The 1000 Souls (Book 2): Generation Apocalypse

by Michael Andre McPherson

  Kayla fired from memory, and the flash, less dazzling now that her eyes had adjusted, showed her that she had hit her target, a woman who looked middle-aged with bad plastic surgery, her skin stretched too tight, giving her a skeletal look—a starving ripper. More gunfire and more screams and shouts and curses. Kayla crawled along the wall, forcing herself to not think about the hundreds of students that must’ve died in the college, as bones crunched under her hands and knees. She found the corner and turned to follow along, keeping an eye to the workbench behind which the rippers sheltered. She pulled into an enfilade position, lying on her side, just her head and shoulder sticking out from behind another cupboard that was perpendicular to the rippers’ shelter. From her angle, perpendicular to the workbench, it provided no cover for the rippers. In the muzzle flashes, she could see the ripper closest to her as he rose, fired blindly, and ducked back down, thinking the workbench hid him.

  Kayla frantically changed mags, let a few staccato flashes illuminate the rippers again so that she could memorize their positions, and started firing into them, confidant that if she missed one ripper her bullets would just carry on to the next.

  She threw them into total confusion.

  The rippers saw their comrades fall or scream and writhe, but they couldn’t determine the source of the gunfire. Clearly, some thought it was punching through the metal cupboards of the workbench, for they stood in panic to shoot at the other troops, only to expose themselves to more bullets. Others crouched low, and Kayla finished them off.

  When the last ripper fell, Kayla called out, “Clear! Clear!”

  Martin rushed forward, his flashlight and shotgun aiming at the corpses just in case, the haze of gunpowder smoke defusing the flashlights of his troops and giving the room a pale gray light. He came around the corner and for a moment his flashlight was straight in Kayla’s face where she lay.

  “Don’t shoot!” She held up one hand, palm out in her panic.

  “You shout, Not Vlad’s Blood!” His tone was scolding, but his expression was admiring.

  “Not Vlad’s Blood.” Kayla had forgotten the identifier.

  Martin’s shotgun and flashlight turned away from her and back to the rippers. Two more shots were required to put down rippers that hadn’t completely died and might heal. Martin turned back to offer her a hand up. Gunfire could still be heard from the other rooms and the loading dock, but in this room a calm had descended in the middle of a storm.

  “Good work,” he said. “You just saved a lotta lives—maybe mine.”

  Kayla was proud that she didn’t shake as she took his hand and stood.

  “Take this.” Martin handed her a Maglite. There was blood on it from a trooper who had been shot. He sat near the door with his back to the wall while Basil tied a bandage around his thigh.

  Martin raised his voice to all his troops, emphasizing with hand signals for gun-deafened ears. “We go out in a rush, me and you three to the far wall. Basil, take Kayla and Marcus right. Simon, take the others left. We clear room by room.”

  But even as they followed Martin in a charge back into the corridor, it was clear that the battle was ebbing. The gunfire was more sporadic, the screams and curses fewer. Kayla followed Basil into the next room, only to find several rippers already dead.

  “What the hell happened here?” Basil pointed to the ripper bodies, splayed about at contortionist angles, heart and entrails gutted out and strewn about the heavy pipes and pumps and electric motors that were once the lifeblood of the college. One ripper leaned headless against the wall, gravity only overcoming him after they entered the room, pulling him to the floor.

  “They’re dead, but like a monster just tore them apart and—” Basil stopped in mid sentence. “Let’s move on.”

  He led the others into the corridor, but a shuffling sound behind caused Kayla to turn back into room alone. Was a ripper still alive? She made use of the flashlight, even though it made her vulnerable, made her an easy target for any ripper in the room. To minimize this she held the light far to her left in hopes that any shooting would be aimed there.

  The nauseating stench of entrails assaulted her nostrils, and while she wanted to put a hand to cover her face, she didn’t have one to spare, so she took short, shallow breaths through her mouth. The pipes ran along the floor and up to through the ceiling, while cooling fans in cages sat dust-covered and idle. Some of the pipes still had signs on the insulation: COLD WATER, HOT WATER, and GAS. All Kayla knew was that a ripper could be hiding anywhere. Her heart pounded, but she let the anger flow. Was the bastard who killed Ashley, her long-missing college roommate, in here? What about the ripper who killed her parents and brother? Whatever. This ripper would pay. Kayla focused on that anger to bury her fear.

