The 1000 Souls (Book 1): Apocalypse Revolution (8 page)

Bertrand shook his head. "I can't promise that. They're out there at night. If we don't go out at night, how can we fight them?"

Nolan just shook his head and closed the door.

Bertrand walked through a very quiet city, the traffic very light even for early rush hour. After a quick shower and change of clothes at his house, he caught a train into town after a twenty-minute wait. There was no announcement to explain the delay, and when the train arrived there were many empty seats. How could Chicago Transit survive such a downturn in ridership?

Jeff joined him in the elevator, looking drawn and hungover. Oddly, they had the car to themselves.

"What happened to you last night," Bertrand asked as the elevator doors slid shut.

"Oh this woman could drink." Jeff hid his hands in his face for a moment and scrubbed at his cheeks as if he could massage away the hangover.

"Where'd you go?"

"Oh, just her place. She has a thing about not going out to clubs these days—likes to joke about vampire dancers hogging the floor and showing off. She keeps a well-stocked bar, though."

"Well, that makes her a cheap date, I guess."

"Yeah but I'm paying for it now. I have to quit this drinking-crap before it kills me and take up a safe hobby like sky diving."

The doors slid open on a quiet office.

"Where the heck is everyone?" Bertrand led the way out of the elevator and toward their nest of cubicles and, more importantly, the kitchen beyond.

"I don't smell coffee," said Jeff.

Whitlock was washing out the coffee pot when they turned the corner, his military bearing incongruous with his domestic task.

"Thank God. At least I still have three loyal employees." He began to fill the pot with water.

"Where the hell is everyone?" asked Bertrand.

"So far we pretty much are everyone. Only Destiny showed up for the New York shift and she doesn't drink coffee. She's out there now trying to manage calls for three. Get in the queue and give her a hand, for Christ's sake. I'll be your waitress and bring you coffee."

"Black for me." Jeff filled a large glass from the cupboard with water from the tap. He gulped it back while holding one hand against the side of his head in pain. "That'll have to do," he said before refilling the glass and heading out of the kitchen.

"Oh come on, John," said Bertrand. "Three of us can't manage the day's contact load. We've got to get somebody else in—a temp or someone."

Whitlock poured the water into the coffee maker. "I'm trying, but I'm not having much luck. This weird summer flu is affecting everything from the 'L' trains to the power stations. New York had blackout an hour ago, and they're blaming not enough staff at some nuke plant. Took out the whole eastern seaboard right up to Canada. Good news is that's made the contact volume a lot less, but I expect it to ramp up any minute as people on central time start sitting down at their desks, just like you should be right now."

"Okay, I'm going, I'm going."

Bertrand hurried to his cubicle. Jeff had just sat down and rummaged through a drawer until he pulled out a bottle of Advil and set it beside his keyboard. "Gonna be a long day," he said when he saw Bertrand's frown.

Destiny Kim sat two cubicles over, her straight black hair falling about her face as she punched at her keyboard, her voice hushed as she explained something to a client. She looked up for a moment and raised her eyebrows at Bertrand, the office sign that indicated a thick one on the other end of the phone connection.

Jeff popped a couple of pills into his mouth and took a quick drink of his water.

"By the way, remember my neighbor," he said. "The one I thought was murdered? Turns out he moved away. His unit's on the market, not that I think he'll get much for it with all the
For Sale
signs I see around these days."

Bertrand sat heavily. This couldn't be happening, could it? This morning in the sun he'd nearly convinced himself that Thomas Nolan was a nutbar, but the evidence kept stacking up. Didn't Jeff see it too? "Wait a second," said Bertrand. "Your neighbor's dead."

Jeff, his headset on and one hand poised over the keyboard, met Bertrand's gaze. "I wondered what you'd think. The moving away story the police told Kate, the busybody old lady who's his neighbor."

"Don't trust the police."

Jeff nodded and tapped his keyboard. "Timetracks help desk. How can I be of assistance?"

Bertrand was on his last call before lunch, his stomach rumbling. "That's right," he said. "Just like in the manual."

"Well don't I feel like a dunderhead." The woman on the other end of the connection sounded genuinely contrite. "I should've looked it up before I called, but this isn't my usual job, and since everyone wants their pay, I figured I'd better roll my sleeves up and get it done."

