Joyce's hand did not stay frozen, but instead pressed flat to his chest and began to move in slow circles, descending over his belly and down to the band of his boxers, the destination terrifyingly obvious. She was about to explore his most personal anatomy.
Was he dreaming? Could something this incredible, this wonderful really be happening? Joyce's fingers delved under the elastic of the boxers, but the descent stopped there, her hand moving in slow circles again but not descending further. Was this as far as she intended to go? He wanted to grab her hand and shove it down onto himself, but that would be crude. How to let her know that he was okay with this action, that he was excited? Her hand was right underneath his erection, for God's sake.
Her fingers brushed his pubic hair and his breath again escaped in a rush. This must've been the signal she had been waiting for, because all coyness vanished and she took a firm grip on him, provoking another gasp. That was it! There was no more pretending they weren't making love.
He turned toward her, finding her forehead with his lips, her hip with his hand. Her face tipped toward him and they kissed with a passion and shamelessness that is easiest in complete black. They couldn't see each other's expressions even for a moment; they couldn't see each other's bodies. All contact was through touch and taste.
She wore panties and her shirt, so Bertrand had been right when he had guessed before sleep that she'd shucked her jeans. His hand slipped under her panties and around her buttock, pulling her close to him and pushing down her underwear.
Suddenly she was gone from him, releasing him and turning away, breaking free from his grasp. What the—? What had he done wrong? How had he offended her? But her sharp movements enlightened him and filled him with new hope. The creak of the couch suggested that she was raising her hips to remove her panties. Another movement in the dark told him that she'd sat up, and a rustle of clothing suggested she was removing her top, getting totally naked. If only he was right then that meant ... that meant his boxers needed to go. He shoved them down barely in time, for she turned to him and pushed him onto his back, rising up to straddle his hips. Did she know he was a virgin? Is that why she had taken control of their lovemaking? Her lips found his even as his erection brushed into her pubic hair, Joyce holding just high enough off him to prevent penetration.
Bertrand had to repress a surge, a near climax as her nipples brushed into his chest hair. She was topless! She was naked even though he could only see her by touch, and it was more exciting than seeing her breasts and cupping at them like a teenage boy. This was making love! Her hand took hold of him again and she rose up so that she could get over him, aiming his erection to near vertical. She pushed herself down onto him, working the tightness to slowly—excruciatingly slowly—get him inside her. Her lips never left his, but she began to gasp with each descent until she had him completely enveloped.
For a moment they both froze, locked together, joined as one with neither wanting to end the moment, but nature took over and Bertrand's hips thrust up of their own accord. The spell was broken, and they both moved urgently now, Joyce using her position to rise up as far as she could, Bertrand thrusting up to meet her as she descended. Their lovemaking was unpracticed but eager, their motions not always in sync at first, but becoming more rhythmic as they progressed, as their passion rose.
Bertrand couldn't hold back, couldn't wait any longer, but she cried out and rode him to their ends, both gasping and sweating until they settled, still locked together, still kissing. They drifted back to sleep in that embrace.
Bertrand did wake later, vaguely worried that they would be awkward with one another in the morning, but he pushed this thought away and slipped back to sleep. Surely there could be no consequences from something so great.
Twenty-Six - Mr. Anti-Christ
The alarm on Bertrand's watch beeped out, demanding attention. His left arm was pinned, and it took him a moment to remember that it was Joyce—naked, warm Joyce—snuggled against him. He managed to reach over and turn off the alarm, hoping not to disturb her more than necessary, but she stirred.
"Is it time then?" asked her voice in the dark.
"Yeah, you can stay here and sleep if you want."
"The hell I will." She vanished from his side, the warmth lingering to remind him of how close she had been to his body. "If you're going to talk to Mr. Anti-Christ, I want to hear what this creep has to say."