  Another sound that suggested a stealthy tread. Something was definitely in here. Should she go for help? But now she was so deep in the room that she didn’t dare turn her back. Basil had said something about a monster, and the rippers had screamed something about a demon. Kayla didn’t believe in the supernatural, but she did believe in rippers, and she had enough experience to know that not all rippers were of equal strength. Some were newer and quite weak; others were very strong and hard to kill.

  The voice that spoke startled her, despite the fact that it was little more than a rasp. “You’re not one of Joyce’s Raiders.”

  It was impossible to determine the source of the voice. Kayla searched up and down with her flashlight and scurried to put her back to a wet concrete wall. The cool damp was welcome after the running and the fear.

  “Yes I am.” She needed to find the ripper and kill it.

  “So am I.”

  “Who are you?”

  “A friend that you should not shoot.”

  “Did you do this?”

  “I did. I kill rippers. That’s what I do.”

  Kayla peeked around a concrete column and through the maze of pipes and wires. A shadow near the back of the room caught her attention. She shifted along the wall, trying to get a clear line of fire.

  “You still want to kill me, even though I assure you that I’m one of Joyce’s Raiders.”

  “Then show yourself, asshole.” She hated that the voice disarmed her, made her anger fade, so she fought to pump it back up.

  “I will.”

  A man stepped forward into the beam of her flashlight, a bloody knife in one hand and a shotgun in the other. His clothes would have been clean and neat but for the fresh blood stains. He had the gaunt look of a ripper, his pupils wide and dark—the pupils of a man who has not seen daylight for many years.

  “You’re a ripper.” Kayla raised her gun but something about his expression, weariness, caused her to hesitate. And something about him was familiar.

  “I don’t drink human blood.”

  The door swung in as someone entered with a strong flashlight.

  “Kayla?” It was Joyce’s voice, and Kayla had to fight not to weep with relief.

  “Here.” Kayla kept her tone angry, fearing the appearance of weakness. “This ripper says he’s one of your raiders.”

  The beam of the light went from her to him, and the combined flashlights, while weak to human eyes, made him blink and squint.

  “Put it down a bit please, Joyce.”

  Something about that voice and face made Kayla struggle to remember. Was it someone from the college? A lost professor or teaching assistant? Who was this ripper?

  “He’s one of mine, Kayla.” There was an odd smirk on Joyce’s face, as if she and the ripper shared a joke. “You can leave now.”

  “I can’t leave you alone with...with...that.” She pointed at the ripper.

  Joyce didn’t raise her voice, but an edge of steel crept into her tone. “You can and you will. Go help Martin clear the other rooms. And Kayla, you don’t tell anyone that you saw this man. Do you understand me? Can I trust you?”

  Kayla wanted Joyce’s approval, wanted to do her bidding, but this was crazy. She prepared to
argue, but ripper spoke first.

  “Joyce is—and always has been—safe with me.” He spoke so gently that it frightened Kayla more than if he’d shouted. It didn’t make sense, gentleness from a ripper. “You’re a brave trooper and you’ve fought well. Don’t abandon your friends now.”

  “Fine.” Even Kayla was surprised at how harsh she sounded. “Fuck you both.”

  She stormed out the door into the corridor, turning toward the sound of a single gunshot. Several troops were gathered around the door to another side room, Martin among them. She rushed to join them, planning to warn Martin about the strange ripper who seemed to have hypnotized Joyce. It was as if this ripper had some magic hold over her, as if they had known each other for years.

  The gears in her head turned and Kayla stopped in her tracks, her heart pounding more furiously than even during the battle.

  She had seen this ripper before! She had seen him many times, but back when he was still a human, when he had meat on his face, for his face was all she had ever seen of him. It was the man who warned the world about rippers, back when everyone thought he was crazy, until people began turning up dead. It was the man who was supposed to have died in the mountain, killing Vlad the Scourge.

