"All over the place."
"Yes, like, spare me. Please. I get the idea. He's a really lousy lay and he's twisted."
Now she met Bertrand's eyes. "Sorry. I just wanted you to understand how sick he is. Anyway, he wanted more and said the action would last longer, but I got my clothes on and got the heck out of there. But just before I left I untied one of his hands, and he shouts after me while he's still untying the other that he's not done with me. The perv wants to do it again! I'm afraid to go back to work 'cause I don't want to see him tonight. I should never have tried to sleep with someone from work."
Bertrand finished his beer, appalled at how quickly he had consumed it, his head buzzing from the quick blast of alcohol on an empty stomach. Even so, he stood and grabbed two more from the fridge. "You can go back to work easily enough." He reclaimed the seat opposite her, sliding a beer across the table. "Just do like I do and tell Whitlock that you won't work late. Malcolm never comes in before sunset."
"Yeah, but don't you think it's totally weird. I mean, he likes to suck blood—really likes it, and he never comes into work during the day. I mean—" She looked up from her beer, her expression far more embarrassed than when graphically describing her attempt at sex with Malcolm. "I know this sounds totally freaky, but do you think he's a vampire?"
"Did he have fangs or anything like that?" Bertrand leaned forward, hungry for information that would confirm or deny the growing dread.
"No." Destiny also looked disappointed. "No fangs. No weirdness other than just Malcolm weirdness.
"What the heck is going on?"
Destiny started to peel the label of the second bottle. "Did you find anything when you hacked?"
Should he admit to the hacking? Bertrand caught himself looking at the bare skin between her breasts—definitely no bra. His cheeks flamed and he fought his eyes up to her face, thankfully getting there before she looked up from the beer label.
"Yeah. Crime stats—totally crap, crime stats. Want to see?"
"Absolutely."
"They're in the basement. It's safer down there anyway."
He grabbed his beer and led her down the stairs where his computer waited on his old desk from high school, some of the mementos of those years still push-pinned to the cork board above it: ribbons from the debating team and the computer club. A photo of Bertrand graduating taken by his dad.
"You sleep down here?"
Bertrand's bed was shoved up against the old couch so that there would still be a maneuvering area in the cramped little room.
"It's safer down here at night. They can't get in when I've got that door at the top of the stairs locked, and I keep the blinds drawn and the lights really low if the power's up."
"Weird." Destiny plunked down in the chair in front of Bertrand's desk, moving the wireless mouse to wake the laptop.
"Let me show you weird."
He put his beer down far from the computer and stood beside her, leaning over to take control of the mouse and see the screen. Her scent—a subtle perfume—filled his nostrils and forced him to acknowledge his proximity. Don't look down now! He would be looking right down her cleavage. He carefully kept his eyes on the computer screen, finding the icon for the DVD and opening up the Chicago P.D.'s crime stats. The pie charts and bar graphs all splashed across the window, and Destiny sat forward to study them.
Bertrand turned away and went to the window, stretching up on his toes to look through the bars to the sun, which was just above the peak of Needleman's house, closer to the horizon than Bertrand had thought. Destiny would have to spend the night with him. His breath shortened at the thought of lending her a T-shirt for pajamas, of sleeping on the couch so close to her. But what about his appointment with the detective? If he didn't show, would the police come here—or worse, the rippers? They'd better get to Thomas's bunker and they could sleep on the couches. They'd still be very close together.
"Are these graphs right?" Destiny studied the computer with hungry intensity.
"Who knows? But if they were crap, why did they pull them off the public site and hide them?"
He turned from the sun and again looked over her at the screen. Eleven murders in May, twenty-six in June, over two hundred in July, over a thousand in August and then nothing. Either there were zero murders or the stats had never been loaded and just defaulted to zero.
"Check out the missing persons though. That's the really scary part." Bertrand took control of the mouse and clicked over to another set of graphs. These bars also rose exponentially: over one thousand reported missing in May, and by August, over fifty thousand reported missing. Again, September showed zero.
