Jeff began to laugh, weariness falling aside, and to Bertrand's surprise—maybe to Jeff's too—they embraced, pounding each other on the back.
"Oh dude," said Bertrand when they stood awkwardly apart. "I so thought we were toast that time. I guess all those years playing Call of Duty weren't a total waste."
They both laughed, because the video game had done nothing to prepare them for real combat. Bertrand had to suppress memories that flashed before him, the startled face of the first man he ran down with the truck; shooting the ripper cop several times to kill him; finding Mike Sinclair's body and listening to his last words as he bled out: "Had to try. Sorry—failed. Glad you're here. Like to see sunrise." The only other person Bertrand had seen who had looked so pale was the first ripper victim he and Joyce had found three months ago.
Mike Sinclair's body now lay beside the statue of St. Michael, the weak sun ensuring that he wasn't infected with the parasites. He would not be a ripper.
"Bert," said Jeff when their laughter had chopped short, perhaps because Bertrand had looked back at Mike's body. "You gotta go in. They were promised a hero last night and they got more than they know how to thank. Even the Erics people can't stop talking about you, and some of them are in the church too."
"But I'm not the only hero here."
"No, but your face warning people in McDonalds is the face that went viral; you're the face that people have watched over the last couple of weeks urging them to fight, and right now they need the simplicity of a hero. Go in. Give them a short speech like you did in McDonalds, or like you do in those vids that Terry's always posting, and then lets have a drink to celebrate the living and remember the dead." It was Jeff's turn to look down the stairs and back to Mike's bloodied body.
"We've got a lot of work to do." Bertrand shook his head.
"Then that's what you tell them."
Father Alvarez led Bertrand up the aisle, Joyce and Jeff not far behind. At the front of the church Bobs and Terry waited like a groom and his best man, but Bobs wore a sweat-stained white T-shirt and had an AR-15 slung over her shoulder. The church, despite the cold outside, was quite hot, the huge crowds now making up for the boiler's stops and starts caused by the power fluctuations.
"Thanks for coming and bringing an army," Bobs shouted so that Bertrand could hear her over the crowd. Bertrand resisted the urge to pat her on the head. Could this little elfin waif really be so violent? Father Alvarez had said that it was Bobs who had organized and led the snipers, and when Bertrand had attacked, Bobs had led her little army in a sortie out of the church to join the slaughter and help rout the rippers. Bobs yelled something else, and Bertrand bent his ear close to her lips so that she could repeat it.
"Talk them down. Then we got to get raiding. A lot of them must've gone into basements in our hood to beat the sun." She waved to the pulpit.
Bertrand climbed the stairs more afraid than he had been all night. What to say? There must be a thousand people, chanting as if he were a rock star. Yet a calmness rose up, a strength that he'd have thought impossible even just yesterday. It was almost as if a little voice had whispered, "Be the rock star."
He raised both fists, arms out from his sides at forty-five degree angles.
They cheered! A roaring cheer that only an amplified microphone could silence, but still Bertrand had to shout into it to be heard.
"Last night!" More cheering. "Last night we took back Old Town!"
The crowd screamed, and Bertrand took a moment to take in the sea of faces, all races, all ages, all hopeful.
"But our work has just begun. The rippers are everywhere."
That settled the crowd a bit, because that was not news to cheer.
"The rippers are in Washington, in Springfield, in our own city hall." He put out his hands again to quell the shouts of agreement, the anger at the government. "It is time to take back our city, our state and our country."
The crowd exploded in cheers, but Bertrand again held out his hands to quiet.
"This will not be an easy task, but it is the task that our generation has been called upon to perform. Some ... some will lament that we see these evil days, but I say thank God that we can take on this task and spare our children from this burden. I say thank God that we have been entrusted with so important a mission, so important a war that in generations to come they will look back on this day and wish they had been here in this church at this moment, will hope that they would have been brave enough and strong enough to do what we must now do. They will call us a great generation!"
Again the cheers were deafening, and Bertrand remembered Bobs's words: Talk them down.
