"Fair enough. I was just trying to keep my cell phone use to a minimum because the battery's nearly toast and I don't have the charger."
"Yours is an iPhone, right? I'll lend you mine. Plug it in before dinner, because who knows if we'll have any power over night."
"Great." But Bertrand sensed something else, something more seriously wrong than him not calling in. "Is everything okay?"
For the first time since he'd met her, Joyce looked vulnerable. "Bert, St. Mike's gone." Her expression was neutral, but Bertrand sensed that it was an effort to hide her sense of loss, of pain.
"What?"
"I went by my condo and there was police tape across the front door. No cops, just crime-scene tape. I snuck in the back way through my neighbor's yard, going through my back door. My home was totally tossed, and my dog is dead. The fuckers shot him, probably because he went for them."
Bertrand wanted to hold her close, but he worried that she would consider it too familiar. "I'm so sorry, Joyce. He was a good dog. He saved my life."
Joyce nodded, her lips pressed to a tight white line as she continued to place glasses around the table with sharp, angry movements.
Jeff and Emile emerged from the basement just as Bertrand and Joyce finished setting the table.
"Smells great." Jeff leaned over the frying pan, but Helen shoved him away.
"You'll get it soon enough. Sit your butt down."
They all sat, Emile handing out cold beers from the fridge while Joyce uncorked a bottle of red wine. "Last of my favorites—South African. I rescued it from my place before I left. Somehow I don't think I'll be able to find it for a while."
Bertrand had a sip, letting the flavor settle on his tongue before swallowing. But it wasn't the wine that caught his attention, it was the clatter of dishes, the passing of bowls of mashed potatoes and vegetables, the sense of family around the table—something he hadn't experienced since his parents had so abruptly vanished from his life.
They ate in the gathering dusk, keeping the curtains open to the backyard for light, but leaving the electricity alone. No need to advertise that the house was occupied. For a time, it was all about filling stomachs, the most essential of needs.
But the peace couldn't last. Bertrand had hardly finished his steak when the doorbell chimed and someone pounded on the front door. For a moment everyone froze, exchanging glances and frowns or quietly putting down knives and forks.
Bertrand eased back his chair and tiptoed through the dark living room and into the front hall, others following. He put his eye to the peephole, hardly daring to breath for fear the caller would sense his presence.
Outside in the twilight, a man in a dark suit and two uniformed police officers stood on the front porch. It took Bertrand a moment to place the plainclothes detective until he remembered the murder next door. It was Detective Sinclair of the Chicago P.D. Maybe they were just canvassing the neighborhood about the neighbor's murder. Maybe they didn't suspect that anyone was home.
The detective raised his fist and again pounded on the door.
"Bertrand Allan! It's Detective Sinclair. Please open up now. There's a warrant out for your arrest for the murder of Stanley J. Needleman and Destiny Kim."
Bertrand reached behind his back and drew his Glock.
Seventeen - A Fugitive
Emile grabbed Bertrand's gun hand. "I know this guy," he whispered. "And he's not an asshole."
Bertrand met Emile's gaze, but it was too dark to read the man's expression.
Should he run for the backyard? He could get out through the alley unless other officers waited there. He could run for the basement and lock himself in, but he just couldn't leave the others to their fate. Perhaps they could all tiptoe down before the police smashed in the door, but they'd be cornered if the cops proved better at finding the bomb shelter than Emile and Jeff.
Helen suddenly pushed forward.
"What the hell do you want with an old lady!" she shouted. "I've got a shotgun and my daddy taught me how to hunt, so you better have a good reason to be on my property at night."
Jeff tiptoed toward the basement.
"Ma'am, there's no tactical team here. It's just us. We mean you no harm, or Mr. Allan, but we need to talk to him before someone else figures out where he's hiding. He needs our help. We're not here to arrest him."
"Don't draw your guns when I open this door," called Helen. "Or this'll be the gunfight at the O.K. Corral."
