The manager approached from the back of the kitchen, tall and bristling, his skin a dark shade of black, his belly slim and proving he didn't feed on the McDonalds menu more than he should. "I've called the police," he shouted.
Bertrand lowered the Glock. "It's okay, it's okay. I wasn't gonna shoot the guy." He turned back to Leather Jacket. "Look, dude, you gotta stay with some friends tonight and you should arm yourself. Keep the lights off so they don't know you're home. If there's a house in your neighborhood that's got a For Sale sign in front, just break in and then bar the door—put a new lock on it—whatever. But for Chrissakes, lie low. Don't call the police and don't go out until sunrise."
"Who are you?" asked the manager, placing one hand protectively around his young cashier, whose cheeks were still wet with tears of fright. "What makes you say this?"
"I'm nobody special." Bertrand looked around to see anxious faces focusing on him with a desperate intensity. These people knew something was wrong but didn't know what to do about it.
"You need to organize," Bertrand called to the whole room. "The cops can't or won't protect you anymore. There are roving gangs going around killing people at night, and the only way to protect yourselves is to arm yourselves and band together. If you live alone, you're in very grave danger, because it's loners they're going after right now."
"But how do you know this?" asked the manager, although Bertrand got the sense that the man completely believed him.
"Because I have eyes to see with and ears to hear with, just like this guy." Bertrand used his free hand to point at Leather Jacket and then stuffed the Glock back into its holster in the small of his back. "He heard screams last night. He saw blood this morning. How many of you have had similar experiences?"
Hands went up and shouts came in reply.
"Then you don't need me to tell you that there is an undeclared war going on here. You can call your congressman if you like, but if they could do anything about it—or if they weren't involved—it would be all over today's paper."
More shouts and more questions. Leather Jacket slumped against the counter, still sobbing. "But I don't know anybody," he said. "My folks are in Georgia and they don't answer the phone no more. My buddies' up north are gone and the cabin's burnt out. I don't know where to go."
"You can stay with me," shouted a man farther back.
"I'm getting out of town. Today," shouted a middle-aged women.
The crowded pushed in, many trying to get a look at Bertrand. Many calling questions and some loudly exchanging stories and rumors.
"Back in lines," shouted the manager, his powerful voice rising over all. He curled a finger at Bertrand, inviting him beyond the counter and into the inner sanctum of McDonalds. "You better come back here before there's a riot. I'll set you up. And you," he pointed to Leather Jacket, who had composed himself although he still looked frightened and exhausted. "You just take a seat and I'll bring you a Big Mac in half-an-hour, and we'll get you set up with someone to stay with tonight. Just jump over the counter." The last was to Bertrand.
He clambered over the counter with as much dignity as he could manage.
"What do you want to eat, sir?" asked the young cashier, her cheeks red and her eyes puffy.
"Oh, anything. Big Mac—no—I mean Egg McMuffin, whatever."
She laughed in relief, almost a cry at the same time, and turned to the receiving trays.
"Bring it to the office, Alison." The manager took Bertrand's arm and guided him past the grills, the shouts still coming from the crowd in the restaurant.
"Wait a second." Bertrand pulled to a halt in front of the office door. "I gotta get out of here, okay? Forget about breakfast. Is that the way out over there?"
"Wait, wait, wait. I didn't call the cops if that's what you're worried about. I sure as hell didn't need you to tell me you can't trust those assholes anymore. I just need to talk to you for a minute, and breakfast is on the house. Please, take a seat."
Bertrand entered the little office and warily took a seat, deeply regretting waving the Glock around. He had wanted to avoid attention, not become the center of it.
The manager took a seat in a creaking leather chair behind his corporate-issue desk. "I started closing by sunset a couple of weeks ago. The place would be full after dark and no one was eating, then suddenly they'd all go—flash mobbing maybe, I don't know. But they'd all come back a few hours later and they'd all be pumped. And not just kids—not just teens, there'd be old folks hanging out with them too, but as energetic as twenty-year-olds. We found a body in the bathroom one night, throat cut deep on one side."