"What the—"
"That's what I said." Bertrand picked up his beer and fought not to gulp the whole thing down. Was Needleman included in those numbers?
"What is going on?" Destiny sat back and stared at the computer, and Bertrand took a seat on the edge of the bed.
"There's a cult, I think—a blood cult. What's really weird is that so many people in the government, even the cops, are in on it."
"No." Destiny shook her head but kept staring at the crime stats. "If Malcolm was just in some kind of cult, then why won't he come into work during the day? Why have so many people switched to night shift? And I don't mean just from our office."
Bertrand let the silence hang as he faced the impossible that Father Alvarez and those teenagers had forced him to face. There were murderers out there who wanted to drink blood, and there were more of them every day, and like vampires, they couldn't go out at night. What had that detective said? Get your dinner somewhere else. And something about the Daylight Brigade.
"What's weird is there are people who can come out in the daylight who help them—like cops and stuff," he finally said. "I just can't figure out—I mean, vampires? But they use knives, they're not afraid of crosses or stuff like that. I doubt garlic helps. This is all something else. Something real." He thought of those teenagers last night, about their limp bodies sliding down into the sandpit at the beach. These kids didn't need a stake through the heart—bullets had worked just fine. Bertrand still feared that Father Alvarez was crazy and that they were just violent teenagers. But those kids had talked about being "brids."
"Bert, can I stay with you tonight." Destiny turned in the swivel chair to face him. "I don't want to go into work, and my gran went to visit her sister in the country. I just don't want to spend the night alone in my apartment."
"Sure. I mean, if you want to spend the night with your folks too that's okay."
Did he overdo the nonchalance? His heart beat faster at the thought of sharing a room with her, but his conscience wanted him to hold out for Joyce, to make his first time really special and not just some lay.
"My folks moved way out west. I could never drive there before dark." She stood and finished her beer. "I have to get some stuff from my place. I'll be back before sunset." She turned and hurried up the narrow stairs, but Bertrand rushed after her and caught her by the elbow in the kitchen.
"Wait. I'll go with you, because we're not spending the night here—not with the cops looking at me for the hacking."
"We can't stay at my apartment." She shrugged back into her short jacket. "That building is full of freaks at the best of times."
"I got a place." Bertrand headed for the hall closet for his jacket. "It's very secure."
"I'll meet you back here, Bert." She opened the door. "I have to shop for some woman things so I don't want you with me. I promise I'll be back before sunset. Where's your safe place?"
"Not far. You sure you don't want me to come with you?"
"Definitely. I'll see you around seven."
"Make it six-thirty. We want to be safe and locked down very early."
She had already slammed the door.
*
Bertrand stood on his front porch in the gathering dusk. Where the hell was she? The city had fallen into that twilight lull—something that Bertrand now came to expect, that
moment of waiting for the world to wake. How much longer should he give her before making a run for Nolan's bunker? Needleman's house across the street looked more forlorn than ever, even the For Sale sign tipping as gravity began to get the upper hand.
What if she didn't get here until after sunset? Could they go to ground here and make it through the night? Bertrand pulled his iPhone from his pocket and checked the detective's contact number and dialed it. Maybe he could buy another night.
"Homicide, Sinclair."
"Oh, I'm sorry, I've got the wrong number. I was looking for a Detective Costa about a computer hacking case." Bertrand tried to sound innocent and casual, but he was spooked. Sinclair was the detective he and Joyce had met the night that Nolan's neighbor had been murdered.
"Detective Costa will be in later tonight. Can I leave him a message—ah—Mr. Allan?"
Damn call display. It didn't sound like his name meant anything to Sinclair, and who knows how many murders the man had investigated in the last three months. Okay, sound relaxed.
"I have an appointment for ten p.m., but I was hoping to push it later or maybe until tomorrow."
"Tell you what, he'll be here in about half-an-hour. Just call back and you can tell him yourself."
"Thank you."
