The 1000 Souls (Book 1): Apocalypse Revolution (15 page)

"Jeff, dude, if the power keeps failing at this rate, no one's gonna be programming, but I think that's the least of our problems."

"I gotta run, but we really need to talk. I don't think this cult theory of ours is gonna fly. Some very weird shit's going on. Much weirder than a cult if you can believe that."

"Meet me at the gym after you're done work. We may need to get out of Dodge for a bit or something. The city's falling apart."

The barista called out another order in the background of Jeff's phone.

"That's me," he called. "Right, we'll talk, but like I said, don't go home."

The McDonalds was packed, many coming here like Bertrand for a late breakfast because of the power failure. The reputation of this outlet having a generator must have spread far beyond their little neighborhood.

The lights on a building across the street came on while Bertrand waited in line, so he checked his cell and found he now had a signal. He quickly checked his e-mail before the power again failed: one from the Erics nut reminding him to take the survey to determine where he fit among the thousand souls. Another from Whitlock demanding he come into work or face unspecified "disciplinary action." Of course he couldn't threaten to fire Bertrand, because there were no replacements. A text from Joyce came through while he was still trying to think of an answer for Whitlock.

"Need to talk asap. Where r u?"

"Breakfast. U?"

"Fired. Company folding. Emptying bank account. Selling mutual funds."

Bertrand moved forward in line as he absorbed this news. Did she know something he didn't? Emptying bank account? What did she plan to do with the money? What should she do with the money? Father Alvarez's warning about the end of days gave Bertrand an idea.

"Buy food. Lots."

"Next on list. Gym?"

Shouting at the front of the line distracted Bertrand for a moment before he replied. "6pm."

"C u."

A stir in the crowd of the restaurant warned Bertrand that something was wrong. People from all the lines turned to look at the front of Bertrand's line, making him step to one side so that he could determine the cause of the disturbance.

A leather jacket and a big bum in old blue jeans were all Bertrand could see of the man at the front of the line, but he could hear the shouting.

"I want a fucking Big Mac. That's what this restaurant is all about ain't it! Big Macs. I don't care if it's breakfast. I don't want an Egg McMuffin. I want a Big, Big Mac."

The cashier was plump and young and flustered. Her reply was inaudible this far back in the line, but it clearly wasn't what Leather Jacket guy wanted to hear, because he reached across the counter, showing way more plumber's butt than anyone could want to see, and grabbed her by her polyester uniform. "I won't take no for an answer!"

"Let go! You'll rip my top! Let go!"

Bertrand moved before he'd even decided to, running between the lines and up to the front. The desire to fight—to do something after all the stress—took over. He kneed Leather Jacket hard in the tailbone, not really a karate move, but he was improvising on an exposed weakness.

Air gushed from Leather Jacket's lungs because of the pain, and he released the cashier so that he could turn to face Bertrand, who by this time discovered that the Glock had magically appeared in his hand.

He pointed it at Leather Jacket's ruddy face and bloodshot eyes, holding the weapon with one hand as Emile had taught him and supporting the gun hand with his free hand. Leather Jacket looked hung-over and terrified.

To Bertrand's surprise—too everyone's surprise—the big man burst into tears.

"Please," he said, backing along the counter. "I don't want to die. Please, I know I'm being crazy but I didn't get any sleep last night. The screams, so much frigging screaming and there's blood all over the sidewalk down the street but there's no bodies." The man drew a shuddering breath. "What if they come for me tonight? I just want a Big Mac."

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 really 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.

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.