The light snapped on, and in the sudden glare of the bare bulb Joyce stood fully naked, and Bertrand had to suppress the urge to pull her back down onto the couch. She was so beautiful. She looked down at him, the covers already tossed aside, his instant erection in plain sight, his body open to scrutiny, and for a moment her eyes widened and her expression softened, a smile teasing her lips.
"Maybe later." She turned away to search for her clothing.
Bertrand fervently hoped "later" would be soon.
*
He sat before Nolan's computer, careful to ensure that the wall behind him was the generic paneling of the basement, that there were no paintings or distinguishing features that someone might recognize. Joyce had agreed that she should stay out of sight. Bertrand was already known, was already a public figure and a target, but she could remain anonymous.
At precisely three a.m., Skype rang and Bertrand answered.
There sat the man who called himself Vlad the Scourge, the same man, 'the boss' they had met at Goth Knights. He still dressed in his anachronistic mix of modern and medieval, the black shirt now hidden by a black Kevlar vest, but the heavy cloak still wrapped his shoulders. Behind him an undressed wall of rock implied an underground hideout, but the lamp hanging to the right could have come from any modern lighting showroom.
"Greetings, greetings." Vlad's right eye still twitched. "It is so good of you to agree to speak to me. I have been assured that you have become quite famous. You have gone viral as they say."
"You could too, if you simply post a couple of YouTube videos explaining to everyone what you're doing."
"Ah, but you are already doing that so well. I suspect you will make more of these videos, but I can't promise the power will stay up. Electricity is what sustains your resistance, and so we must do without it for a time."
"Why do you hate people so much? Why all the killing?"
Vlad shook his head. "This should not concern you. Your desire should only be to save good men, God-fearing men, from the scourge that approaches, and this is why I have contacted you."
Joyce—sitting off to Bertrand's right and out of view of the camera—shifted with impatience.
Who was this guy, really? Bertrand couldn't keep the anger out of his voice. "It is my desire to save all men and women from this 'scourge' as you call it. Are you patient zero? Did this plague start with you?"
But Vlad again shook his head, keeping his calm even though Bertrand felt he'd hit a nerve. "I am God's Scourge. But as Noah was offered a chance to save himself and his followers from the flood, I offer you a chance to save yourself and your followers from the scourge. There is an island in the Caribbean called Barbados, and my followers have yet to reach it. It is warm. There are many good golf courses that could be converted to farms, the population has shrunk over the last few months because the tourism has collapsed, so you would be welcome. If you and your followers agree to leave Chicago, I will provide you a with plane and a daytime pilot who can fly you there very quickly."
"Why would you do this for us?"
"Because the world should have men of strong morals in it, and you can be their leader, their patriarch. You could write a new book of the bible to warn people away from wickedness and into piety."
"Come on! You're the most evil man I've ever met, already responsible for the deaths of thousands, and you speak of piety?"
Vlad leaned forward and as he clasped his hands. "Thousands? No. I am responsible now for the death of millions all over the world. I am the Scourge, and I am offering you the only way out of this apocalypse. Yo
u are a brave man and my admiration grew when I saw you leap from that truck and attack my command post. I considered converting you right there, but God spoke to me and told the time was not right. That is why I departed the command post from the other side and let you live."
"Crap, you were there! You're the guy who fed on all the cops in that mobile home."
"This is not important now. May I arrange the plane for you? I know you will need time to gather those whom you deem fit to survive, who are men of God."
Joyce shook her head, but Bertrand was way ahead of her.
"No. I'll not abandon the people of Chicago. I will find you though, and this time I will bring an army. You're a sick twisted fuck. How can you brag about killing millions?" Bertrand wanted to draw his Glock and wave it at the camera, but it would be a useless and childish gesture, so he restrained his anger.
"Spoken like a true man of God. I offer you sanctuary, but you turn your back on it in order to save others. My first judgment of you is correct. You are above other men."
"I am not! If you so believe in God, why don't you pass some lead through your brain."
Vlad sat back in his chair. "Because suicide is a sin."