"What did the cops do?"
The man leaned back in his chair. "What do you think they did? They came, carted off the body and left us to clean up the blood. They didn't even dust for fingerprints, but they did tell me it was the M.O. of the Chicago Ripper."
"There are hundreds of Chicago Rippers out there, and there are New York Rippers and L.A. Rippers and London and Beijing and Mumbai. We're just not hearing about them anymore, and bloggers who do talk about them are being shut down or hunted down. I know I sound like a complete nut, but they take over the media and the police first."
"You need to talk to people, let them know what's going on."
"Everybody knows what's going on."
The manager leaned forward, clasping his hands on his desk. "But you're convincing. You need to spread the word. Until today I was too afraid people would think I was crazy, but I hear you and I believe. We need to organize for more than just for one night, we need to build our own army, a resistance."
A tentative knock spared Bertrand a reply.
Alison opened the door after the manager's invitation, bearing Bertrand's breakfast in a bag. "I didn't know whether it was for here or to go."
Bertrand stood, reaching for the bag with one hand and his wallet for another. "To go is great. How much?"
"I told you, on the house." The manager stood. "You fight for my staff, you get free food. Just one thing, promise me you'll come back and talk to folks. I'm gonna spread the word quiet-like. How about tomorrow afternoon, say around four?"
"What do you want from me?"
The manager held out his hand. "I'm Martin, Martin Morley, and I want you to say the same stuff you said in there today."
"I'll see what I can do."
"Folks need you. They need someone who'll just tell it like it is."
"Okay, tomorrow afternoon around four. But if I see a cop, I'll just book."
"There'll be no cops."
*
Bertrand didn't obey Jeff's warning not to go home, but he was very careful about it. He went to Needleman's first, slipping from the alley, crossing under the 'L' and up the stairs through the back door. An animal, probably a raccoon, had visited the house and opened the fridge door to pull out rotting food. Judging by the stench and the state of the contents, this had happened quite some time ago.
One hand held over the face and the other up to guide in the gloom brought Bertrand safely to the living-room window. No cops out front, at least not a marked cruiser, and he couldn't see any suspicious men hanging out in other cars.
He slipped across the street, resisting the urge to run for fear of drawing attention to himself. He unlocked the door and hurried to close it and lock it behind him. The power went up and he quickly checked his phone for messages and discovered one from Whitlock and several from a Detective Costa.
In and out as fast as possible. He went straight for the basement and closed his Mac laptop, unplugging the power cord and hurrying back upstairs. Just as he was reaching for the knob on the backdoor, his cell phone went off like the alarm klaxon on a World War Two submarine, a ring tone that Bertrand had set for his boss. It startled him so much that he nearly dropped the computer.
He checked the call display anyway as he answered, but sure enough it was Whitlock's office number.
"Bertrand Allan?"
"Hi John, look I'm really sorry but I'm r
eally sick. I just can't come in today."
"Are you changing?"
Oh, oh. That wasn't Whitlock. Bertrand nearly hung up, but then he remembered when Malcolm was desperately sick back in July—before the taxi driver was murdered.
"I'm sick. I'm really, really sick. I can't keep normal food down, and I just can't come out of the basement and into the light, not today."
"So you're one of them now?"
"Yes, I guess so. I didn't know it would happen so fast. Who is this?"
"Detective Alfred Costa. I'll give you a free pass today, but I want you in my office tonight to answer a few questions about the hacking. If you're one of them now I guess it's not such a big deal, but I want to chat just the same."
"Of course. Where's your office." Bertrand repeated key parts of the address back as if he were diligently writing them down.
"Ten tonight should be okay," Costa said. "But remember, I'm off limits, officially in the Daylight Brigade, so get your dinner somewhere else."
"Yes, of course."