  She turned to run back to the room and shout questions, but Basil now stood guard before the door, his hand up to warn her to stop, his head shaking, no. Now she was sure. This was one of the secrets of Joyce’s Raiders.

  Kayla had just stood in the presence of Bertrand Allan, the Hero of the Mountain, the Savior of Chicago. A man long grieved as dead was clearly a ripper. Undead.

  Three - A New War

  Tevy fought to focus on Bishop Alvarez and the altar, not on Amanda’s cute bum. She stood in the next pew in front, her head bowed, apparently listening to the reading with an attention that Tevy did not possess. It didn’t help that Elliot kept nudging him and gesturing in her direction with his eyes. Amanda’s tight blue jeans, faded and old like Tevy’s, had developed a new tear just where her thigh met her left buttock, and pale skin showed in a thin line, tantalizing and forbidden. Doubtless, Helen would notice in a day or so and add a new patch.

  At last the congregation sat for the homily, and Tevy was spared the temptation to stare, but now his concentration centered on her dark hair and the way she had it pushed back over her ear. He knew it was weird that he wanted to reach out and stroke that ear as if it were erotic rather than functional. He averted his gaze to where it should be: on Bishop Alvarez and the homily.

  “It is a sin to use in common speech any expression that references the evil blood of Vlad. He was the anti-Christ, and his demonic blood should not be mentioned except in condemnation, for it is the opposite of the holy blood of Christ, which was God’s precious gift to mankind to enable us to receive a true life everlasting, not a ripper’s false hope of prolonged existence.”

  But Tevy’s attention was drawn back to Amanda’s ear and the curve of her neck. He missed another few minutes of sermon, his thoughts on forbidden desires, but the word rebel claimed his attention.

  “They call us rebels,” said Alvarez, “but we are Loyalists—loyal to humans, loyal to God. They are the traitors and should be reviled.”

  Again, Tevy’s attention was taken up by Amanda’s neck, so much so that when they finally knelt for the Eucharist he had to close his eyes, listening for the bells and thinking about the summons. That was a total erection killer, and since he would soon have to stand in line to receive the host, he definitely wanted that gone.

  Why did Bobs want to see him? Why had Helen presented him with an old backpack and ordered him to pack lightly? Why did her eyes glisten as she tossed his hair and patted his shoulder, turning away when he asked where he was going?

  When they stood to line up for the host, his puzzled thoughts had done the job, and he could stand without fear that his jeans would bulge where they shouldn’t. He was able to receive the host with a clear head, and Bishop Alvarez used his name as he placed it into his hands. “Body of Christ, Tevy.”

  The mass was over minutes later, but Tevy stayed in his seat as everyone else filed out. The Brat Pack would be heading to the basement for Sunday lunch, the best meal of the week.

  “Coming?” asked Elliot, standing to leave in turn as the rest of the people in the pew rose to depart.

  “I’ve been summoned.”

  “What, again? What did ya do?” Elliot was often summoned to stand before Bishop Alvarez and confess.

  “Not by the bishop.”

  But Elliot was already grinning, clearly knowing that Tevy had been summoned for being good, not bad. “You mean General Roberts?” he said with mock horror. Everyone called her Bobs behind her back. Only the Companions of Bertrand and a few close friends called her Bobs to her face.

  “Yes, Bobs.” Tevy rolled his eyes, feigning impatience but smiling.

  Elliot patted his slim stomach. “I’ll try and save you some lunch, but don’t let them keep you too long, because I’m a growing boy. Can’t resist a snack in the middle of the afternoon and all.”

  Tevy, staring up, lost in the gold and blue of the ceiling, waited until the church was empty. He let his eyes fall to the elaborately carved structure behind the altar, a faux cathedral complete with statues and doors. Helen said that German immigrants had built the church and rebuilt it after the Great Chicago Fire, and Tevy marveled at the labor of their love, their faith. They would be dead long before their church became a true sanctuary, housing hundreds in the last days of Vlad, still housing the Brat Pack, still the center of power in Old Town Chicago.