Emile produced an obscenely big revolver that had been hiding under his loose sweatshirt. He nodded to Helen and she pulled back the bolt and unlatched the door. She stepped back as the door opened, and Bertrand slipped behind it.
"Thank you." Sinclair and the two uniformed officers crowded into the front hall. "We didn't want to be out there any longer than necessary." He closed the door and locked it. The shorter of the two uniformed cops turned on a small Maglite and aimed it at Emile's face.
Bertrand raised his Glock. "Turn that off," he said. "You want to get us all killed? The rippers will be out soon and we're in hiding here."
"He's right." Sinclair put his hand on the Maglite and pushed it to the floor. "We have to stay in the dark, but don't I know you?" he asked of Emile.
"Yeah, you were gonna bust my shop on some bullshit paperwork charge, but then you proved you were a good guy by giving me a couple of days to round up some serial numbers that you guys already had anyway."
"Chicago North Gun Exchange. I remember. I hear they cleaned your place out yesterday."
Jeff turned the corner from the kitchen, his Ruger in hand but not aimed.
Helen put out one hand to warn him back. "Okay kids. Before this becomes a Mexican standoff, I think we need to get out of the dark and into the basement. There's blackout curtains there, so we can put on a light and everybody can lay their cards on the table. But first Mr. Detective Sinclair. Are you working for the rippers or are you on the side of humans."
"The rippers? You mean the vampires? No. We're not working for them. We're on the run from them. Just like you."
*
The power failed just after they got to the basement, but Helen had already placed candles on the wet bar and the seventies-era end tables at either side of the couch. Jeff had brought extra chairs from the dining room and Emile had passed around beers.
"We've met before," said Bertrand to one of the uniformed cops. "I think you're the cop who told me to buy a gun. Gonsalves isn't it?"
Gonsalves smiled and took off his cap, revealing thick curly hair. "Yeah, I remember you because that was when I first started wondering if my partner was bent. You can just call me Simon. And you are—"
"This is the man we're looking for." Sinclair sat in the armchair, his belly sticking out enough that he could rest his beer on it. He was lucky enough to still have a head full of graying hair, but it was thin. "You're Bertrand Allan. For a while you were one of my prime suspects in the ripper murder next door."
"Me!"
"You were first at the crime scene. Your neighbor had disappeared only a few days before, and a couple of weeks later I'm in the neighborhood canvassing the victim's neighbors and you walk by. Seemed like a lot of coincidences."
"He talked to me," said Gonsalves, "but I told him you didn't fit the type, that you were really worried about your neighbor, that you'd known him since you were a kid."
Emile shifted his big bottom on a skinny dining-room chair. "So what the hell's going on at the Chicago P.D. these days that has them working for the rippers?" He pointed with the bottom of his beer bottle. "And don't you try to deny it."
Sinclair gave a heavy sigh. "I won't, but you must understand, many of us are good cops and we resisted the infiltration as long as we could, but over the last month, cops who didn't go with everything have just disappeared. I played along, and when Simon and Julia came to me I advised them to do the same."
The other uniform, an Asian woman who had refused beer but accepted a glass of wine, had taken a seat on
the couch next to Joyce. "We joined the Daylight Brigade," Julia said. "I signed a contract stating that I would take any and all orders from my captain regardless of whether I thought they violated people's rights. He told me we needed to step on the constitution a bit in order to save the city from a crime wave of serial killers."
"We all had to sign this contract," Sinclair said. "At first I didn't even think it was a big deal, but there are layers and layers. Some cops started only coming in for night shift and others got really cagey. By last month I knew it was bad, but the only cops left that I trusted were Gonsalves and Chen here."
Emile twisted open another beer, well on his way to drunk. "So why are you after Bert?"
"I'm not," Sinclair said. "But the cops are. Were you people out at all today? Didn't you see all the house fires that happened last night?"
"We noticed," said Bertrand.