Off limits? Dinner? Daylight Brigade? Bertrand stared at his iPhone for a moment as if he could find the answers in the menu. He slipped it into his pocket and headed out the back door, crossing the little yard he'd played in as a child, and opened the pedestrian door to the detached garage. He hardly ever used his Volkswagen GTI since he lived downtown, but now he needed mobility. He needed to go grocery shopping, and he feared if he didn't go soon there would be no food left on the shelves. Once they were empty, Bertrand was certain that they would never be replenished. He wasn't sure that it was the end of days, but in his soul he knew that it would soon be the end of civilization.
Fourteen - Feeding Frenzy
The doorbell woke Bertrand. He sat up in panic, struggling to remember the day of the week, the hour of the day. The light through his west facing basement windows could only be afternoon light, and the slant of the rays through the dust suggested mid to late afternoon.
Right, he'd skipped work and gone shopping, driving from one grocery store to another to buy any canned or preserved food he could find. The fruit and vegetable bins sat empty except for a few stacks of apples. Oddly, there were no line-ups to buy the remaining food. Why were people not out grocery shopping? Surely people during their regular shopping must've noticed the depleting supplies, which would usually provoke panic buying, like stocking up on water and batteries in advance of a hurricane.
Bertrand had also emptied his bank account and called about his mutual funds, ordering his adviser to sell them and convert them to cash. The adviser had begged him not to, pointing out that even though the stock market had recently plunged, it was still fractionally up from last year. If Bertrand would just wait, his advisor was sure the market would rush back up to those stratospheric highs from which it had fallen. Bertrand didn't care. He wanted the money now. He also considered putting his house up for sale, but so many houses were for sale in Chicago—indeed across the country—that there were simply no buyers. Housing prices had plummeted to levels that made stories of the 2008 crash sound like a minor blip in the market.
The doorbell chimed. That was what had woken him. Jeff would be pissed that he had ignored the warning and returned home, but after the conversation with Detective Costa, Bertrand wasn't as worried about the police for today—until now. He threw off his bedclothes and rushed to the window. There was no hope in seeing the front door, but maybe he could see if a police cruiser was parked in front.
"Bert! Are you there?" It was Destiny's voice.
What the hell was she doing here? She should be in the office, answering phones.
"Please, Bert. I'm really scared! If you're there can you let me in?"
Bertrand reached up and slid back the little window. "I'll be right there."
He scrambled through the basement, finding his jeans and yanking them on in haste. He snatched up a dress shirt from the back of a chair and hurried up the stairs, buttoning it on the way.
"Hey," he said upon opening the door, but before he could say more, Destiny threw herself at him, hugging him and weeping as if she'd just found a long-lost lover.
"Oh, thank God you're here. I'm so scared."
Bertrand awkwardly patted her back and tried not to feel her breasts pressing against his torso, fought to not to be aroused by the scent of her, the curves of her body. But his protective instincts went full throttle as she buried her face in his chest and wept. He looked past her into the street, but there was no one else around so he pulled her into the house and slammed the door.
"We've got to be careful," he said when she had calmed down enough that he could push her away without being rude. "Come into the kitchen and I'll make you some tea."
"You got anything stronger?"
"Beer?"
"That'll be good."
He took her hand and led her down the narrow hall, feeling like a boyfriend rather than a coworker. What would Joyce say? It wasn't like they were dating or anything, yet he felt a special connection to Joyce that he didn't share with Destiny. But Destiny was attractive, and she had come to mind more than a few times when he was involved with himself late at night. She slipped her jacket off, revealing a blouse unbuttoned deep into her cleavage, a gossamer covering more suited to summer than Chicago's fall.
"Take a seat." Bertrand averted his eyes as he spoke, but didn't fail to note that she didn't appear to be wearing a bra.
Bertrand had renovated the kitchen a year after his parents had died, a desperate attempt to make the house his own and to bury the past. He had donated the nineties countertop and cupboards to Habitat for Humanity and replaced them with a granite countertop and expensive white cupboards. The floor was now stone tile, which he had discovered was very cold in the winter. The table of the breakfast nook was the same granite as the counter, and the bench seats with it were red leather and overstuffed, making that corner look closer to a fifties diner. Destiny slipped onto one bench while Bertrand opened the stainless steel fridge door and pulled out a couple of Buds.