  He genuflected before the altar and headed for the sacristy, where the altar boys were still tidying up and getting out of their vestments. He passed through into the rectory and found his way to Bishop Alvarez’s meeting room. He checked the pocket watch that Helen had given him for Christmas, though he never took with him into the city because the ticking seemed very loud. It was early, so he did what he did best: he stayed silent and pressed his ear to the door.

  It wasn’t long before he was able to separate the voices: Bobs, Bishop Alvarez, Colonel Webb from the Illinois National Guard, and good old Emile, a Companion of Bertrand Allan and the man who had taught Tevy and the rest of the Brat Pack to shoot.

  “I understand what you people need, but I can’t spare anybody.” That was Colonel Webb. Tevy had only met him once, when running messages for Bobs last year. He remembered the man as balding, his fringes graying but his physique lean and muscular—the kind of man who never stops fight training.

  “My information is stellar,” said Bobs. “The best. I had a guy right down in the Loop last night, and he’s confirmed everything else we’ve found out. We’ll be totally overrun in the next few weeks.”

  “But your information also says that Vlad has miraculously returned from the dead and is back and in charge, so really, how good are these rumors? I thought he was supposed to have been eliminated in the battle at Cave Mountain.”

  “He was. Bertrand Allan brought the whole frigging mountain down on them both and there were dozens of witnesses, many of them right here in this room. Fuck, I saw it happen. This freak’s an imposter, but he can do almost as much damage, because the traitors and the rippers believe it is Vlad. I need some troops or we’ll be crushed.”

  “I can get you some Bradley fighting vehicles, and I’ll see about artillery, but I can’t spare any troops. Malmstrom was almost overrun last month for Christ’s sake, and Rock Island is critical to you too. Nobody’s making bullets anymore, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

  Bishop Alvarez interrupted the debate. “Please, please. We can agree that there is a problem, but instead of competing for resources we must think of solutions.” Tevy noted that Alvarez’s Hispanic accent became more apparent when he was upset.

  The Colonel spoke first. “You need troops that I can’t give you. There’s a whole new war this season and we’re all pressed. The rippers are throwing everything they’ve got at us. It�
�s as simple as that. I’ll send you as much ammo as I can, but you’re going to have to get your troops elsewhere.”

  Tevy leapt back from the door just in time. He had forgotten that Bishop Alvarez’s council room had a deep rich carpet that muffled the sound of a chair pushing back from the big oak table.

  The colonel opened the door and strode out of the room, noticing Tevy, who now stood against the paneled wall, staring at portraits of the previous archbishops that lined the halls of this corridor. He projected boredom and patience, the perfect combination for innocence. Webb gave him a curt nod and headed down the corridor. Tevy wondered how many rippers he would have to kill before Webb would consider him military rather than civilian—someone worthy of an exchange of salutes.

  Bobs stepped up to the doorway, looking after Webb with a frown. She was nineteen when Tevy’s parents were killed, and he still idolized her as the coolest person he had ever met. But it had been over seven tumultuous years, and for the first time, Tevy noticed the wear and tear. Bobs was still thin, preferring to lead by example during the famines, but early worry lines now surrounded her eyes, the fresh complexion of youth already fading from too many long nights of fighting. She had cropped her blonde hair mannishly short over her ears, but she wore new blue jeans and a crisp white blouse, so she still must care about how she looked. Tevy wondered if the clothes had been Bobs’ pick from last month’s raid at the Glenview Town Center, a shopping mall up north. Rippers loved the malls, especially ones with underground parking.

  Bobs noticed him. “Good, come in, Tevy.”

  Tevy turned into the room to discover it much more crowded than he expected. Besides Emile there were a half-dozen other elders, all leaders of one blockhouse or another, all sitting in silence and studying him with an interest that made his ears burn. He’d splashed his face and hair from one of the rain barrels before mass, cleaning off the worst of the grime from yesterday’s adventures and smoothing down the fly-aways of his hair, but his jeans, like Amanda’s, were old hand-me-downs, torn and stained. His shirt and black hoodie weren’t much better.