"But now we are here, and the road ahead will not be an easy one. It is a road that is fraught with danger, that will bring disasters as well as triumphs, that will bring tears and pain as well as joy and victory. We must travel this road now, and I promise you that we will lose friends and family members on this journey, but we will save millions. Our blood will be spilled, but not to feed the rippers!"
The crowd still cheered.
"Today," said Bertrand. "Today we must work and fight so that tonight we will not fear. Today we continue the struggle, and when you are downhearted and hungry and tired and afraid, remember this day. Remember that we were victorious. We saved this church. We saved the people of Old Town, and we will save our city, our state and our country."
The crowd again roared—even louder.
But Bobs had asked him to talk them down, and that sounded wise.
"So today we must begin. I know you're all tired, but now we must act. Old Town now has many rippers hiding in basements because they can't bear the light. Today we must drag them out into the light!"
More cheers proved that he didn't know how to calm them.
"Today we must insure that the corrupt government of our city can't send police to arrest us and hand us over to the rippers like they did with Detective Mike Sinclair!"
Bertrand couldn't help himself. He couldn't think of anything to say that was calming, that would really allow them to go to work. A movement caught his peripheral vision, and he turned to see Father Alvarez moving to the stairs to the pulpit. Bertrand seized the chance, hurrying down the stairs and waving Alvarez up to the pulpit.
"Now," said Alvarez, his manner calm and practiced, the pulpit his home. "Now we must give thanks for the miracle of last night, for our rescue. In the name of the father, and the son and the holy spirit."
Bertrand stood beside Joyce, his hands clasped together and his head bowed, but rather than prayer his thoughts were with Joyce. Would she ever consider standing at an altar with him for a happier purpose? Would she marry him? For last night, as she'd leapt from her side of the truck, he knew he wanted not to just get laid, but to be with her, to have children with her. Out of the corner of his eye he watched her pray, memorizing every curve, the blood smudged on her cheek, every imperfection that made her beautiful—that made her Joyce.
*
Father Alvarez ushered them into his meeting room, the carpets a deep red, the carved crucifix large and gaunt. Even as they sat, Helen arrived with food and assistants, younger boys and girls eager to help but too young to carry guns. Bertrand's stomach growled as the plates of scrambled eggs hit the tables, the children dispensing knives and forks, glasses for water and mugs for coffee.
"The eggs are powdered." Helen slapped a spoonful on Bertrand's plate. "But I guess we should be happy that we've at least got that. Part of what we need to talk about here is how we're going to keep feeding these people. The grocery stores as far as Wisconsin are stripped clean."
Father Alvarez sat at the head of the table, Bertrand to his right. Several church leaders had wanted to join this meeting, but Alvarez had conspicuously cut them out, promising a later meeting.
"This is a meeting about war, not God's work," he had said to one gray haired gentleman before closing the door.
Bertrand found it interesting who Alvarez did allow to this meeting.
Whitlock was there, looking as military trim as always. He'd served with Jeff's company, and being ex-marine had performed very well, but he didn't look comfortable. Was it because few people here were military? Was it because he wasn't Catholic?
Bobs sat to Father Alvarez's left, but her friend Terry wasn't there.
"Got him doing other things," was all Bobs said as she sat to eat.
Barry St. John and Martin Morley sat side-by-side at the far end of the table, a contrast of different ethnic origins and body types, and yet the two men seemed cut from the same practical cloth, and they shared their own stories of the night's battle as they ate.
Emile was here, but whether it was because he'd been the leader of the third company or because Helen wanted him there for breakfast, Bertrand didn't know. Simon Gonsalves and Julia Chen were there, perhaps because Alvarez wanted honest police represented as a tribute to Mike Sinclair's sacrifice.
The chatter over breakfast was unlike anything Bertrand had ever heard before the rippers, but it was what he had become used to during the last two weeks of going out with Joyce's Raiders.
"One guy took three bullets—"
"I took one out with a headshot and that worked right away—dropped like a stone."