"And murder isn't? You're unbelievably twisted."
"I only take the godless, and they do not deserve life. I do have one other offer for you: join me. I can give you the gift of eternal life."
"Never! You'd make me into a serial killer, a ripper who could only live on blood."
Vlad turned to someone off screen. "You see? That is a holy man. He is offered eternal life, eternal safety and he chooses instead to fight for the righteous." Vlad turned back to Bertrand. "God instructed me to spare you last night, but I must now promise that if we meet, I fear he will not again intercede for you. I will be forced to convert you or kill you."
"And I promise that if we meet, you're toast. I won't be sparing my ammo."
"Farewell." Vlad raised a hand to wave.
"Fuck off asshole."
Vlad ignored the rudeness, instead turning to someone off screen and flicking down with one finger as if turning off an invisible light switch. There was an awkward moment for Bertrand, during which Vlad turned back to him and smiled serenely without speaking. Bertrand had just decided to again ask why Vlad was doing this, when the power failed, killing the computer and plunging Joyce and Bertrand into darkness.
Twenty-Seven - The Heretic
A knock at the door soon after sunrise disturbed Bertrand and Joyce from their morning coffee, which they had made using an old camp percolator pot on the barbecue on Nolan's back deck. Bertrand immediately drew his Glock, and Joyce quietly picked up her machine pistol, both quietly tiptoeing to the front door, but before Bertrand could even put his eye to the peep hole, Jeff shouted to them. "It's me guys! Don't shoot now."
Bertrand yanked open the door to find Jeff, his Ruger in a holster at his side as if ready for Wild-West gunfight. His face was smudged with dirt, and his jacket still had stuffing sticking out from the close pass of a bullet.
"Did you guys ever miss a party last night." He grinned and pushed his way into the house, slamming the door behind him and locking it. "Hey, do I smell coffee?"
"What happened," asked Bertrand, trailing him into the dining room. "You look like hell."
"I'm actually good." Jeff plunked his backpack down on the table and unzipped it to pull out his silver laptop. "But I got some stuff I need to show you. That Bobs, dude, is she dynamite or what?"
Bertrand stepped back into the kitchen to grab a mug for Jeff while he booted his laptop. "I hope black is okay because we don't have any cream. I do have sugar though."
"Black and harsh is good." Jeff sat, and Joyce pulled up a chair so that she could see his screen.
"What happened?" she asked.
"Chaos. Thanks, Bert." Jeff accepted the mug and had a sip before he went on. "About a couple of hundred rippers came at us, but it wasn't like with the cops the night before, where there was some organization and all. They just charged for the front doors of the church, more like zombies but smarter and easier to kill. I don't think they were even supposed to be there, because a helicopter flew overtop a couple of times and a voice on a speaker kept shouting that this attack was not authorized and that they must withdraw."
"Not authorized!" said Bertrand. He and Joyce shared a glance, their conversation with Mr. Anti-Christ foremost on Bertrand's mind. "Then why did they attack? I assumed you stopped them."
"Not me—Bobs. Remember she talked about bulldozers? Yesterday while we were sweeping basements, she had Barry raze a bunch of houses close to the church. They trucked away the garbage up a few streets to block the way. I'll have to show you the easy way in. That's the kill zone at night. Barry left up houses like the one Emile and I were at last night, ground floor windows all bricked in and stuff. We're the little forts protecting the church and we're armed to the teeth, and a damn good thing too. The rippers came down the easy streets that aren't blocked, and Bobs ordered us by walkie to wait until they had pretty much reached the church doors, and then we opened fire."
"Holy crap," said Joyce. "So what went down?"
"They did. We're still picking up the bodies."
"Shit!" said Bertrand. "And they ignored this helicopter telling them to stay away?"
"Yeah, a real military looking thing too, maybe a Black Hawk. For a minute I wondered if they were gonna fire on the crowd or on one of our block houses, but once we opened fire they bailed—I mean left, I don't mean jumped out."