"That's admirable. Have you had a lot of vacancies at your work?'

"Way too many." The women's voice dropped to a whisper. "Frankly, I'm cashing my check, emptying my bank account and heading for the hills. Things are getting very strange and very bad. You wouldn't believe what's going on at night around here. I mean, this is Colorado Springs! It used to be such a safe place."

"What's going on?" Bertrand lowered his voice too, glancing around the office to see if anyone noticed that he'd strayed outside protocol.

"Fires, killings and worse. It seems every morning we wake up and someone else's house has burned down and the families are gone—dead in the fires I suppose, but they never seem to pull bodies out of the ruins, at least that's what my son-in-law says. He's in the fire department, and he says they won't even respond at night anymore, says there're mobs around these fires and the police won't back them up."

"That sounds worse than here."

"It'll spread there too," was the whispered reply. "It started in LA even though the TV news stopped covering it a couple of weeks ago. Get out of the Chicago now and hide until this blows over."

"What blows over?" Bertrand ignored the puzzled look from Jeff, who had removed his headset in anticipation of lunch and was now studying Bertrand.

"The plague."

The connection cut.

Jeff stood. "What was that all about?'

"Dude, we gotta talk."

"Great, let's do lunch at Flynn's. I need the hair of the dog."

But Whitlock hurried over before they could leave.

"I need you guys to work through lunch. I'll order Chinese for everybody."

"Not for me, you won't." Destiny popped up from her cubicle. "I want pizza, deep dish, true Chicago style with lots of meat."

"Okay, the Korean girl wants pizza. What do you guys want?"

"I'm from Chicago." She stuck out her tongue and ducked back down.

"I'll have chicken wings and beer," said Jeff.

"Come you guys. Don't bust my balls here. I'm working right alongside you, and a couple of people have promised to come in tonight to clear up anything that's left."

"Pizza's fine," said Bertrand.

Jeff rolled his eyes and nodded, reaching into his desk drawer for the bottle of Advil.

The sun had set by the time Bertrand logged off and put away his headset. Other employees had started to arrive, which was a good thing, because the contact backlog had grown over the last hour rather than tapering off as usual.

Jeff stood and stretched his tall frame, yawning as he twisted kinks out of his back. "Oh, and it's karate night with Sensei Stu. God I have to be better to myself."

"Malcolm doesn't look much better than you. Look at him. He should've just stayed home."

Malcolm had just stepped off the elevator and had to stop to hold onto a cubicle divider, looking as if he wanted to bend over and puke. His hair—dyed a flaming red—flew in all directions as it'd been combed by a tornado. His short, ultra-slim figure looked more emaciated than usual. He got control of his stomach and headed their way.

"Dudes," he said, his voice flat and emotionless. "I can't believe I'm here."

"Buddy." Jeff gave him a heavy pat on the shoulder that almost knocked the young man into his chair. "You're a god for coming in this sick, but really, shouldn't you head back home? It's just a job."

"No, I got a habit I gotta support." He saw their looks. "What? I'm talking clubbing, not heroine."

Bertrand noted the incredibly anemic sheen to Malcolm's skin.

"Can I get you anything from the kitchen? I think there's some leftover pizza I can nuke."

"Oh god, don't mention food. No really, don't mention food." He pulled a garbage can close and bent over it, taking deep breaths.

Whitlock joined them, his arms crossed as he judged, watching Malcolm's battle with his stomach. "Okay, now I believe you," Whitlock finally said. "You're damnably sick. I'm calling you a cab—don't worry, on my dime. I'm the one that browbeat you into coming in. You gotta go home."

"Thanks. Really, I'm sorry but this flu, I hope none of you get it. I think I got it from this chick at Goth Knights. She's a freak let me tell you. Into really kinky games like you wouldn't believe. She's into—"

Whitlock put up one hand to signal stop. "Please, spare me, okay. I'm Christian and married. Do what you want as long as everybody agrees, but I don't want to hear about it. Bert, see that he gets a cab, would you? Get a receipt, Malcolm, and bring it in when you healthy."

"Thanks." He shuddered. "Thanks so much."