"I guess the parasites can't rebuild brain cells."
"Then Emile came around the corner of the truck—"
"So this Erics guy says something about the 1000 live on and gives us this weird fist-in-the-air salute."
That last comment caught Bertrand's attention. Where were representatives of the Erics companies? Surely they were the real saviors of last night, providing over three-hundred fighters. Where was that company leader Bertrand had met? Murray, that was his name. Why hadn't Alvarez invited Murray to this meeting?
For their part, Jeff and Joyce had elected to skip the meeting and talk with the raiders to find out who had done well, who had died and who could be trusted as a lieutenant.
Father Alvarez insisted on leading grace before the meal and a thanksgiving prayer after. Bertrand was happy that he got the sign of the cross correct the second time, watching the priest out of the corner of his eye to make sure.
"Once again," Alvarez said when he'd finished his prayer. "I thank you all for the miracle of last night, but as Bertrand said, we must forego sleep today to ensure we're ready for tonight."
Helen sat and lit a cigarette while he was speaking. Alvarez raised his eyebrows but didn't comment. She blew a smoke ring into the air and spoke before anyone else had a chance. "You also need to think about how you're going to feed all these people. There's a lot of volunteers down there in the basement willing to cook, but the grocery store shelves are empty, and from what I saw last night, I don't think that's going to change anytime soon. What's odd is that over the last few weeks, I've noticed the grocery store shelves had been emptying over night. I wonder why the hell the rippers are taking food?"
"We'll go farther with our house-to-house searches later in the week," Bobs said, looking as if she'd had a full night's sleep. Her blonde hair was combed straight, her cheeks clean and she'd changed from the T-shirt into a white blouse. She could have gone to college today and no one would have guessed that she had been in a battle.
Helen nodded and blew another smoke ring high into the air, perhaps as an attempt to minimize the secondhand smoke. "That's a good idea, but you'll need to remember we've got a whole winter ahead. There should be a lot of canned food out there somewhere."
"We'll search for rippers and food." Bobs leaned forward and clasped her hands together, looking eager to get to work. "But first we need to clear out each basement within a mile of the church, purge the rippers that got away from our neighborhood before dark. By tonight we need to block the roads and laneways in a ring around us with buses and concrete barriers and whatever, so that the police can't get cars or urban assault vehicles or anything else down here. Rippers can't fly like frigging vampires, and I bet they hate walking just as much as the rest of us."
Bertrand looked to Whitlock, the only one with actual military training. "What do you think, John?"
Whitlock looked into his mug and then looked up at Bobs. "I think you should put her in charge. It's all really good."
Whitlock had witnessed Bobs lead over a hundred from the church into the fight, and earlier he had spoken to Bertrand of her with awe. "As cool under fire as any marine I've ever seen," he had said.
Father Alvarez nodded his agreement. "Roberta has certainly earned the loyalty of many, but let's not speak about leaders or command structure today. We have too much to do." He stood, his hands still on the table as he regarded each in their turn while he spoke. "I propose that we divide up the neighborhood and begin the house-to-house search immediately. I have older church members in the basement with a large city map now: they are too old for fighting but are eager to help by coordinating our efforts. Break yourselves into groups of three or four people—that's all you need for a basement—and select a route, making sure you tell our volunteers."
"Except for Barry," said Bobs, looking up at the priest.
"Ah, yes. Mr. St. John, I believe you are in construction. If we might have a word, we have a task for you."
Bertrand looked across at Whitlock—his old boss—to see how he felt about being bossed around by a priest and his teenage sidekick, but Whitlock was nodding his agreement. Religion and old hierarchies had vanished out of necessity.
"Right," said Bertrand. "I'm going with Jeff, Joyce, and I'm going right now. Only ten hours till sunset."
Everyone stood.
*
It was Joyce's turn to go into the basement first, but it was Bertrand's house.
"Come on," Bertrand said. "I know every nook and cranny. It only makes sense for me to go first."