Bertrand gave it a full hour and was about to give up on Destiny—it was true night now—when a motorcycle roared down the street and squealed to a stop in front of Needleman's. Bertrand backed against his front door, getting ready to run inside and lock it. One hand went under his jacket, behind his back and closed around the Glock, but he didn't draw it yet.
It wasn't until the rider was getting off the bike that he recognized Destiny's lithe frame, now clad in tight black leather. She pulled off the helmet and shook out her glossy hair.
"It took you long enough." Bertrand made no attempt to hide his anger. "We've got to get the hell out of here."
She hurried up the stairs, saddlebags thrown over her shoulder, one hand holding her helmet. "Gotta pee." She stretched up on tiptoes to kiss Bertrand's cheek. "You're my hero for waiting."
She rushed through the door, Bertrand trailing behind.
"Well make it fast," he shouted as she pounded up the stairs to the house's only bathroom.
Bertrand closed the front door but didn't bother locking it, since they were about to leave. He would take her across the street to Needleman's place and from there out underneath the 'L' to the alley. He considered taking his car, but he didn't want it parked anywhere near Nolan's place. A smart cop with a good computer database could link him to the neighbor's house, and it wouldn't be too hard to guess that he was somewhere near the murdered guy's place. And the motorcycle just attracted too much attention, although the thought of riding behind Destiny was alluring. No, they would practically be calling every ripper from miles around with that flashy bike. He would take them up the alley where people usually feared to tread after dark. Rippers were more of a problem now, and he had his Glock to deal with muggers.
At least he could get ready. He put on his camping pack stuffed full of canned food, his computer and lots of extra clothes. He wandered into the living room, taking one last look at the house of his childhood, his teen years, his last years with his parents—finally, his lonely years. He would come back if he could, even if only to visit the empty shell of family life, but he knew he could no longer live here.
His cell rang. He checked the call display, saw Jeff's number and answered it. "Hey, dude. Guess what? Destiny's here."
"Bert, thank God. You've got to—"
The phone went dead just as all the streetlights went dark, and the light in the kitchen flicked off. He checked the display and discovered that the signal was gone. The power failure always flatlined the cell phones. Why hadn't he kept his parents' landline? If Jeff was at work, he could try him there. They might still have power in the Loop. "Destiny, are you okay? We've gotta move."
"It's too late," she called from above. "We should just stay here for the night. I don't want to go outside again in the dark."
"No friggin' way." Bertrand stomped up the stairs, his pack slowing him down. "The police could be coming for me. We need somewhere really secure that they don't know about."
"Where is this place anyway?"
"It's a bunker." Bertrand stopped in front of the bathroom door. He couldn't just go in, damn it. "Come on. I'll show you."
"I don't want to go."
Wait a minute! Her voice didn't come from the bathroom. It came from his parents' bedroom. "What are you doing in there? That's my parents' room."
Bertrand hurried down the hall, wondering if he could drag her to his car. He stopped in the doorway though, because she was stretched out on the bed in the dark. Enough moonlight came through the window to sculpt naked skin. Bertrand's breath drew in sharply and his heart raced. Why now? Finally a woman had the hots for him, and not only was she lying in his dead parents' bed, but their very lives were in danger.
"Not here and not now." He stayed in the doorway, his imagination filling in what the shadows hid—the darkness between her legs, the color of her nipples. His erection rushed up in seconds, demanding attention.
"Come on, Bert. No one knows we're here." She rose up on one elbow and held out her other hand. "I've been so scared, but around you I feel so safe. Let's just forget everything for one night and have some fun."
He wanted to. My God he wanted to, but every fiber of his being knew this was wrong, knew this wasn't the time, place or person. He didn't want to lose his virginity to someone who looked upon sex as nothing more than recreation.
"No way. I'm going back downstairs. I'll give you two minutes to get dressed and come with me. Maybe later, when I think we're safe." But somehow he didn't think so. She was pushing too hard, and it felt all wrong. Besides, he doubted he could perform to her expectations, and he doubted she would be patient with his lack of skill.
