Bertrand popped open his beer and took a long drink, relishing in the freedom from guilt about his waistline. Today, he truly deserved alcohol.
Nolan watched him drink for a full ten seconds and sighed with relief.
"Thank God. You're human." He slumped down on the couch, resting the shotgun across his knees, reaching for his beer but still keeping a close eye on Bertrand, who took a seat on the opposite couch.
"Why the hell were you waving a shotgun at me?" Bertrand took a sip of his beer, sensing his own heart rate calming now that the shotgun wasn't pointed at his chest.
"You can't trust anyone." Nolan took a big gulp and wiped sweat from his brow.
Now that they were under the twin fluorescent bulbs, it was obvious that Nolan was in his early sixties, the stubble of his beard firmly gray, although his military cut hair was still salt-and-pepper on a thick head. His belly pushed at the draw strings of the bathrobe, barely allowing it to close.
Bertrand took a sip of his beer. "Who are you so afraid of, and what do you mean I'm human. Of course I'm human. What did you think I was, a space alien?"
Nolan finished his beer in one long series of gulps and crushed the can in his hand, tossing it aside into a garbage can at the end of his couch.
"A blood drinker." He heaved up his bulk and grabbed another beer from the fridge.
"What, like a vampire? You've got to be kidding me."
"Buddy, these stories about the Chicago Ripper, they're all bullshit to hide the fact that there are blood drinkers out there—not vampires, not like the movies—blood drinkers."
"Well what the frig is the difference?"
"These are real." Nolan slumped down on his couch and snapped open the beer. "They don't have fangs or weird shit like that. They use knives to open up your jugular, and they suck like crazy as you spew blood, until you've bled out."
"How do you know this?" Bertrand leaned forward, thinking about the blood on Needleman's living-room floor and the chunk cut out of the murdered man's neck.
"Stan's wife got snatched by this so-called Chicago Ripper two weeks ago, only there was three of them. We saw them grab her. Stan and I were having a beer right up there on my front porch, and we see's Rose walking along the sidewalk on her way back from her bridge club. Suddenly a van just shoots up and the side door opens, and there's like three men in there, and they just grab her and haul her into the van and take off."
"Are you sure it was men. Could it have been three women dressed like men? It was dark wasn't it?" Bertrand was thinking about Jeffery's neighbor, the geek who came home with four hot women and disappeared.
"They were men. The interior light of the van was on and I tell you they were men. The police said it was the Chicago Ripper—you ever hear of the news talking about the Chicago Rippers?"
"No. So are you saying they killed your neighbor—is that the Stan guy you were talking about—they killed his wife and then him?"
Nolan took a big drink. "Nope," he said, wiping foam from his mouth. "It was Rose who did Stan tonight."
"What the ... ? How do you know?"
"I saw it, goddammit! I was right out back there." He pointed to the ceiling with the shotgun. "I was just coming out to put some burgers on the barbecue for a late-night snack, and I heard the glass break over at Stan's. You've seen that little fence between us, right? We're good neighbors, both did tours in 'Nam just a couple of years apart. So's I go over near the fence thinking I'm gonna catch a burglar on his way out with the TV. I had my Glock with me, so I figured I was ready. Then I hear Stan screaming, so I hop the fence and I'm going up the back steps and there she is, putting a knife to him as if she's a combat veteran—and I've seen combat. I heard you guys coming and split, but I tell you I haven't seen blood spray like that since 'Nam."
"Holy shit! What did the cops say?"
Nolan shook his head. "I don't talk to them no more. Don't you get it? They're in on it, man. Look what happened to Rose. Come on, think about it: Stan and I call the cops with this cockamamie story about his old lady being kidnapped and they took forty minutes to get here. They took our statements like it was a noise complaint and told us it was the M.O. of the Chicago Ripper. They didn't even blink when we said there were three of them. They were brushing us off over a frigging kidnapping! Just a quick 'We're sorry but it's unlikely we'll catch them and you'll never see your wife again' before they left. I tell you, if I were a cop and a couple of guys gave me such a bullshit story, I'd have turned their lives upside down. I'd have sworn the murderers were standing right in front of me putting on a good act with a stupid story, but instead they just left after half an hour. For Christ's sake, it took them longer than that to get here!"
"But they came tonight. I mean there was crime scene processing and all going on while Joyce and I were giving our statements. And we did have to give signed statements."
"Since when do the cops fix broken windows and put For Sale signs up on crime scenes."
It was Bertrand's turn to take a long drink of his beer, finishing the can while he thought about the reluctance of the police to worry about Needleman or Jeff's neighbor, even with the bloodstains.
"It's just so crazy," Bertrand finally said. "I mean, why would they be in on it? What would the cops get for helping, well, these freaky blood drinkers you're talking about. Is this all some weird cult?"
Nolan heaved up and went over to the fridge to grab a beer for Bertrand. "I don't know what's going on, man. But I can tell you this: something is going on—something really big. And I know that you can't trust the cops, and you can't trust the government and you can't trust your neighbors."
"What can we do, though?"
Nolan passed him the beer. "We sit tight 'till morning. I don't know if they can come out in daylight and all, but all the crazy stuff so far is happening after dark. I came to get you only because I didn't want you cut right on my front doorstep. I don't go out after dark anymore. In fact, I'm not leaving this room till sun up and neither should you."
Bertrand thought about the trip back, about the chaos that was outside. Here he was safe and there was beer. He'd leave at dawn.
Eight - Night Shift
Warm sun spilled into the front hall when Nolan opened his front door, still in his bathrobe and still holding a shotgun, although it no longer pointed at Bertrand.
"I'm starting a blog about this, calling it 'My Undead Neighbor,'" Nolan said. "You should follow it, and maybe you can guest post about your neighbor. And listen, don't go out at night again, all right?"
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 impo
rtantly, 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, Malcol
m 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!"
The 1000 Souls (Book 1): Apocalypse Revolution Page 6
