Read Online The 1000 Souls (Book 1): Apocalypse Revolution by Michael Andre McPherson - Free Book Online
Book: The 1000 Souls (Book 1): Apocalypse Revolution by Michael Andre McPherson
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Authors: Michael Andre McPherson
Tags: Action & Adventure
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you have to pass the human test before I trust you. Don't worry, it's nothing weird. You go first."
Bertrand headed down the stairs, finding a basement from the seventies lit only by a couple of nightlights, one plugged into a socket above a wet bar, another at the bottom of the stairs. The wood paneling, shag carpet and bar stools in front of the Formica counter all looked new, even though they must be forty years old. Someone had taken very good care of this house. The couch and an armchair were squared and small, designed for the healthier backsides of the twentieth century rather than the large behinds of the twenty-first century.
Nolan moved past Bertrand to a fridge against the wall behind the bar. He gave it a mighty shove and it rolled to one side, revealing more paneling from the seventies, but he placed the flat of his hand against the wood and simply slid it aside. A door that could rival a bank vault was hidden behind, except that it looked homemade, welded in the back of a shop or a garage and brush-painted gray. Nolan pushed on it—there was no handle—and the heavy door swung inward, allowing fluorescent light to spill out. Nolan waved the shotgun at Bertrand."Get inside."
Bertrand found a room not much bigger than a walk-in closet. Narrow couches ran along each wall, and a small beer fridge sat between them at the far end, above it a very modern flat-screen was tuned to CNN, but the mute was on. Racked guns occupied every available space on the walls above the couches. There were shotguns, handguns and full-auto assault rifles. Uh oh. Maybe the guy was totally crazy.
"Help yourself to a beer and grab a seat."
Beer. God, he needed one, and if he was going to die he didn't have to worry about losing weight. Bertrand headed straight for the little fridge and found it full of Budweiser. He pulled two cold cans out and turned to find Nolan shoving the door closed with his shoulder—a door that looked about two feet thick. "What the hell is this place?"
"Bomb shelter. Three-foot thick concrete walls, built down here around the Cuban missile crisis by the guy who owned the house before me." Nolan pushed four heavy bolts—as thick as baseball bats—straight into a concrete wall. "I always thought it was funny, a good man-cave and all. Kept it a secret from everybody but Stan 'cause of the gun collection."
Nolan turned, putting his back to the door and drawing a heavy breath, the shotgun again pointing a Bertrand. "Have a drink. You can put mine down there." He nodded down at a little end table by the right side couch.
Bertrand popped open his beer and took a long drink, relishing in the freedom from guilt about his waistline. Today, he truly deserved alcohol.
Nolan watched him drink for a full ten seconds and sighed with relief.
"Thank God. You're human." He slumped down on the couch, resting the shotgun across his knees, reaching for his beer but still keeping a close eye on Bertrand, who took a seat on the opposite couch.
"Why the hell were you waving a shotgun at me?" Bertrand took a sip of his beer, sensing his own heart rate calming now that the shotgun wasn't pointed at his chest.
"You can't trust anyone." Nolan took a big gulp and wiped sweat from his brow.
Now that they were under the twin fluorescent bulbs, it was obvious that Nolan was in his early sixties, the stubble of his beard firmly gray, although his military cut hair was still salt-and-pepper on a thick head. His belly pushed at the draw strings of the bathrobe, barely allowing it to close.
Bertrand took a sip of his beer. "Who are you so afraid of, and what do you mean I'm human. Of course I'm human. What did you think I was, a space alien?"
Nolan finished his beer in one long series of gulps and crushed the can in his hand, tossing it aside into a garbage can at the end of his couch.
"A blood drinker." He heaved up his bulk and grabbed another beer from the fridge.
"What, like a vampire? You've got to be kidding me."
"Buddy,
Bertrand headed down the stairs, finding a basement from the seventies lit only by a couple of nightlights, one plugged into a socket above a wet bar, another at the bottom of the stairs. The wood paneling, shag carpet and bar stools in front of the Formica counter all looked new, even though they must be forty years old. Someone had taken very good care of this house. The couch and an armchair were squared and small, designed for the healthier backsides of the twentieth century rather than the large behinds of the twenty-first century.
Nolan moved past Bertrand to a fridge against the wall behind the bar. He gave it a mighty shove and it rolled to one side, revealing more paneling from the seventies, but he placed the flat of his hand against the wood and simply slid it aside. A door that could rival a bank vault was hidden behind, except that it looked homemade, welded in the back of a shop or a garage and brush-painted gray. Nolan pushed on it—there was no handle—and the heavy door swung inward, allowing fluorescent light to spill out. Nolan waved the shotgun at Bertrand."Get inside."
Bertrand found a room not much bigger than a walk-in closet. Narrow couches ran along each wall, and a small beer fridge sat between them at the far end, above it a very modern flat-screen was tuned to CNN, but the mute was on. Racked guns occupied every available space on the walls above the couches. There were shotguns, handguns and full-auto assault rifles. Uh oh. Maybe the guy was totally crazy.
"Help yourself to a beer and grab a seat."
Beer. God, he needed one, and if he was going to die he didn't have to worry about losing weight. Bertrand headed straight for the little fridge and found it full of Budweiser. He pulled two cold cans out and turned to find Nolan shoving the door closed with his shoulder—a door that looked about two feet thick. "What the hell is this place?"
"Bomb shelter. Three-foot thick concrete walls, built down here around the Cuban missile crisis by the guy who owned the house before me." Nolan pushed four heavy bolts—as thick as baseball bats—straight into a concrete wall. "I always thought it was funny, a good man-cave and all. Kept it a secret from everybody but Stan 'cause of the gun collection."
Nolan turned, putting his back to the door and drawing a heavy breath, the shotgun again pointing a Bertrand. "Have a drink. You can put mine down there." He nodded down at a little end table by the right side couch.
Bertrand popped open his beer and took a long drink, relishing in the freedom from guilt about his waistline. Today, he truly deserved alcohol.
Nolan watched him drink for a full ten seconds and sighed with relief.
"Thank God. You're human." He slumped down on the couch, resting the shotgun across his knees, reaching for his beer but still keeping a close eye on Bertrand, who took a seat on the opposite couch.
"Why the hell were you waving a shotgun at me?" Bertrand took a sip of his beer, sensing his own heart rate calming now that the shotgun wasn't pointed at his chest.
"You can't trust anyone." Nolan took a big gulp and wiped sweat from his brow.
Now that they were under the twin fluorescent bulbs, it was obvious that Nolan was in his early sixties, the stubble of his beard firmly gray, although his military cut hair was still salt-and-pepper on a thick head. His belly pushed at the draw strings of the bathrobe, barely allowing it to close.
Bertrand took a sip of his beer. "Who are you so afraid of, and what do you mean I'm human. Of course I'm human. What did you think I was, a space alien?"
Nolan finished his beer in one long series of gulps and crushed the can in his hand, tossing it aside into a garbage can at the end of his couch.
"A blood drinker." He heaved up his bulk and grabbed another beer from the fridge.
"What, like a vampire? You've got to be kidding me."
"Buddy,
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