"Right, then I shouldn't have to tell you that we crossed some kind of cusp last night. They hardly care if people see what's going on now except on the news—that they're still careful about. We jumped ship in the middle of the night because we feared for our lives. What we heard coming over the radio was good cops calling for help and night cops answering, and then nothing more from the good cops. We drove to one scene where some good officers were trying to stop a mob from burning a house. When we got there we saw night cops arresting the good cops and leaving the crowd to burn and murder. We had to just watch from up the street. Nothing we could do."
Joyce stood, and Bertrand knew her well enough now to know she was angry just by the stiffness of her movements as she walked to the wet bar to pour more wine. "Why couldn't you do anything," she said. "You're cops for fuck's sake. She turned from the bar to accuse Sinclair, sloshing red wine onto the floor. Bertrand jumped up and mopped the spill with a paper towel from a dispenser under the upper cupboards.
"By the time we knew what was going on," said Sinclair, "they owned the department. I don't know why daytime cops are going with them, but I can tell you that every one of them was an asshole or a creep long before this all began. It's like they seek out guys like that to join their side."
Bertrand threw the paper towel in a wastebasket. "So what brought you here looking for me?"
"We've been driving around all day trying to figure out what to do." Sinclair paused for a sip of his beer before he went on. "I've been on the force for twenty-five years, and suddenly, I'm afraid of cops. When we heard them talking about you on the radio, saw the news reports—"
"There are news reports?" Bertrand had never aspired to fame and was even less comfortable with infamy.
"Oh yeah. Something about you really concerns them. Their higher-ups apparently tried to kill you, but I guess that didn't go so well."
"Rumors of my death are greatly exaggerated."
"Funny. But as the three of us drove around I heard over the radio that you have a hidey-hole somewhere near your home, and they suggested doing a house-to-house search on your block, checking the basements. But I'd seen you up here, and I figured a smart man would hide in a dead man's house. So we tried next door, knocking and then entering through the back window, but that is a dead man's house. But from the backyard, Chen here smelled cooking from next door, and the For Sale sign has become synonymous with missing people. We figured we'd give it a try."
"Christ, I wonder how they knew I had a hide out."
"Oh that was easy. Your buddy Malcolm King told them."
"That son-of-a-bitch!" said Jeff. "I knew we should've killed him!"
"You should've," said Gonsalves. "He's all over the news, weeping about how you're in a sex cult that likes to cut people's throats and drink their blood, how he only escaped because some cops stopped by to check on a noise complaint about screaming."
"I will kill him." Bertrand wanted to fight, but there was no enemy to engage. "I'll drag his sorry ass into the sun and watch him fry."
"They're painting you with their brush," said Sinclair. "That's why I'm here. You've got them convinced that you're going to stir up some kind of trouble."
Bertrand reclaimed his chair and his beer and took a gulp. "I am. Starting tomorrow at four p.m. at McDonalds, I intend to make a lot of trouble."
"All right," shouted Emile, only to be shushed by Helen. "What? Oh right, low profile. I just can't help it. I can't wait to fight."
"You'll get a lot of fighting in the next few days, I think." Sinclair didn't look excited about the prospect. In fact he looked very weary. "I suspect that we'll all be fighting for our lives."
Eighteen - Word at McDonalds
Bertrand opened his eyes, but it was still so dark in the basement that only lumps on the floor indicated the location of his sleeping companions. Helen and Julia Chen, the uniformed cop, had been given the honor of the couches in the bomb shelter, and Emile snored away on the rec-room couch, leaving the rest of them to find space on the carpet, using blankets and comforters from Nolan's linen closet to soften their rest.
What was happening out there? The fridge in the wet bar hummed away, indicating that even though the lights were out, the power was back on. Bertrand rose quietly, retrieved his Glock from the end table and padded up the stairs. He listened carefully at the steel door before he slid back the bolt and crept into the kitchen.
A peek beyond the living-room drapes proved that the first blush of pre-dawn, a faint purple, teased the horizon and played tricks with the eyes. Was it really less black or was it false dawn? How long could the rippers stay out at night?