Bertrand and Jeff walked with him to the elevator. When it began its drop, Malcolm had to put one hand on the side to steady.

"Sorry," he said as Bertrand and Jeff backed away.

"Are you gonna hurl?" asked Bertrand.

"I shouldn't ... wouldn't have come in if I'd known it was getting worse. I really need ... I don't know what I need."

"If it gets much worse, I'd go to emerg." Bertrand glanced at Jeff for agreement, but Jeff stared intently at Malcolm as if studying his inner brain with x-ray vision.

They flagged three cabs before one stopped. The first two slowed, saw Malcolm and sped away. The third driver didn't look happy, but when Malcolm pushed a fifty at him, he accepted it and drove off.

Bertrand and Jeff stood shoulder-to-shoulder, watching as the cab hurried away in the light traffic.

"May I never get what he has," said Bertrand.

"Ditto. Let's hit the gym. I get to introduce you to Stu tonight. He's gonna kill you."

Stuart Fisher didn't look intimidating when Bertrand first laid eyes on him. The man was short and stocky, but during the first
kata
his fluid moves spoke of grace and taut muscle. His hair was braided into tight rows, his skin a rich black and his accent from the Deep South.

"Come on," he shouted at Bertrand while they were doing crunches. "My grandmother can do better than that. Eleven, twelve. You gotta fight to lift your chest into the air, not curl around that flab."

Fisher placed a foot on Bertrand's stomach, pressing down until he gasped while trying to lift his chest as instructed. "You didn't get here a moment too soon. Young man like you should have muscle there, not just guts."

The class continued, about forty people in all lining up in rows later to practice punches and kicks with aggressive shouts, something Bertrand had little energy for after all the calisthenics. But Fisher—Fish as everyone called him—was relentless, and even Jeffery and Joyce seemed surprised by his vehemence.

"Enough!" shouted Fish at the end, standing before the class like a disgruntled sergeant. "That was pathetic, a bunch of pussies waiting to be slaughtered. You gotta fight like it's the end of the world. You gotta fight like it's almost Judgment Day, when the dead shall walk among the living. Don't come here if you're just looking to get laid. Don't come here 'cause you want to lose few pounds. I only want people here who want to fight for their families and their lives." His voice had risen as he spoke, his eyes bulging from his head. He paused for a moment, studying all their faces and then shouted, his arms spread wide, "Doesn't anybody else see what's going on!"

He stomped out of the room, grabbing a bag near the door of the gym as he left his astonished class to dismiss themselves. Eyebrows rose, and a few people chuckled as they headed for the change room, but Joyce looked Bertrand's way, and that proved to him that he wasn't the only one who didn't think Fish had gone off the deep end.

"Sorry, Bert." Jeff scooped up a towel from a bench and mopped sweat from his forehead. "He's usually a lot less intense—more fun. And I actually do come here to get laid."

Joyce joined them as the gym emptied. "You tell Jeff what happened last night?"

"Yeah, he did," said Jeff. "On the way here—totally weird—harsh. How you holding up?"

Joyce stretched her hands above her head, and Bertrand had to look away so as not to be caught looking at her breasts, even though they were restrained by a tight sports bra and a skin-hugging tank top.

"I'm fine," she said. "I didn't know the guy and blood doesn't scare me unless it's my own. But I don't think Fish has gone off the deep end. We saw a guy like ten seconds after he was murdered and there wasn't a peep about it on the news last night. That's a cover up. That's a conspiracy."

"Whoa." Jeff threw his towel over his shoulder, looking from Bertrand to Joyce as if making his mind up about something. "Okay, this is going to sound crazy, but has anyone else noticed that the city—our work—everything is starting to seem busier at night than during the day?"

"It does sound crazy," said Joyce. "But I was about ten feet from a murder-in-progress yesterday. That's crazy too. I tell you this: I'm keeping a close eye on people after dark. Some of them act like they're in some kind of secret club."

Joyce's use of the word 'secret' got Bertrand thinking and watching people closely over the next month. Why did all the night shift arrive after dark, looking flushed and excited? Why did they all want to work after dark at all? Thomas Nolan's claim that there were "blood drinkers" out there would only fit with this if they were afraid of the sun, like traditional vampires, but certainly no one at work had the Bela Lugosi look.