention. Set the table would you?" She leaned over from the stove to shout through the open basement door. "He's finally here. Come up for dinner!"

Joyce was the first to pound up the stairs, taking them two at a time. "Where the hell have you been? It's almost sunset."

"My car's full of groceries, and I stopped at a McDonalds this afternoon to—"

"You've eaten already?" asked Helen.

"No. It was business. I'm scheduled to speak there tomorrow. The manager's a believer and he wants to help get the word out."

"What makes this house so special again?" Jeff climbed the stairs with less haste than Joyce.

"Did you find the bomb shelter?"

"No," came Emile's voice from the basement. "And we looked in every fucking closet and cubby hole down here."

"It's behind the fridge back in the wet bar. There's a panel that slides back."

Jeff raised his eyebrows. "I missed that." He turned and went back down the stairs.

Bertrand opened a cupboard and found a stack of plates.

"You keep me posted from now on, Bert." Joyce gave him one angry frown before grabbing stack of glasses. "Think of me as a coordinator. We all have to know what's going on."

"Fair enough. I was just trying to keep my cell phone use to a minimum because the battery's nearly toast and I don't have the charger."

"Yours is an iPhone, right? I'll lend you mine. Plug it in before dinner, because who knows if we'll have any power over night."

"Great." But Bertrand sensed something else, something more seriously wrong than him not calling in. "Is everything okay?"

For the first time since he'd met her, Joyce looked vulnerable. "Bert, St. Mike's gone." Her expression was neutral, but Bertrand sensed that it was an effort to hide her sense of loss, of pain.

"What?"

"I went by my condo and there was police tape across the front door. No cops, just crime-scene tape. I snuck in the back way through my neighbor's yard, going through my back door. My home was totally tossed, and my dog is dead. The fuckers shot him, probably because he went for them."

Bertrand wanted to hold her close, but he worried that she would consider it too familiar. "I'm so sorry, Joyce. He was a good dog. He saved my life."

Joyce nodded, her lips pressed to a tight white line as she continued to place glasses around the table with sharp, angry movements.

Jeff and Emile emerged from the basement just as Bertrand and Joyce finished setting the table.

"Smells great." Jeff leaned over the frying pan, but Helen shoved him away.

"You'll get it soon enough. Sit your butt down."

They all sat, Emile handing out cold beers from the fridge while Joyce uncorked a bottle of red wine. "Last of my favorites—South African. I rescued it from my place before I left. Somehow I don't think I'll be able to find it for a while."

Bertrand had a sip, letting the flavor settle on his tongue before swallowing. But it wasn't the wine that caught his attention, it was the clatter of dishes, the passing of bowls of mashed potatoes and vegetables, the sense of family around the table—something he hadn't experienced since his parents had so abruptly vanished from his life.

They ate in the gathering dusk, keeping the curtains open to the backyard for light, but leaving the electricity alone. No need to advertise that the house was occupied. For a time, it was all about filling stomachs, the most essential of needs.

But the peace couldn't last. Bertrand had hardly finished his steak when the doorbell chimed and someone pounded on the front door. For a moment everyone froze, exchanging glances and frowns or quietly putting down knives and forks.

Bertrand eased back his chair and tiptoed through the dark living room and into the front hall, others following. He put his eye to the peephole, hardly daring to breath for fear the caller would sense his presence.

Outside in the twilight, a man in a dark suit and two uniformed police officers stood on the front porch. It took Bertrand a moment to place the plainclothes detective until he remembered the murder next door. It was Detective Sinclair of the Chicago P.D. Maybe they were just canvassing the neighborhood about the neighbor's murder. Maybe they didn't suspect that anyone was home.

The detective raised his fist and again pounded on the door.

"Bertrand Allan! It's Detective Sinclair. Please open up now. There's a warrant out for your arrest for the murder of Stanley J. Needleman and Destiny Kim."

Bertrand reached behind his back and drew his Glock.

Emile grabbed Bertrand's gun hand. "I know this guy," he whispered. "And he's not an asshole."

Bertrand met Emile's gaze, but it was too dark to read the man's expression.

Should he run for the backyard? He could get out through the alley unless other officers waited there. He could run for the basement and lock himself in, but he just couldn't leave the others to their fate. Perhaps they could all tiptoe down before the police smashed in the door, but they'd be cornered if the cops proved better at finding the bomb shelter than Emile and Jeff.

Helen suddenly pushed forward.

"What the hell do you want with an old lady!" she shouted. "I've got a shotgun and my daddy taught me how to hunt, so you better have a good reason to be on my property at night."

Jeff tiptoed toward the basement.

"Ma'am, there's no tactical team here. It's just us. We mean you no harm, or Mr. Allan, but we need to talk to him before someone else figures out where he's hiding. He needs our help. We're not here to arrest him."

"Don't draw your guns when I open this door," called Helen. "Or this'll be the gunfight at the O.K. Corral."

Emile produced an obscenely big revolver that had been hiding under his loose sweatshirt. He nodded to Helen and she pulled back the bolt and unlatched the door. She stepped back as the door opened, and Bertrand slipped behind it.

"Thank you." Sinclair and the two uniformed officers crowded into the front hall. "We didn't want to be out there any longer than necessary." He closed the door and locked it. The shorter of the two uniformed cops turned on a small Maglite and aimed it at Emile's face.

Bertrand raised his Glock. "Turn that off," he said. "You want to get us all killed? The rippers will be out soon and we're in hiding here."

"He's right." Sinclair put his hand on the Maglite and pushed it to the floor. "We have to stay in the dark, but don't I know you?" he asked of Emile.

"Yeah, you were gonna bust my shop on some bullshit paperwork charge, but then you proved you were a good guy by giving me a couple of days to round up some serial numbers that you guys already had anyway."

"Chicago North Gun Exchange. I remember. I hear they cleaned your place out yesterday."

Jeff turned the corner from the kitchen, his Ruger in hand but not aimed.

Helen put out one hand to warn him back. "Okay kids. Before this becomes a Mexican standoff, I think we need to get out of the dark and into the basement. There's blackout curtains there, so we can put on a light and everybody can lay their cards on the table. But first Mr. Detective Sinclair. Are you working for the rippers or are you on the side of humans."

"The rippers? You mean the vampires? No. We're not working for them. We're on the run from them. Just like you."

The power failed just after they got to the basement, but Helen had already placed candles on the wet bar and the seventies-era end tables at either side of the couch. Jeff had brought extra chairs from the dining room and Emile had passed around beers.

"We've met before," said Bertrand to one of the uniformed cops. "I think you're the cop who told me to buy a gun. Gonsalves isn't it?"

Gonsalves smiled and took off his cap, revealing thick curly hair. "Yeah, I remember you because that was when I first started wondering if my partner was bent. You can just call me Simon. And you are—"

"This is the man we're looking for." Sinclair sat in the armchair, his belly sticking out enough that he could rest his beer on it. He was lucky enough to still have a head full of graying hair, but it was thin. "You're Bertrand Allan. For a while you were one of my prime suspects in the ripper murder next door."

"Me!"

"You were first at the crime scene. Your neighbor had disappeared only a few days before, and a couple of weeks later I'm in the neighborhood canvassing the victim's neighbors and you walk by. Seemed like a lot of coincidences."

"He talked to me," said Gonsalves, "but I told him you didn't fit the type, that you were really worried about your neighbor, that you'd known him since you were a kid."

Emile shifted his big bottom on a skinny dining-room chair. "So what the hell's going on at the Chicago P.D. these days that has them working for the rippers?" He pointed with the bottom of his beer bottle. "And don't you try to deny it."