Bertrand crept up to Nolan's office and booted the dead man's Mac. Nolan had given Bertrand the password—tommYgun—so it was no problem to get online. Bertrand first checked his Facebook account, but like last week, none of his friends from university had posted any updates. They had all vanished, either because they couldn't get online or because they were dead.
He went to Twitter next, and a different world spoke to him through a shallow code. If you knew anything about the rippers it was easy to decipher.
Had some tasty that put up a fight, big guy but down all the same.
Get ur share?
Two times.
Glutton.
Another back and forth caught Bertrand's attention.
Fodder is getting smarter. Waiting for us in basement with firepower. Bugs saving me.
Hit?
Leg.
By tomorrow full heal if u r new. If old, already fixed.
Newbie.
By tomorrow.
So Malcolm hadn't lied: the bugs could fix them. Bertrand Googled bugs but only the standard Wikipedia entries came back—nothing unusual. He tried hybrids and got electric cars; he tried vampires and got only Count Dracula references—all the websites related to modern vampires had vanished. Nolan's blog had vanished.
He checked his e-mail and found one from Erics of the 1000 Souls religion. The subject line read, "They came for you." Bertrand opened it.
"I believe you are a very strong soul, and I am confident you are still alive, otherwise I would not have seen your picture in the news. You have yet to take my test to determine your soul, but I have extrapolated based on your actions, and I believe you are the 'Dormant Hero,' a very special soul. This soul is shared by people who lead ordinary lives until presented with extraordinary challenges, when they rise up to fight. It may be that you will be called upon to lead the resistance against the rippers, unless someone else with a portion of this soul has already taken on that burden. Have you begun to gather disciples? Have you begun to speak before crowds? I have an extensive network of followers, people who believe in both in 1000 Souls and the rippers. If I am correct in my deliberations, you are the first person with the Dormant Hero soul to step forward to meet this crisis. You must contact me so that I can aid you."
Bertrand's fingers paused over the keyboard. Could he trust this guy? All he knew about him was that he had a lousy website and a new-age religion, yet he had followers, and Bertrand needed followers. He couldn't just Twitter
or Facebook or rely on any other social media sites. He needed another avenue to reach large numbers of people.
"Today I speak at McDonalds at four p.m." He added the address. "Only tell followers that you trust—true believers."
Bertrand again deliberated for a time before he sent the e-mail.
He'd either just made a big mistake or cunning move, but he wouldn't have to wait long to find out. In eleven hours he would know the truth about Erics of the 1000 Souls.
*
The large yellow generator behind the restaurant—one big enough to be built into a trailer—roared at full throttle, a white noise the drowned out the chatter of the crowds that pushed toward the front entrance of McDonalds.
"Wow." Jeff patted Bertrand's shoulder. "You the only speaker here today?"
"As far as I know. Dude, there must be hundreds."
The restaurant was packed, but still people pressed close, gathering in large groups around the front and side doors, even around the drive-through window. The rear door of the restaurant opened and Alison—the same young cashier Bertrand had helped—now waved them inside. "Quick," she said. "Mr. Morley is worried they'll riot if you don't speak soon. My dad's speaking now, but most of them say they came to hear you. I don't know how they all heard."
Morley hurried back when he saw them but gave Gonsalves and Chen in their uniforms a suspicious stare. "I thought you said no cops. Who invited them?"
"I did," said Bertrand. "I trust them. Not all the police have been turned by the rippers."
Morley gave a curt nod, but frowned at the uniformed officers nonetheless. "You better come up to the front," he said to Bertrand. "Who is this Erics friend of yours? I thought there'd be about thirty people here—people I trust. I can't guarantee your safety with all these people. One creep with a gun and you're a dead man."
"We don't live in a safe world anymore."
Morley snorted. "We never did."
Yelling came from the front of the kitchen. "You got to gather into fortresses to protect yourselves," shouted a man who stood on the counter facing the crowd. He was thick and balding, but he had the big shoulders and arms of a man who'd grown through his prime years doing heavy labor. "You need weapons to combat the vampires."
The 1000 Souls (Book 1): Apocalypse Revolution Page 16
