The 1000 Souls (Book 1): Apocalypse Revolution by Michael Andre McPherson

hurried to retrieve it. He slid it under his shirt and into the waistband of his jeans. Was he carrying a concealed weapon now? But Bertrand didn't care so much about the law—he had to go out tonight. He stood before his front door for a moment, summoning up his courage before he opened the door. Strange events had caused a strange reaction. He was afraid of the dark.

Six - Skulking
    Bertrand had planned to walk north on his street, but the neighborhood seemed far more alive than it had during the day. A couple kissed passionately under a street light about a stone's throw away, and Bertrand didn't want to disturb their tryst, so he turned south instead. But at the intersection with Armitage, a half-dozen rowdy teenagers threw beer bottles at passing cars and shouted obscenities. Surely someone would call 911, but in the meantime Bertrand knew they were out of control and to be avoided.
    In fact, the whole city seemed to hum more than usual for a quiet summer night, and the traffic noise of fast engines, car horns, booming music and distant sirens all blended together. Distant shouts mingled, some just raucous, like those of the teenagers, but others sounded frightened, maybe even like distant screams.
    Time to be invisible. Time to do the unexpected. Bertrand crossed to Needleman's house, surprised that someone had set a For Sale sign on the front lawn and replaced the screen door. Needleman had heirs? Bertrand couldn't recall Needleman having any visitors from friends or family. The front door proved to be unlocked, perhaps because the mysterious heirs didn't have the key and had correctly judged that there was nothing worth stealing. Bertrand crossed through the house quickly, relying on moonlight and his knowledge of the geography of his own house, the mirror of Needleman's, to guide his steps.
    The back screen door had not been repaired, so Bertrand opened it slowly, careful not to dislodge the remaining shards of glass and announce his presence. To whom? Bertrand eased the door closed behind him and walked down the steps and stood under the 'L' tracks. The weak street light in the alley on the far side of the tracks did little to illuminate under the 'L,' thus leaving Bertrand in darkness. He was invisible. Now if he could just be silent.
    He headed north, weaving a path around cars parked under the 'L', slipping briefly into the alley whenever his way was impeded by a fence, but returning to travel under the 'L' as soon as possible. A train roared overhead, allowing him to run, the slap of his running shoes buried by the noise of wind, steel wheels and electric motors. He slowed back to a stealthy walk after it passed. Only once, when a window clicked open in one of the houses that backed onto the 'L', did Bertrand wonder if he'd lost his mind. What if someone saw him skulking along like this? Would they think he was crazy or worse, a criminal?
    But Bertrand felt safe under the tracks, off the main routes and invisible from prying eyes—dangerous eyes. He remembered the words of the young officer, Gonsalves: "We can't protect you anymore." If teenagers could drink beer in public and throw the bottles at passing cars with impunity, he was certainly correct. There was a breath of anarchy in the summer air.
    When Bertrand reached Webster, he had to turn right to get back to the crime scene, and that meant he had to walk a short distance on the sidewalk like a normal person. He had walked only a few paces along Webster when he was presented with the first puzzle: the street was clear and open for traffic. Where were the police cars and the news vans? Okay, maybe the news people had moved on to more exciting crime scenes, but shouldn't there be at least one police car parked on the street, keeping an eye on the crime scene while it was processed?
    But the street was empty, and the parked cars sat waiting for morning and their owners. No police cruiser lurked among them. It got stranger as he approached the house: it was