"What happened?" He twisted each open, tossing the caps into the garbage can under the sink and handing one to Destiny.
"It was Malcolm. He's totally a freak." She took a gulp of the beer to calm her breathing and her tears. "He invited me back to his place this morning. I worked a double yesterday, stayed till midnight and Malcolm went home early cause the call volume dropped off. That's when he asked me over."
"So ... like ... he assaulted you?" Bertrand knew he wasn't the right person for this conversation. He didn't know anything about sexual assault counseling. It wasn't her fault. She at least needed to be told that, but what else?
"No. I mean it was weirder than that." Her eyes stayed with the beer bottle, and she began to peel the label from the brown glass. Her embarrassment made Bertrand's ears burn in sympathy.
"You don't have to tell me what happened." Did he sound panicked?
"I want to. I want you to understand what a sick bastard he is. To think I liked him." She finished peeling the label and proceeded to fold it in half and half again as if involved in origami. "You see, I went there because I wanted to get with him. Everybody thinks I'm some delicate little virgin, you know."
"I don't." What did he just say? Jesus Christ! "I mean, the way you talk and all it's obvious that you're not frigid or anything like that. I mean, oh forget it. I can't dig my way out of this one."
Destiny laughed and met his eyes for the first time since she had sat down.
"It's okay. I have been around the block once or twice, but I admit I talk sluttier than I act. Everybody thinks that 'cause I'm a tiny Asian I should giggle behind my hand and wear school-girl uniform kilts and be all modest. That's why I talk dirty, 'cause it shocks mundanes like you. But Malcolm's so cute and funky, and I really did want to bone him—that's why I went back to his place."
Bertrand was surprised she was alive, given his suspicions about Malcolm.
"He was interested in something else," Bertrand said.
Destiny nodded and took a big gulp of her beer, summoning up her courage to retell the story. "He's kinky, and I kinda thought that was attractive. I was looking for adventure, so when he wanted me to tie him up I thought it was all cool. I'd be in complete control and nothing could go wrong."
Bertrand's ears flamed and pressure in his jeans filled him with dread. What if she asked for another beer? She would see his erection and think he, too, was a sick pervert. He wasn't into bondage, but Destiny talking frankly about sex while sitting there looking so pretty and vulnerable in her low-buttoned blouse. Bertrand fought to restrain his lust.
"But something did go wrong." Bertrand hid his interest with another sip of beer.
"He couldn't get it up. He's just lying there, spread eagle on the bed." Destiny studied her beer again, not quite as embarrassed as Bertrand. "I was doing everything, you know, to get him excited, and I know some good tricks, but he was just totally Mr. Flaccid."
Bertrand was relieved and the pressure in his jeans thankfully subsided. He had feared a pornographic story with Destiny in a prominent position. "Okay, I don't think Malcolm's well. In fact I think he's even sicker than you know."
"I'm not finished." She gave him a quick glare and looked back down to her beer. "I'm naked and doing everything and I'm getting pretty pissed with him. So he asks—like—begs me to cut my finger and drip some blood into his mouth. I really wanted some action by this time so I decide to one up him. I'm not afraid of a little blood or a little pain, so I cut my wrist."
"Crap! Destiny!"
"Just a bit." She held up her right arm and pulled down her sleeve to show off a Band-Aid. "See, not like a suicide cut to my wrists, but just a little nick on the vein. I put it to his mouth and he went crazy, I mean sucking like crazy. And then he is going, I mean totally up in the air and I'm thinking it's sick but at least I'll get some action and then before I can do anything, boom! He blows—"
"Stop! Yes, I get it." Bertrand hands were up, palms out in surrender in his futile panic to prevent the graphic image from generating.
The 1000 Souls (Book 1): Apocalypse Revolution Page 12