Joyce nodded her grudging consent and stepped aside. Tear gas didn't work on the rippers the way it worked on humans, or they would simply toss one of Emile's canisters into the basement and wait to see if anyone came out. Bertrand headed down the stairs, his shotgun leading the way as he searched for targets, although because the windows hadn't been covered, he thought it unlikely.
He fought to desire to lie down on his bed for just a minute, even in its rumpled state. How long ago had he moved it down here thinking that he could be safe with bars on the windows? Three months? It seemed a lifetime ago.
The furnace room was his destination, the last place they'd seen his former fellow employee, Malcolm. The door stood open a crack, the first clue that there were no rippers inside. Still, Bertrand pulled the door open and stepped back quickly, the shotgun aimed into the dark. The power had been off since midday, but enough light leaked through the west-facing windows of Bertrand's basement that it was easy to see that the little room was empty, that the handcuffs and Malcolm were long gone.
But there was something new, very new. It was a letter taped to the copper pipe where Malcolm had been handcuffed. Bertrand's name had been inscribed on the envelope by a penman so masterful that it bordered on calligraphy, and the 'mister' was spelled out in full: Mister Bertrand Allan.
"What the fuck?" said Joyce.
Bertrand tore into the envelope to find a crisp sheet of quality paper with more of the same great penmanship. It was dated November 10th—yesterday.
"Dear Mr. Allan," Bertrand read aloud for Joyce and Jeff. "I salute your victories and applaud your desire to ally yourself with the Church. You have proven the most worthy adversary I have encountered since arriving on this new continent, and it is refreshing to meet a man who will sacrifice all for the most holy members of the Church. In my time we valued men like you. It is my hope that we should meet before long, for I would talk with you. Alas, I know that if we were to meet face-to-face you would make every effort to end my life—as you should. So that we may talk without fear of attack, I have arranged for a Skype account. Please feel free to call me tonight, or any other night. My preference is three a.m., but I will have someone at my computer in case yo
u prefer another appointment. I will arrange for the power to be on all night."
Jeff had walked over to glance out the windows into the street—his height allowing him an easy view out the ground level windows—but he turned sharply at the last statement. "He will arrange for the power to be on. He can do that? He has that much control of power stations, the grid, the government?"
Jeff's phone trilled, causing him to raise his eyebrows in surprise. "I guess the power's back on. Hello ... hello can you hear me. Yeah, no, I've got a bad signal. Wait, wait, I'll get out of the basement." He headed up the stairs, switching on the basement lights on his way up and proving that the power had indeed come back on.
Bertrand stared at the letter, trying not to show how disheartened he was by this missive. Remember you're tired, he thought. You're very, very tired. He didn't want to read out the signature, but Joyce was already reading it over his shoulder.
"Vlad the Scourge," she said. "Oh my God, this guy is a complete nutcase."
"One with a lot of followers. One thing I still don't get, if this is happening all over the world—and sure looks like that—how could this guy be doing it all. He wrote this letter sometime before dawn this morning. He was right in this room unless he sent someone else to deliver it, but he sure as hell couldn't have been far away, so I gotta wonder, how can he be the mastermind? I mean someone's got to be spearheading this thing in England, France, hell the whole continent of Africa or Asia, Australia. The world's a big place."
"Maybe it was well planned." Joyce closed the door to the furnace room just as the forced-air gas heating kicked on. "Maybe he recruited people a bit at a time, building up numbers until he was ready and then sent them out into the world to do ... whatever it is they're doing. Spreading the disease? The scourge?"
Bertrand folded the letter and stuffed it into his inner jacket pocket. "It's getting late. We should clear up this street and head back to the church."
"Not tonight," called Jeff. "I talked to Emile earlier and he says it's completely packed. Bobs and he and a bunch of others are setting up in blockhouses, one at each corner of the compass from the church. Barry and some other construction types have been hard at work today, bulldozing most of a couple of streets, apparently to create fields of fire and lines of sight."
The 1000 Souls (Book 1): Apocalypse Revolution Page 23