"Oh come on. It's not like I want to tie you down or anything weird." She stood—completely shameless—although with only weak light coming through the window, she was a silhouette of hips and arms and shoulder-length hair. She stepped forward and grabbed a fistful of his jacket. "I've got condoms if that's what you're worried about."
"I'm worried about having my throat slit open by a ripper."
She yanked fiercely on his jacket just as someone hit his head from behind. He tripped forward and fell heavily, barely getting his hands out to block his fall. His forehead hit the wood floor, causing as explosion of pain.
"Get his arm, quick," shouted Destiny.
Bertrand fought for control of his muscles, but it was too late. The snick of a handcuff on his right wrist suggested that the police had caught up to him with Destiny's help. But she was naked! Would she do that for the cops?
"No!" Bertrand managed to shout as he struggled against hands and arms that lifted and shoved him up onto his parents' bed. Someone pulled at his free arm, yanking it over to the other bedpost. He fought to pull it back, but the male shadow overhead punched him in the eye, making him gasp and convulse with the new pain. The click of cuffs made everyone settle down: Bertrand because now he couldn't use his hands, his abductors because they knew there was no longer any rush. Bertrand was theirs for the taking.
Fifteen - The End of an Era
Bertrand's pack pushed up his back, which made his hands stretch taunt on the handcuffs, the metal biting into his wrists. The bedposts of his parents' bed were cheap and old. Could he break one with a mighty heave? All he needed was to get his hand back to his Glock and he could shoot.
"Nice work, babe."
Bertrand froze in his surprise. He knew that voice. "Malcolm?"
The monster of rage rose in Bertrand's chest—a monster that wanted to fight, that felt safer fighting. "You lying slut!"
"I mostly told you the truth." She stood at the end of the bed, shameless in her nudity or perhaps knowing that with only moonlight for illumination, Bertrand couldn't see much. Malcolm sto
od beside her, one arm around her slim waist. He leaned over and kissed her passionately.
"You lied!" Bertrand shouted. "You lied about everything!"
"I just pretended it was a month ago, when Malcolm and I first hooked up. The only thing I changed was that we did go for a second round."
Malcolm giggled. "And a third and fourth and fifth the next night."
"Why the hell didn't you two just carry on your fornicating ways and leave me the hell out."
"Oh Bert, because you're such a trouble maker." Malcolm left Destiny and walked around the corner of the bed, pulling something out of his pocket in the process. A snick and a glint of light off the metal warned Bertrand that it was a switchblade.
"All I want is to be left alone."
"No you don't." Malcolm stood over him. "People who want to be left alone don't go to Goth Knights. You complete idiot. What the fuck were you doing there? And crime stats? People who want to be left alone don't go hacking crime stats to show that there have been a lot of murders. We can't have you loading that up onto the internet, even if only conspiracy scum will think its true. That's why the order came down right from the boss himself. You were designated fodder. No evolution."
Stall for time. Focus your strength. He would have one chance to break that bedpost before they figured out what he was trying to do and Malcolm got to business with the knife.
"What's evolution all about?"
Destiny climbed onto the bed from the end, moving up over Bertrand's legs. "Nice try, Bert, but we've got business to take care of."
"Shall we do him together?" Malcolm knelt on the bed at Bertrand's side. The knife was cool against Bertrand's neck.
"Definitely. I've always wondered how long it would work while you were drinking." Destiny started to undo Bertrand's belt.
He was going to die. He should be very afraid. He was very afraid, but that fear transferred to the superhero Bertrand, the Bertrand who had been growing stronger since the day Needleman died. He would not go quietly. He would not let her defile him.
Bertrand brought his knees up and bucked her off the bed, the knife cutting into his throat in the process. He yanked with all his might on his right hand, the one farthest from Malcolm, ignoring the pain of the steel cuff.
The 1000 Souls (Book 1): Apocalypse Revolution Page 13