"Wow." Bertrand had been standing by the window, but he sat heavily now. "We have no government if they're letting us get away with bulldozing houses and shooting hundreds."
"But the rippers must be starving." Joyce got up to refill her mug. "If they're ignoring orders from their own boss, if they're raiding a heavily fortified position—like, why aren't they going out into the suburbs and finding people who aren't prepared?"
Bertrand thought of the urban legends about piles of bodies in farm fields. "Could there be that many gone? Millions?" he asked. "Is it that bad?"
"Actually it's getting weirder by the minute." Jeff opened a browser. "I've got a bunch of news items cached that I found yesterday when the power was still up. Did you know Terry shot some footage of you fighting outside church? They put it up on YouTube and it went viral again. Then YouTube took it down, but way too late. It's everywhere."
A grainy image taken from midway up the church tower showed the riot police, the crowds and suddenly Bertrand's five-ton ramming the mobile command vehicle. The camera zoomed on the cop being attacked by the ripper with the knife and pulled back when Bertrand killed him. He was featured more than Joyce as the chief of police charged them, taking all those bullets to bring down. The name Bertrand of Chicago appeared in white print below a still capture of his face, and even Bertrand had to admit that with the anger in his eyes and the shotgun in his hands, he looked fierce. It was followed by a clip of his speech at St. Mike's when he shouted, "Our blood will be spilled, but not to feed the rippers!"
"Who put this up?" asked Joyce.
"One of Bobs's people."
"So she's like totally in charge there now?"
Jeff shrugged. "I kind of thought Father Alvarez was in charge, but he keeps referring everyone to her. She and her dad, they were military history buffs in a big way, and her dad was in the National Guard. But listen, you got to see more. Look at this."
Jeff showed them the LA Times website, which featured photo and video of long lines-ups to donate blood, with uniformed soldiers standing guard with M-16s. The headline stated: Doing Their Part.
"Holy crap," said Joyce. "They've given up. They're just doing what they're told."
"Not everywhere." Jeff switched to a Texas blogger, who had footage and photos of soldiers fighting soldiers during the day through the streets of Dallas. The city looked more like Stalingrad than a modern city—many buildings smashed, their rubble strewn across the streets.
"What the hell?" said Bertrand.
"Civil war." Jeff clicked through more examples while he spoke. "I did the best I could yesterday to get a bigger picture of what's going on, but it looks like the west coast is under martial law, where people are forced to donate blood for the rippers. That's everything west of the Rockies. In the south, some states have called up their National Guard troops and seceded from the union because the federal government is riddled with rippers. Like, South Carolina says it right on their website, they're even using your word: rippers."
"Really?" Bertrand sat back, turning away from the destroyed buildings and shouting troops on Jeff's computer to look out the back window of Nolan's at a clear blue sky and singing birds.
"Oh yeah, and it gets weirder. This was Wikipedia yesterday morning, then later and then last night before the power crashed. See how the entries for ripper keep getting updated? There was an edit war going on, one side trying to change the definition of ripper to non-supernatural vampire. The other side was trying to change it back to just references to Jack the Ripper and that kind of stuff. The definition finally got locked out by an administrator, keeping the old definition."
"So they own Wikipedia?" Bertrand stood and walked over to the window. How long ago was it that Nolan had stood here when Bertrand and Joyce had run through his back yard? Three months ago? Nearly four. If they had known then how far the rippers had gone, would they have run for the hills like Barry had planned?
"Not just Wikipedia. They own Google," said Jeff. "Don't even bother searching for your name or ripper or even vampire anymore. They own Wikipedia, Facebook, Twitter and pretty much any ISP. They keep taking down blogs about rippers, even cached blogs like Nolan's old blog posts. They even took down your buddy Erics's website."
The 1000 Souls (Book 1): Apocalypse Revolution Page 25
