The 1000 Souls (Book 1): Apocalypse Revolution Read Online Free
Author: Michael Andre McPherson
Tags: Action & Adventure
that different from Needleman's in layout, but it was clean, the sofa only ten years old. Bertrand had just purchased the La-Z-Boy last year, and the huge flat-screen TV that hung on one wall had been his birthday gift to himself.
"You don't think I had something to do with this?"
Gonsalves turned to Bertrand. "May I see your shoes please, the ones you wore while you were in Mr. Needleman's house."
The ones with Needleman's blood on them. Bertrand stooped into the front-hall closet. How had this gone so strange? Why were they treating him like a suspect instead of a concerned neighbor? He looked at the bottom of the Nikes as he handed them over, appalled that he'd forgotten the blood, that he'd put them away when he had burst into his front hall, already speaking to the 911 operator on his cell. One sole was brown and sticky. Any other day this might have turned Bertrand's stomach, but he had some new superpower this evening, some calm presence that strengthened his heart.
Gonsalves studied the shoes and leaned toward the stained one to sniff.
"That's blood alright. Bring them outside please."
Big Belly returned from the kitchen. "Dinner's in the microwave," was all he said before he started up the stairs. It wasn't clear to whom he was speaking.
Bertrand followed Gonsalves to his car, which was stopped in the middle of the street with the flashing lights quietly clicking away. Gonsalves produced a very large Ziploc and held it open for Bertrand. The order was obvious: hand over the shoes.
"Look here," Bertrand said while placing the shoes into the bag. "I was just trying to help. You should've heard that scream. It was, like ... It was a dying scream." But Bertrand knew that he had no true experience with death. He'd often imagined his parents' last moments, but he hadn't been with them, sitting in the backseat of the car. How would he know the sound of a dying scream?
Gonsalves made a note on the Ziploc with a Sharpie and placed it in the trunk of the car, slamming the lid. He again pulled out the notebook.
"Mr. Allan. Why don't you walk me through this? Start from coming home."
Bertrand left out his panic attack. That had nothing to do with Needleman's disappearance, did it? Unless one assumed that Bertrand had just totally lost it and started seeing and hearing things. But the blood was real. So maybe the scream was real, maybe the dark figure carrying the body was real. Each time Bertrand replayed that moment in his head, it seemed more and more like the figure had been carrying a body.
Big Belly officer returned in time for the end of the tale. "So let me get this straight: lights on, nobody's home, the screaming could be drunk teenagers on a patio three streets away, but you gotta waste my time because your drunken neighbor cut himself." He got into the passenger side of car, reaching over to start it before pulling out his cell to return to his texting.
Gonsalves flipped the notebook closed and removed his cap long enough to brush the sweat from his brow, his short black curls plastered to his forehead. "Look, I think you're a good guy, Mr. Allan, so I'm going to give you some advice, not as a police officer, but as one concerned citizen to another. The Ripper killed again this evening, so that's number six. This guy doesn't seem to care if his victims are old men or young women. You were right to call us." He glanced over at his partner, but the window was up and the car's air conditioning on full. "But you were wrong to go into his house. What if you did catch the Chicago Ripper in the act? It's not like I'm giving away any secrets if I tell you that the freak is brutal with a knife. I mean, don't you watch the news? You wouldn't have stood a chance."
Bertrand nodded, ashamed of his softness and his sweaty lethargy. "You're right, of course. It was just that I felt like superman for a minute there. I heard him scream and I felt stronger, ready to fight." His ears burned. What ridiculous nonsense.
But
"You don't think I had something to do with this?"
Gonsalves turned to Bertrand. "May I see your shoes please, the ones you wore while you were in Mr. Needleman's house."
The ones with Needleman's blood on them. Bertrand stooped into the front-hall closet. How had this gone so strange? Why were they treating him like a suspect instead of a concerned neighbor? He looked at the bottom of the Nikes as he handed them over, appalled that he'd forgotten the blood, that he'd put them away when he had burst into his front hall, already speaking to the 911 operator on his cell. One sole was brown and sticky. Any other day this might have turned Bertrand's stomach, but he had some new superpower this evening, some calm presence that strengthened his heart.
Gonsalves studied the shoes and leaned toward the stained one to sniff.
"That's blood alright. Bring them outside please."
Big Belly returned from the kitchen. "Dinner's in the microwave," was all he said before he started up the stairs. It wasn't clear to whom he was speaking.
Bertrand followed Gonsalves to his car, which was stopped in the middle of the street with the flashing lights quietly clicking away. Gonsalves produced a very large Ziploc and held it open for Bertrand. The order was obvious: hand over the shoes.
"Look here," Bertrand said while placing the shoes into the bag. "I was just trying to help. You should've heard that scream. It was, like ... It was a dying scream." But Bertrand knew that he had no true experience with death. He'd often imagined his parents' last moments, but he hadn't been with them, sitting in the backseat of the car. How would he know the sound of a dying scream?
Gonsalves made a note on the Ziploc with a Sharpie and placed it in the trunk of the car, slamming the lid. He again pulled out the notebook.
"Mr. Allan. Why don't you walk me through this? Start from coming home."
Bertrand left out his panic attack. That had nothing to do with Needleman's disappearance, did it? Unless one assumed that Bertrand had just totally lost it and started seeing and hearing things. But the blood was real. So maybe the scream was real, maybe the dark figure carrying the body was real. Each time Bertrand replayed that moment in his head, it seemed more and more like the figure had been carrying a body.
Big Belly officer returned in time for the end of the tale. "So let me get this straight: lights on, nobody's home, the screaming could be drunk teenagers on a patio three streets away, but you gotta waste my time because your drunken neighbor cut himself." He got into the passenger side of car, reaching over to start it before pulling out his cell to return to his texting.
Gonsalves flipped the notebook closed and removed his cap long enough to brush the sweat from his brow, his short black curls plastered to his forehead. "Look, I think you're a good guy, Mr. Allan, so I'm going to give you some advice, not as a police officer, but as one concerned citizen to another. The Ripper killed again this evening, so that's number six. This guy doesn't seem to care if his victims are old men or young women. You were right to call us." He glanced over at his partner, but the window was up and the car's air conditioning on full. "But you were wrong to go into his house. What if you did catch the Chicago Ripper in the act? It's not like I'm giving away any secrets if I tell you that the freak is brutal with a knife. I mean, don't you watch the news? You wouldn't have stood a chance."
Bertrand nodded, ashamed of his softness and his sweaty lethargy. "You're right, of course. It was just that I felt like superman for a minute there. I heard him scream and I felt stronger, ready to fight." His ears burned. What ridiculous nonsense.
But
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